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

"Joffrey?!" Kal blinked, surprised to see this little brat show up here of all places—the future 'wise king for the ages.'

While this spot wasn't too far from the Crossroads Inn, it certainly wasn't close either. Even on horseback, it would take a little while to get here.

As for Kal, he'd only come out here because he was sick of being stared at in the camp like some kind of sideshow.

After all, Cersei's tantrum really had left a sour taste.

Funny enough, the brat had managed to sneak out on his own. Maybe it was because back in King's Landing, he was always cooped up in the Red Keep and never allowed to go anywhere.

But the moment Kal casually called out Joffrey's name, the boy—who had been curiously eyeing the fallen aurochs—suddenly scowled.

How dare this commoner address him so rudely?

Fury sparked on Joffrey's face. This lowborn bastard had dared to speak his name aloud. Without a second thought, he snarled in outrage: "You filthy bastard! You should address me as 'Your Grace' or 'Lord Joffrey Baratheon!'"

"Damn you, you motherless cur!"

Hearing Joffrey blow up over nothing but a name, barking at him like a mad dog, Kal raised an eyebrow.

But he didn't reply. Instead, he shifted his gaze past Joffrey.

There, a broad-shouldered man clad in smoke-gray armor without a helmet, wearing an olive-green cloak over his shoulders, had just dismounted from a charcoal-gray stallion.

He didn't do anything flashy—just calmly held the reins and stared at Kal with cold, unblinking eyes.

Joffrey, meanwhile, seeing the tall bastard stay silent under his insults, grinned in delight.

"But I'll let you off this time," he said smugly. "All you have to do is offer me your prey as an apology for offending me."

"If it happens again, I'll have your tongue cut out."

The boy's voice was sweet as honey, but the threat was clear. He clearly didn't see Kal as a person worth respecting. In his mind, demanding the aurochs as an offering was already a show of his graciousness.

Kal still didn't speak. He merely tilted his head, eyes drifting once more to the hulking figure behind Joffrey.

He recognized that man—Sandor Clegane, known as The Hound.

A brutal dog, and a loyal one at that. He was infamous for his cruelty and his unquestioning obedience to House Lannister.

Kal had never had any direct dealings with this man.

Seeing Kal remain silent, Joffrey sneered.

Then he turned to Sandor Clegane and ordered, "Dog, stay here. I'm going to see what that is."

With that, Joffrey flicked the riding crop in his hand and strutted off toward Kal, full of arrogance and self-importance.

Sandor Clegane didn't respond. He simply nodded, then shot Kal another glance.

His gaze then shifted to where Kal had been moments ago—a strikingly placed carpet, adorned with fresh melons and fruits, alongside a bottle of fine wine.

Sandor flared his nostrils slightly, picking up the distinct scent of alcohol lingering in the air.

Then he began walking over.

Watching the two move with such entitlement and disregard, Kal still said nothing. But the corner of his mouth curled—just barely.

His eyes turned toward the "prince," who, after scolding and insulting him, was now arrogantly strolling forward with that whip still in hand.

It wasn't until Joffrey came right up to him that Kal finally spoke again.

"What did the prince ask me just now?" Kal asked, as if he hadn't heard clearly.

Joffrey, who had come forward out of curiosity to see the prey, looked even more displeased that this bastard had the nerve to make him repeat himself.

"Are you deaf?"

"I asked you what this is!"

There wasn't a trace of respect or courtesy in Joffrey's tone. Chin raised high, he looked down his nose at the lowborn in front of him.

Then, pointing the riding crop at the dead aurochs at Kal's feet, he gestured with a sneer.

Over on the other side, Sandor lifted his head again at the commotion.

But this time, he just gave a cursory glance before losing interest and turning his attention back to the items on the carpet.

The aurochs was already dead, and with both himself and that bastard hired by Robert here, nothing in this clearing posed any real threat to the prince.

With no reason to stay alert, Sandor's gaze drifted unconsciously to the open bottle of wine, its cork left off since it was uncorked.

A rich, heady aroma wafted up from the bottle, almost alive in its intensity. It crept into his nostrils, stirring something in him—an itch deep in his chest that refused to be ignored.

Sandor Clegane let go of his warhorse, Stranger, without a care, allowing it to wander freely.

Then, without the slightest hesitation, he dropped himself onto the carpet with a thud, grabbed an apple, and took a massive bite—half of it gone in one crunch.

Only then did the Hound look at the bottle of wine. He reached out, snatched it up, and gave it a casual glance before bringing it to his nose to sniff.

After confirming that the alluring scent was indeed coming from the bottle, he finally swallowed the apple he'd been chewing.

Then, without pause, he lifted the bottle and poured the wine straight down his throat.

But before he could even truly savor the taste—before the wine even coated his tongue—he caught a faint glimmer of green in the corner of his eye.

A second later, Sandor Clegane collapsed onto the carpet with a heavy thud.

The wine bottle slipped from his hand, falling to the grass below.

Bright red wine spilled from the bottle's mouth, gurgling as it soaked into the dirt beneath the grass.

Kal, who had snapped his fingers behind Sandor's back, didn't bother to turn around. A strange smile crept across his face.

Joffrey, on the other hand, hadn't noticed a thing. His attention was entirely fixed on the dead aurochs.

Still curious, he even reached out with his foot and kicked the unmoving beast twice on the rump.

"Is this what they call an aurochs?!" he asked, clearly excited by whatever thought had popped into his head.

"Maybe," Kal said, stroking his chin while gazing at the lifeless creature.

"But I can tell you one thing for sure—it's definitely not your father."

Kal finished the sentence with a strange, low chuckle.

"…"

Joffrey stared at him, wide-eyed in disbelief. For a moment, he was too stunned to speak, caught off guard that this bastard had dared talk to him like that.

But the shock didn't last.

Joffrey's expression twisted with rage almost instantly.

"You... You!"

"You damned lowborn! Filthy bastard! Do you even realize what you just said?!"

"I'll have your tongue cut out and feed it to the dogs after I grind it to bits!"

Joffrey, realizing what had just happened, flew into a rage upon hearing Karl dare to insult him. Without hesitation, he raised his riding crop and lashed it straight toward Kal's face.

But in the face of that feeble, powerless motion, Kal's expression remained unchanged—still wearing that meaningful, cryptic smile.

He simply raised his hand slightly—and caught the whip with ease.

Like a spring breeze brushing against stone—calm, unshaken.

Then Kal narrowed his eyes slightly, squatted down ever so slightly, and looked Joffrey in the eye as he spoke with a smile:

"Well, would you look at that—our little prince is angry now!"

"But I suggest you go ask your mother who your real father is, hmm?"

"And don't bother thanking me for helping you rule out one of the wrong answers."

As he said this, Kal tilted his head toward the aurochs lying nearby, its blood already drained dry.

Kal wasn't angered at all by Joffrey's curses. On the contrary, he remained perfectly polite and composed, offering the "prince" what was arguably some of the most honest advice he could get.

But faced with this string of insults, and being someone just as emotionally unstable as Cersei—and equally incapable of handling provocation—Joffrey could no longer think straight.

This damned bastard dared not only to resist but to continue insulting him—a noble prince!

Joffrey blinked, briefly stunned. Then, realizing that Kal had caught and held his whip, he instinctively tried to yank it back—but couldn't.

His rage surged beyond control.

The skin of his usually pale face flushed an angry red.

"What?!"

"You bastard, you dare fight back?!"

"You filthy mongrel! Filthy mongrel!"

"I'm going to have your teeth ripped out, one by one—and then I'll have each one embedded into your bones!"

Joffrey glared murderously at the bastard before him, spitting his curses through clenched teeth.

Never in his life had he suffered such humiliation—and now his eyes were bloodshot, his entire body consumed by uncontrollable fury.

"Mark my words—I won't let you die easily!"

"You'll learn exactly what it costs to insult a prince!"

Seeing that he couldn't retrieve his whip, Joffrey threw it aside in frustration.

He reached down to his waist and drew his shortsword—Lion's Tooth.

"But first, I'll cut off your hands… then strip all the flesh from your legs until only the bone remains!"

"I'll make you repent for your idiotic behavior!"

With that, Joffrey's eyes bulged with fury as he raised his sword and lunged toward Kal's chest.

But even with Joffrey's full-on assault and all the vicious threats he could muster, Kal didn't flinch. He didn't dodge. His expression didn't even change. He simply kept smiling as he stared at him.

And then—right as the sword thrust forward—Kal calmly raised his left hand.

[SMACK!]

Suddenly, a loud slap echoed sharply along the banks of the Trident.

The sound was crisp. Almost pleasant.

So crisp, in fact, that for a moment it drowned out the rustle of wind and the murmur of the river itself.

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