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GOT Chapter 44: The Wolf, the Bastard and the Other Bastard
🕑 Added 2025-07-27 03:30:55 +0000 UTCWinterfell’s crypts were the resting place of the dead from House Stark, the final destination of every Lord of Winterfell.
Each one was commemorated with a carved stone statue, and—according to tradition—every former lord’s statue had an iron longsword laid across its lap.
The oldest of those swords had long since rusted away, and on some statues, all that remained was a reddish-brown stain where the blade once lay.
Unlike other crypts that might preserve warmth through clever architecture or enchantment, this one was different. Here, a chill would creep up from the stone floor beneath one's boots and climb into the bones—as if the breath of the underworld itself seeped up from below.
Bundled in thick furs, Lord Stark gave a slight shiver. He raised his lantern and looked down at the spiral staircase leading into the tomb.
The passage was narrow—only wide enough for one man to descend at a time—so he took the lead, lantern in hand.
...
With the two men of power having departed of their own accord, Lady Catelyn Stark remained where she was, momentarily awkward.
Of course, she knew very well why the king was in such a hurry, and what this was all about.
Almost instinctively, she glanced over at the queen, trying to read her reaction.
But Cersei wasn’t even looking at her.
Her eyes were still fixed, cold and unwavering, on the path Robert had taken.
A few seconds later, she slowly turned her gaze—this time toward the armored figure still standing silently nearby.
Kal, still wearing his helmet, noticed the queen’s gaze and turned his head slightly toward her.
But just as their eyes might have met—a flash of white moved in between them, blocking the view.
...
Some were curious about what the king and the lord of Winterfell had gone off to do. Others couldn’t care less.
As the queen had said, people were tired, cold, and hungry. Who still had the energy to worry about such things—especially when the man in question was the king?
Even so, they still maintained all the pomp and ceremony, giving the royal party the full honors.
Kal, of course, belonged to the latter group.
After all, in this world—aside from the possibly-existent gods and that script-flipping Three-Eyed Crow—no one knew the truth of the matter more clearly than the two men involved... and Kal.
So while everyone else was busy entertaining the king’s grand retinue, Kal, who was already off duty and enjoying his leisure, had long since slipped away to avoid getting involved.
After leaving Fawkes in the care of Winterfell’s stablehands, Kal turned and went off to find his band of bastards.
Maybe it had something to do with the excuse the queen had used earlier to stop the king from visiting someone long dead.
In any case, Lady Catelyn, acting immediately, greeted the royal party’s three hundred-some members with the stewards and household servants. She led them into the great hall of the main keep and ordered the kitchens to bring out the meals that had long been prepared and distribute them.
The great hall served as both a place to receive guests and the castle lord’s family dining chamber. It could accommodate more than five hundred people, so this was done with ease.
Everyone spread out, gathering around the eight long tables in the hall and settling in to eat.
As for what others were eating, Kal had no idea. But when he found his Blackstone Mercenaries, he was handed a steaming plate by a chubby kitchen assistant—a hearty chunk of rye bread, paired with a bowl of rabbit stew, filled with turnips and peas.
Shoveling it all down in a few quick bites, Kal licked his teeth with his tongue and rubbed his stomach, already deciding to visit the game world later for another meal.
Just then, Hall—who had been keeping a close eye on him this whole time—sidled up with a lewd grin on his face.
“Heheh~ Boss, I heard you even know Lord Stark, the Lord of Winterfell?”
Hearing Hall’s crap, Kal casually placed his empty wooden bowl down on a nearby barrel.
Then, tilting his head and giving him a sidelong glance, he wondered where Kossi had run off to.
After all, it was usually him who would come forward at times like this to "guess the boss's thoughts" and then go back to brag with the rest.
So after spitting out a bit of bone gristle, Kal squinted his eyes with a leisurely air, putting on a showy look as he replied, “You heard wrong. Me and the Lord of Winterfell? We’re not close at all…”
But just then, Kal suddenly heard a faint sound—fur brushing against the floor beneath him.
Looking down, he saw a small white creature, about knee-high, that had somehow crept up beside him. It was sniffing at his body with flared nostrils.
As if realizing it had been noticed, the little white-furred wolf instinctively raised its head and locked eyes with Kal.
And then Kal saw them—a pair of red eyes.
Having a dog appear by Kal’s feet caught the attention of Hall, who had come over out of curiosity. He also noticed the little creature.
Then, with some surprise, Hall exclaimed: “Eh? This dog’s white, boss! Kinda looks like that white fox you shot, except its snout’s not as pointy!”
“Maybe it smells something, boss. You think it’ll bite you?” Hall’s mouth spouted nonsense as usual.
But as soon as the words left his lips, the little wolf seemed to understand what he’d said.
Its nostrils flared and it bared its teeth—stepping back two paces while flashing its sharp fangs. Then it lowered its head, eyes blood-red, staring straight at Hall.
Yet not a single sound came from its throat.
Hall suddenly felt a chill run down his neck.
But just as the little wolf seemed to tense up in warning, a frost-reddened hand came down gently on its head, smoothing back its fur to calm it.
“Ghost is a direwolf—not a dog…”
“And definitely not a white fox.”
Jon Snow had appeared out of nowhere, wide-eyed and staring at Kal and the others in curiosity.
It seemed he’d overheard Hall’s comments too, because his gaze soon shifted toward Kal’s helmet, which was casually set aside.
Inside it, there was indeed a patch of striking white fur.
But after giving the helmet another glance, Jon’s eyes moved again—this time settling on the white cloak draped over Kal’s back.
The cloak looked soft, with its snow-white fur turned inward toward the body. Though not ornate, it gave off a distinct sense of warmth.
“Your cloak—is it made from white fox fur too?” asked the fourteen-year-old Jon, eyeing Kal curiously and blurting out the question without thinking.
He figured Ghost had approached this man because he carried fur that matched Ghost’s own.
The last time Jon had seen such an eye-catching outfit, it had been on a certain Ser Waymar Royce.
Jon still remembered that knight’s powerful black warhorse, his black leather boots, black woolen trousers, and even a pair of black mole-hide gloves.
A black woolen shirt beneath hardened leather armor, all covered by a gleaming black mail shirt.
Yet, above all, what stood out most about him was that astonishing black sable cloak—thick, soft, and unforgettable.
The reason he had been dressed entirely in black was because he was heading to the Wall to join the Night’s Watch.
It was said he was the third son of his house, with little chance of inheritance—hence his decision to take the black.
Jon had a strong impression of him, as he had once stopped briefly at Winterfell while en route to the Wall as a guest.
Jon also knew that his sister Sansa had seemingly developed feelings for him.
But it was a shame—Jon was well aware that one of the Night’s Watch vows was to take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children.
So, seeing Kal’s gear—though mismatched in color, clearly more expensive than Ser Waymar Royce’s—Jon couldn’t help but wonder if the cloak on this knight’s shoulders was also made from white fox fur.
Hearing Jon’s question, Kal first glanced at Ghost, then looked at the boy standing before him—a lean figure, long face, brown hair, and a pair of grey eyes.
A playful thought suddenly crossed Kal’s mind.
“Maybe before you start asking strangers questions, you ought to give your own name first, kid.”
“Unless you’re the master of this place…”
As he spoke, Kal pushed himself up from the column he’d been leaning against, placing both hands on his knees and fixing the short boy in front of him with a mildly oppressive stare.
“But I’m guessing you’re not. Because just a short while ago, I saw the true lord of this castle greeting the king and kissing the queen’s hand.”
“And I only saw you standing behind them.”
Kal smiled as he finished his “rebuke.”
Hearing this, Jon Snow—who had been running his fingers through Ghost’s fluffy white coat—instantly turned bright red with embarrassment.
He jumped to his feet, unsure where to put his hands.
Still, he forced himself to stay composed and looked up at Kal, straightening his face as he introduced himself: “My name is Jon Snow. I apologize for Ghost coming over to you, but please believe me—he means no harm…”
“Ser.”
Even Jon didn’t know why he was speaking to Kal like this.
As he talked, he instinctively puffed out his chest, as if unwilling to let this tower of a man look down on him.
Yes, Kal stood out in a crowd just like the king once had.
His tall frame astride a deep-red warhorse, and that eye-catching cloak of thick, snow-white fur draped over his shoulders—
To Jon, the man before him had to be a Kingsguard.
After all, when Jon had seen him earlier, he’d been standing right behind the king.
