The morning in King's Landing today was unlike any other.
The entire city lay silent beneath a veil of misty rain.
Only the distant, mournful tolling of bells echoed now and then through the drizzle over King's Landing.
Along the streets and alleys, people moved in silence beneath the hazy rain, stepping over the wet, muddy ground as they bowed their heads and walked toward the Great Sept of Baelor in the distance.
The news of King Robert Baratheon I's death had already been delivered to all of King's Landing under an official announcement from the Hand.
And regarding the new king—Kal Baratheon I—whom King Robert had formally legitimized on his deathbed and declared would inherit the Iron Throne, he would be holding the funeral for the late king today at the square before the Great Sept of Baelor.
This was the first order issued by King Kal Baratheon I, Robert's eldest son, since ascending to the throne.
Ravens perched between rooftops, tilting their heads, their pitch-black eyes watching the crowds flowing through the streets and alleys.
Under the heavy, overcast sky, it felt as though a suffocating weight pressed down upon everything.
Among those walking, some remained silent, others whispered quietly—but without exception, all restrained their voices. Shoulder to shoulder, their footsteps were slower than on ordinary days.
In the end, the streams of people converged upon the white marble square outside the Great Sept of Baelor on the heights of Visenya's Hill.
At this moment, upon the pulpit of the Great Sept of Baelor, the few remaining senior councillors of King's Landing appeared somewhat anxious as they waited.
"Varys, is there still no word from His Majesty King Kal?"
Eddard Stark—newly appointed Hand of the King and even granted the title of Regent—looked visibly anxious.
Ever since learning yesterday that Kal had been attacked, he had been restless and uneasy.
After Ser Barristan Selmy escorted Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, Princess Arianne Martell, and her younger brother Quentyn Martell to the underground holdfast of King's Landing—and after assigning the remaining Kingsguard together with a fifty-man city garrison unit to guard them in rotating shifts—only then did he learn what had happened to His Majesty King Kal Baratheon.
An assassination attempt—suspected to be the work of a Faceless Man.
And it had taken place while the king was pursuing the suspected murderer of King Robert.
Most crucially, after the king chased the assassin believed to be a Faceless Man, he never returned, leaving behind not a single trace.
Even Varys, the spymaster known as the Spider, had no knowledge whatsoever of the king's whereabouts, as though such a large man had simply vanished from the world.
From yesterday until now, Eddard Stark had been staring wide-eyed, waiting for news—yet even as the late king's funeral was about to begin, none had arrived.
This had already made the way he looked at Varys change.
He was beginning to suspect whether the Spider's shadow lurked within these two successive incidents involving kings—otherwise, why had the spymaster been utterly useless both times, knowing nothing, providing nothing?
It was as if all eight of his keen and watchful legs had been broken, leaving him deaf and blind.
When Robert's death had been taken merely as an accident, Eddard had not thought much of it.
But once the wine-servant died "by accident," once whispers of conspiracy surfaced, and then, yesterday at dusk, when another attempt was made on the new king's life—all of it relentlessly strained Eddard Stark's nerves.
As for Varys, there was none of his usual saccharine smile on his face today. He wore a mournful expression, silently praying for the king to appear soon.
How could he not feel the doubt—and the killing intent—radiating from Eddard Stark?
And now, under the new king's appointment as Regent, the Hand had taken direct command of the Goldcloaks, as well as the Westerlands troops temporarily stationed outside King's Landing at Kal Stadium, recently folded into the city's forces—and placed all of that authority entirely in the hands of the Hand of the King.
If Eddard Stark truly suspected him and decided to seize him, Varys would have no way to resist.
So, just as anxious and unsure of what to think, he could only shrink his neck, keep his hands tucked inside his sleeves, and stand there as quietly as possible as those waves of hostility drifted toward him—doing everything he could to diminish his presence.
As for Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, his eyes were bloodshot, and deep creases had formed between his brows.
Ever since the new king's whereabouts were lost yesterday, he had been like this.
For in his view, if His Majesty King Kal Baratheon I truly met with some misfortune, he would have no face left to remain in his current position.
Three kings in a row, all slain or dead under his protection.
Whether each death had been caused by conspiracy or assassination, he still had to question whether he was truly worthy of the honor of serving in the Kingsguard.
After all, as a Kingsguard, he had not once guarded his king successfully, nor died in place of his king when danger came.
Instead, he—whose duty was to protect three kings—was still alive, unharmed, having done nothing… while the kings were gone.
Ser Barristan Selmy had sunk into a sorrowful spiral of self-doubt, wondering whether he had been cursed.
As for Peyton, the newly appointed Grand Maester, his expression was not pleasant either.
He kept glancing at the other senior councillors around him, each looking worse than the next.
At last he could not hold it in any longer and finally spoke: "Lord Hand, last night the maesters performed a full examination of the wine-servant Hyde's corpse, and they discovered a major issue—"
In the misty drizzle, Eddard Stark—who had been silently troubled, occasionally glancing into the distance—heard the Grand Maester's words and turned his head with a puzzled expression.
Moving with him were Varys, the spymaster lost in his own thoughts, and Ser Barristan Selmy, each preoccupied with their own worries.
"Grand Maester Peyton, what do you mean?"
At the Grand Maester's words, an uneasy thought rose in Eddard Stark's mind.
"According to the examination of Hyde's corpse, the maesters found that he had already been dead for at least half a month."
"As for why his body had not decayed, it was because a highly skilled method of preserving a corpse had been used to maintain it…"
"But this technique—" The Grand Maester hesitated for a moment, let out a sigh, and finally had no choice but to continue: "This technique comes from the House of Black and White in Braavos. As the Stranger's instruments, they always have their peculiar methods."
Very well—the Grand Maester had brought yet another piece of bad news.
His words confirmed that Robert's death had not been simple.
And now, with the new king attacked and then mysteriously vanished, the situation was shrouded in an even deeper layer of darkness in light of this revelation.
Just like today's weather, the very air seemed filled with foreboding.
When Grand Maester Peyton finished speaking, the four senior councillors on the pulpit could only fall into silence.
They looked at King Robert's body laid atop the towering pyre, their moods as heavy as the skies over King's Landing.
But just as they had no idea how to break this damned silence, a burst of noise suddenly rose from the far edge of the gathered crowd.
"It's Lord Kal El—yes, him! I saw him at the Tourney of Victory!"
"Idiot, you should be calling Lord Kal El His Majesty now—His Majesty King Kal Baratheon I!"
"Didn't you just call him the same a moment ago?"
"What's wrong with him? He looks… unwell."
"What is His Majesty holding? Is that a severed head? Why would he do that?"
Amid the whispers, one crucial piece of information spread through the crowd.
Eddard Stark and the others atop the high pulpit naturally could not hear what the smallfolk were saying below.
But they had eyes—and from their vantage point, they could see far.
In the distance, a giant of a man—standing out like a crane among chickens even while motionless—was cutting through the crowd as though wading across a river, making his way toward the Great Sept.
At that sight, the four councillors—each with a grim, heavy expression—finally showed a look of relief.
"It's His Majesty King Kal—he's still ali—… my apologies. Quick, go receive His Majesty!"
The simple-minded Grand Maester nearly blurted out something terrifying.
Fortunately, he wasn't truly brainless, nor so blunt as to say it outright. He recovered at once and called for Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, to move at once.
In truth, he did not need to be told—at the very first sight of Kal El, Ser Barristan Selmy had already begun moving.
And the one who also let out a breath of relief was the spymaster Varys.
Though the way he exhaled was rather strange and inexplicable.
Under Ser Barristan Selmy's escort, Kal walked through the corridor of space the Goldcloaks had opened within the crowd and came before the high platform.
Thanks to his impressive height and build, the tens of thousands of eyes in the square could all see him clearly.
And once he stepped onto the platform, the people could not help but stare at their new king, their eyes lighting up.
Had the occasion not been what it was, they might have even cheered for him—for that was what they had always done before for Lord Kal El.
"Your Majesty—"
Seeing Kal alive before him, Eddard Stark finally let out a quiet breath of relief, but his gaze inevitably shifted to the severed head Kal held by its hair.
"Is that the assassin's—"
"This is the assassin's head. And he was indeed a Faceless Man."
Kal raised the severed head at Eddard's question, revealing a face twisted in terror yet carrying a hint of release.
The Hand felt a chill run down his spine as he looked at the severed head.
And he was not the only one—Varys, Barristan Selmy, and Grand Maester Peyton all felt the same as they looked upon the grotesque face, whose despair before death could still be sensed even now.
They swallowed in unison, exchanged uneasy glances, and dared not speak.
Kal had chased the Faceless Man into the night, vanished until morning, and returned at last holding a head frozen in terror.
None of them could help but imagine what Kal had done to this Faceless Man assassin to make him greet death as though it were a release.
"So it truly was a Faceless Man. Meaning—"
After regaining his composure, the Hand spoke.
"Yes. King Robert's death was not a simple hunting accident, but a premeditated assassination."
When he finished, a vicious light flashed in Kal's eyes, cold gleam flickering within—terrifying to behold.
Though they had already expected it, the councillors on the high platform still felt their hearts tremble when they truly heard those words.
"Who did it?"
After a brief pause, Varys hurriedly asked.
But at his question, Kal only cast a deep, icy glance at him with those dark-blue eyes cold as the far North, and said nothing.
A chill cut straight down Varys's spine, and even in today's rare cool weather, a wave of gooseflesh rose across his back.
Kal did not answer.
He simply lifted the Faceless Man's severed head high, then turned to face the people of King's Landing, who had gathered to send King Robert Baratheon I on his final journey.
"Today is the funeral of King Robert. It is I, Kal Baratheon, His Majesty Robert Baratheon I's eldest son, who presides over it!"
Kal held the severed head aloft. His voice boomed like thunder, drowning out even the deep, mournful tolling of the bronze bells atop the Great Sept of Baelor.
"But before we begin, there is something I must tell all of you—King Robert's death was no accident!"
"A Faceless Man assassin infiltrated his side. He spent two full weeks preparing, then murdered the king—with his favorite wine in hand, right before the wild boar he had hunted so many times throughout his life."
"And after killing King Robert, this assassin did not stop. Yesterday at dusk, he attempted to kill me as well!"
"And I, Kal Baratheon, tell you here and now: I will avenge King Robert with my own hands.
I will never let this vile conspirator escape justice!"
"And this Faceless Man's head—this is his death notice!"
Kal declared the truth of Robert's death to the people of King's Landing, his voice ringing across the square as he proclaimed his vow.
Once he finished speaking, he simply flung the severed head from his hand.
The round head—still bearing twisted, pained, despairing, and strangely relieved expressions—traced an arc through the air and landed upon the high pyre of dry wood prepared for the king's cremation.
In the next instant, pitch-black blood began to stream from the head's eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, and with a faint crackling sound, it caught fire.
The flames consumed the Faceless Man's skin, then finally ignited the king's funeral pyre.
The fire spread gradually, catching one bundle of wood after another, until the flames wrapped around the body of Robert Baratheon, draped in a fine layer of silk.
But Kal did not cease his movements.
With a turn of his hand, a golden dragon egg the size of a human head appeared in his palm.
Yet the people—shaken by his words, then silenced as the pyre burned—did not notice Kal's small gesture.
Not until they saw him holding the dragon egg and stepping directly into the roaring flames.
"Your Majesty!"
Ser Barristan Selmy and Eddard Stark had not paid much mind at first, but when Kal did not stop—when he walked straight into the fire—only then did they react.
But before their shouts, and before the shocked cries of tens of thousands in the square could settle, a crisp, youthful chirp echoed through the air, answering their panic.
Then, before anyone could process what had happened, above countless pairs of eyes—under the gaze of all—a golden shape, no larger than an egret, rose beating its wings out of the fire.
Though it wavered unsteadily, that did nothing to stop every eye from being drawn to it.
It climbed higher, fluttering its way around the head of the towering statue of Baelor the Blessed, then circled once more around the great bronze bell that had just ceased its mournful tolling.
After releasing another clear, youthful cry, it folded its wings and spiraled downward.
It landed upon the shoulder of a man emerging from the flames—a man whose fine silk robes had been utterly burned away, leaving only thin strands of fire trailing from his body like a robe of living flame.
"You wanted to know who truly conspired to kill Robert?"
Wreathed in flames, as though fire itself were his garment, with a young golden dragon perched upon his shoulder, Kal spoke—deep-blue eyes burning with boundless fury.
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