Game of Thrones: Bastard? I’m the Damn Heir!

Chapter 344

"What she wants is to sleep with you."

"I know."

"After all, a man as handsome as I am—if all the women across the Seven Kingdoms who want to bed me were lined up, they could stretch from the Wall to Storm's End and fill the entire Kingsroad."

"Mmm—the King's road."

After leaving the Gorge, they still had to descend a short stretch of slope to reach the place Ygritte had pointed out. Yet even now, from afar, they could already see the vast camp spread beside the majestic lake beneath the ice cliff.

Kal paid no mind to Erevi's teasing.

He had not been wrong. When Robert was still alive and the tourney was held in King's Landing, he had been the brightest star of them all. Each day, more than a dozen noble ladies or wives would approach him to strike up a conversation.

Every one of them looked at him with the same gaze, vividly embodying what it meant to cast languid, longing eyes.

Perhaps it was not only their eyes that lingered—other places might have lingered as well.

In any case, they were much like the wildling woman Ygritte leading the way ahead of them—her desire nearly impossible to conceal.

Moreover, even before he had made his name, he had earned another reputation in King's Landing, and it had not been undeserved.

Along the whole of the Street of Silk, who did not know his name?

Faced with Kal's shamelessness, Erevi merely laughed and decided that she would add an extra dish to her supper that night.

As Kal and his party advanced, a man followed behind the crowd, his steps ringing with a clatter. He wore a suit of bone armor, loosely fastened, fashioned from strung-together bones.

His hands were bound before him, and dozens of others shared the same treatment. They were tied in the same manner, their hands bound and linked together in a long chain.

"And we're just going to stride in like this? Mance Rayder will welcome us?"

"And with all these captives—shouldn't we still keep our guard up?"

Robb had taken part in escorting the prisoners. On the morning after they captured the red-haired wildling woman, they were ambushed by this band of wildlings.

Unfortunately for them, before the King's golden-furred hound, it was as though they were hiding in plain sight.

They barely had to lift a hand. The King simply raised his arm, and the wildlings who sprang out from behind the crags collapsed one after another, limp and helpless, like lambs awaiting the knife.

All that remained for Robb and the others was to find some rope and string them together for easier management.

When Robb spoke, Qhorin said nothing. Theon, who had been walking beside him in conversation, was the first to snort.

"Guard against what? Guard against running out of rope when the time comes?"

Robb considered it and shrugged.

Before, all tales of King Kal had been merely that—tales. Yet from the moment he saved him at Winterfell to these successive battles beyond the Wall, everything had gone smoothly. They had felt no pressure at all.

It was as though they had not come north to accomplish anything, but merely to hunt for sport—so leisurely that it scarcely seemed real.

As this force—so clearly unlike the free folk beyond the Wall in both bearing and style—appeared, the wildling settlement camped beneath the Frostfangs could not fail to notice the strange and ominous host, unless they were blind.

Thus, as Kal and his party drew near, the wildling tribes reacted swiftly. In an instant, one or two thousand of them surged out, surrounding Kal and the others on all sides.

When they charged forward, Kal merely raised a hand and gave the order that no one was to draw steel. They were to stand fast where they were.

Faced with this unfamiliar army, and seeing them advance so boldly yet show no sign of hostility, the wildlings who rushed forward found themselves momentarily at a loss.

Though this force had taken some of their people captive, and though several black-cloaked crows stood among them, prudence prevailed. At the shouted commands of several wildling leaders, battle did not erupt at once.

Having ordered his men to show no hostility and remain steady, Kal himself did not move either.

On the contrary, he pointed with evident interest toward several giants standing behind the wildlings who had rushed forward—each of them no less than three meters in height.

"Look there. Those are the giants of this world."

Erevi glanced over, tilting her head slightly, a look of disdain upon her face. "These giants are nothing like the ones I know."

There were giants in Peasant's Quest as well—some dwelling within tribes, others living alone in valleys, raising dogs in solitude.

When Kal had followed the game's story, he had inevitably come into contact with them—quite deeply, at that.

But the giants of the game world were merely enlarged humans, taller and broader; aside from standing three to five meters high, they were little different from ordinary men.

They possessed their own societies, and their intelligence was by no means lacking.

In the world of ice and fire, however, giants were hulking humanoid creatures covered in hair from head to toe, grotesque in appearance.

The giants before Kal and the others were thickly furred, though there was more hair below the waist than upon their upper bodies.

They bore broad, flat faces, square teeth jutting from their lips, and between their two small eyes grew a horn-like fold of flesh.

Their heads thrust forward, even misaligned with their shoulders.

They wore no clothing; their massive, sagging chests hung exposed, the width of the chest twice that of the abdomen.

Their arms hung lower than a man's, yet despite their long arms, they had short legs.

Barefoot, their large, fat feet were exposed, nails like talons at the ends of their toes.

At a glance, it was impossible to distinguish male from female among them. Yet a few walked more unsteadily than the rest, their hair streaked with gray and white—likely the elder ones.

Watching them carry tree trunks in their hands, Erevi could not help but think of the troll she kept in the dungeon as a guard for the Dread Tower.

They were equally ugly, and seemed equally "intelligent."

"So you call them giants, yet to me they look more like trolls. And why are they so hairy?"

"Come to think of it, the snow beasts in the high mountains do resemble them somewhat."

Faced with Erevi's question, what could Kal possibly know? He merely shrugged.

At that moment, as the wildlings had rushed forward, Ygritte—who had stepped ahead to parley—returned, bringing two men with her.

One of them was not tall, broad of chest, with a vast belly jutting out and a beard white as winter snow. Thick golden bands engraved with runes of the First Men circled his sturdy arms, and he wore black ringmail of a Night's Watch ranger.

The other was tall and lean, bald, without ears, his chin and cheeks clean-shaven. He had a hard, straight nose and deep-set grey eyes.

"This is Styr, leader of the Thenns and a chief among the free folk," Ygritte said, first indicating the man who, despite the cold, still bared his gleaming bald head.

Then she pointed to the other. "This is Tormund of the Ruddy Hall. We call him Tormund Giantsbane—or Tormund Thunderfist."

After introducing the two, Ygritte turned, drew a deep breath, and with solemn expression pointed toward Kal.

"This is Kal Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms of the South."

"I prefer Kal El," Kal said lightly. "You are called Thunderfist Tormund? If memory serves, someone once gave me a similar name—something like 'Lord of Thunder.'"

Though Ygritte had only just finished the introductions, Kal's gaze had already settled on Tormund. Unlike the somewhat comical and likable red-haired Tormund of the tales, the man before him seemed more like an old warrior.

Faced with Kal's jest, Tormund spat upon the ground.

"Lord of Thunder, my arse. You're the king of kneelers, are you? Hah. I say killing you outright would be worth more than Mance Rayder rooting about here for some damned horn!"

With that, Tormund moved to draw his weapon, but Ygritte seized him at once.

"He came here himself for peace, Tormund. If you mean to strike, I'll be the first to cut your throat."

"Don't tell me you've fallen for this bloody king? Ygritte, the man you followed is still tied up like a dog in his train. Don't tell me your knees have gone soft and you're eager to kneel and fawn over him!"

Ygritte's face burned with fury, yet Tormund was angrier still.

Seeing the woman waver after only a few days apart, rage boiled over in him.

At once, he swung a fist toward Ygritte's face.

Yet just as he raised his hand, a thin bolt of lightning struck the golden band upon his arm. The sudden flash coursed through him, and the burly man was thrown to the ground, convulsing.

Kal made no effort to conceal what he had done. Brazenly, he withdrew the finger he had shaped like a crossbow, then blew across it as though dispersing smoke that was not there.

"That is how they gave me the name Lord of Thunder. So tell me—your title, Thunderfist Tormund, did you earn it because your fists strike women as swiftly as lightning?"

Looking down at Tormund twitching upon the ground, Kal's words were sharp as poison.

Ygritte, who had been ready to strike back, found that before she could move, Tormund had already fallen. In the next instant, seeing blood about to be spilled, the wildlings all around them once more seized their weapons.

And just as Kal was prepared to unleash something greater and cast these thick-skulled wildlings flat before speaking further, a cold voice rang out.

"Hold!"

"The King of the Seven Kingdoms has come here in person—this alone proves his sincerity. When he set foot beyond the Wall and took our people captive yet harmed none among us, he stands, for now, as a friend."

The wildlings who had meant to attack halted. Tormund, too, had recovered somewhat and slowly climbed to his feet.

Though fury burned in their eyes, the wildlings nonetheless stepped aside. A man of middling height, long-legged, lean and strong, broad in the shoulders and chest, with hair streaked grey and brown, advanced slowly.

He wore a coat of sheepskin and leather, loose fur breeches, and over his shoulders hung a tattered cloak of black wool and red silk said to have come from Asshai.

"I am Mance Rayder," he said, stepping forward from behind the crowd with a faint smile. "I have heard your name, Kal Baratheon—though at the time you were called Kal Stone."

As his words fell, Kal's lips curved in turn.

"You sing well, and you handle a lute finely. Did you enjoy the feast that night at Winterfell, King-Beyond-the-Wall Mance Rayder?"

"You drank three cups of wine and ate a roasted leg of lamb. Perhaps you did not know it was I who had a serving girl set it aside for you and bring it after the feast had ended."

At those words, Mance Rayder's smile vanished. His expression froze where he stood.

The exchange between Kal and Mance Rayder left the wildlings—Ygritte among them—staring in confusion at the two men.

"You…" No one could fathom the shock that struck Mance Rayder's heart. It had been a secret—yet it seemed that from the moment he had appeared at Winterfell, this man had already recognized him.

Yet he had not exposed the matter. He had even instructed a servant, after the feast had ended, to set aside a roasted leg of lamb especially for him.

Thinking back to how he had eaten that still-warm leg of lamb, inwardly mocking what he had assumed to be the charity of some unknown lord, every trace of Mance Rayder's smile turned bitter.

"It seems you are indeed our friend. For had you wished it then, your father and the Lord of Winterfell would have gladly taken my head."

Mance Rayder suddenly recalled how, in the lull after the music had finished that night, Kal Stone—then newly made a knight—had even raised a cup with him.

"Though it may not be fitting, I, on behalf of all the free folk beyond the Wall, welcome your arrival, King Kal."

Having said this, Mance Rayder bowed slightly to Kal in token of respect.

This man had spared his life. He could not pretend otherwise.

Kal had not expected Mance Rayder to go so far, and he was somewhat surprised.

"I had thought you might have forgotten. I was even considering giving you a gift."

Kal smiled and made a small gesture with his hand, indicating that Mance Rayder might rise.

Then he turned and looked behind him.

"Robb Stark, Lord Commander Benjen Stark, Qhorin Halfhand, Lord Yohn Royce, and… the rest of you—come with me. What we are about to discuss will require your cooperation."

Kal called out more than a dozen names in succession. Aside from Benjen and Qhorin of the Night's Watch, most of the others were great lords and nobles of the North.

"Oh, and by the way—release this 'King of Bones' as well. Only I hope that next time he greets someone, he will do so with a bit more courtesy."

Many of the wildlings had little notion of the names Kal had spoken, but to Mance Rayder, they struck like thunder.

Though he still did not know Kal's purpose in coming, an idea—one he scarcely dared to believe—rose unbidden in his mind.

The man who was known for his ready smile found himself unable to smile at all. His throat worked with a dry swallow.

His gaze, complex and deep, swept over these southern men in their finely wrought arms and garments, and his heart trembled faintly.

After giving his orders, Kal looked back at him. "There are rather many of us. You do not mind?"

"No… I do not mind…"

Looking at these men, then at the vast host of free folk he had labored so greatly to unite, Mance Rayder slowly forced a smile back onto his face.

Kal smiled in return and nodded with satisfaction.

"Good."

"Then shall we first unwrap the gift I have brought for you, as a token of goodwill?"

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