After sorting out the tangled mess for the time being and finishing the discussions, Kal left the Great Hall, parting ways with the lords of the Vale, rubbing at his temples with a weary expression.
On the way back to the Maiden's Tower where he lodged, Kal let out a sigh, his gaze wandering to the mists curling through the Vale beyond the windows.
After the meeting, these people had arranged for him to watch over the boy. How could he not realize he had been tricked by these old foxes into serving as their laborer, a mere tool to be used?
Still, after careful thought, he accepted the task.
At the very least, it was out of gratitude to Robert Arryn's father for past kindness, for allowing him to grow up within the Eyrie.
Shaking his head, Kal adjusted the gilded longsword at his waist and continued down the corridor, deep in thought as he walked.
He had only been in the Eyrie for two days, and yet what a whirlwind. First, he had blundered—by pure chaos, mishap, and luck—into defusing a trap that had been buried within the Vale. And then, he had immediately been the target of an assassination attempt by Lysa Tully.
It was only because he had cheats on his side.
Otherwise, in that situation, even if someone had swapped him out for a "Valyrian steel sword with a legendary enchantment" and thrown in Ser Barristan the Bold, the outcome would still have been death—burned alive at the chamber door.
From start to finish, the Vale's hidden trap had been a dead end.
And that was what Kal found himself thankful for.
Had it not been for his overwhelming, out-of-scale martial strength, every single lord who had been confidently debating in the hall earlier would have ended up as ashes.
He wondered if it was just his luck stat running high—two conspiracies in a row, unraveled by him alone, and each one somehow turned around in his favor, breathing life back into a position that had seemed hopeless.
Though truth be told, it posed little threat to the true mastermind behind it all.
On that point, Kal was one hundred percent certain.
After all, the very fact that Lysa conceived this scheme, and carried it out with such decisiveness, already meant the matter was laid out in plain sight.
Perhaps in the eyes of Bronze Yohn and the others, this was simply another of Lysa Tully's fits of madness, a murder born of sudden impulse. Every act of insanity she had committed before gave credence to that.
And she truly was capable of it.
No one expected anything else from a woman unhinged.
But Kal saw it differently. With the god's-eye view unique to a transmigrator, he could see the larger game more clearly.
These two layers of plotting—one open, one hidden, one dark, one light—likely began the moment Lysa Tully, in the name of Lady of the Eyrie, summoned these nobles together.
That also explained why she had bound these Vale lords to her will, dragging out decisions again and again, waiting to see if envoys from the Iron Throne would arrive.
This was never anything but a death plot under normal circumstances.
Or rather, it was her final resort.
Now that he was finally alone, Kal thought: if he hadn't come to the Eyrie, then right now, every soul within its walls—including the envoys of the Iron Throne—would have perished here without a sound.
And all Lysa would have needed was a simple lie to cover it up.
When the true conspiracy finally fermented and erupted, what awaited Robert Baratheon was the end of House Baratheon's dynasty in its very first generation.
What would follow was predictable—the Seven Kingdoms collapsing into pieces in the shortest span of time.
Kal could not be sure how foreign powers might act. The Free Cities were, in some ways, far too complicated.
But he knew clearly that once war blazed across the Seven Kingdoms, it would be a historic reversal—straight back to the era before the Targaryen dynasty, when seven crowns warred without end.
Without dragons, those ultimate weapons of absolute might, what awaited Westeros was nothing less than the swift collapse of a dynasty after only a single generation.
And such chaos would never be quelled quickly. The great schemers of King's Landing would surely stir the pot even further.
By then, Westeros wouldn't just be reshuffled—it would become a brutal elimination match, a battle royale.
Only those who endured until the very end would claim victory.
And quite clearly, that young bride across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen—living comfortably in her so-called newlywed "bliss"—might well end up as the final victor.
All she needed was time to grow.
The more he thought, the sharper Kal's footsteps rang along the white stone corridor. His eyes narrowed, and his fingers tapped unconsciously against the scabbard at his waist.
"But then again, perhaps not…"
As if struck by a sudden thought, Kal's brow furrowed, and he muttered in a low voice, "If Daenerys Targaryen's dragons never hatch, then she's nothing more than a useful pawn."
"..."
Tracing the logic, Kal fell silent again. Even his steps faltered to a stop.
"Hm… if that's the case, then that Spider is anything but clean." His eyes darkened with realization.
He couldn't help himself—his fist slammed into the stone wall beside him, and he barked out a furious shout: "Fuck!"
Kal unclenched his hand, scratching at his scalp in frustration.
Only then did he stride on toward his chambers once more.
He realized now that he had just played a match across the void with those hidden conspirators, a game of shadows. And he felt, for the first time, a deep chill at their ability to seize opportunities and bend the tides.
If not for the unreasonable cheats he possessed, he would have died at their hands without ever knowing how.
Wasn't that exactly the fate of all those who seemed like "main characters" in the original story?
Robb Stark and his Red Wedding. Eddard Stark, beheaded in King's Landing, forever remembered as headless Ned.
Yes, each downfall had its share of accidents and foolish mistakes.
But only after experiencing such schemes firsthand did Kal truly grasp the terrifying power of these conspirators.
At the thought, Kal's lips twisted into a crooked grin. "Damn it, not one of them is an easy mark!"
"Even these Vale lords, with all their talk of loyalty and knightly honor, are nothing but old foxes as well!"
After venting with a few curses, Kal let out another sigh.
At least these old men of the Vale, foxes though they were, weren't the sort to work a man to death without giving him a share of the meat.
Although they had made him Robert Arryn's guardian—on the surface giving him the chance to "hold the king to command the lords," barely tying his title of Warden of the East to the throne of the Eyrie with a measure of actual power over the Vale—
Kal knew better. With those old foxes watching him with schemes far deeper than his own, when Robert Arryn came of age and was ready to rule, there was no chance he would be allowed to keep the throne.
By then, Robert Arryn would have been carefully cultivated, and under Kal's protection would have grown up safely.
Because unless they were fools, everyone could see that in this war—so clear to all—this bastard who had suddenly appeared on the stage would surely rise from it.
After all, it was a situation he had deliberately crafted, with his presence woven into every turn.
It was also the true reason he had returned to King's Landing.
"In other words, all I got was a damned trial card with an expiration date..."
Kal cursed under his breath as he walked down the corridor, arriving beneath the Maiden's Tower, his neatly combed hair now a tousled mess from his own hands.
If this little fox wanted to claim the chicken dinner, then he would need a few more eyes on his head.
This trip to the Vale had not only, by sheer accident, avoided a conspiracy that could have engulfed the entire continent—it had also served as a sharp reminder.
Yet Kal felt that after more than a month of campaigning north of the Red Fork, it had never drained him as much as these two days of intrigue in the Eyrie.
"Right, and then there's that Samwell Tarly I picked up on the road. Another headache."
At the thought, Kal looked at the spiral staircase before him and scratched at his scalp again.
"Tch—!"
"Forget it. If they really push me too far, I'll just pull a Cersei and flip the damned table. Who can't do that?!"
Having made clear to himself where his true advantage lay, Kal could no longer be bothered to dwell on plots and schemes. He raised his foot and mounted the winding staircase of the Maiden's Tower.
The Maiden's Tower was one of the seven towers of the Eyrie, standing furthest to the east.
From its balcony, one could look out across the whole of the Vale and the Giant's Lance.
But upon returning to his chamber, Kal did not rest or admire the view.
Instead, he sat at his desk, face set in grim seriousness.
Only a few hours earlier, Jon Snow and the others had survived an assassination attempt. Now they waited here for him.
There was Jon Snow, his squire; Jory Cassel, the captain of guards Lord Eddard Stark had sent to lend him presence;
Hall, the veteran of the Blackstone mercenaries who had sworn loyalty to him; and Samwell Tarly, the boy picked up halfway, who should have been "volunteered" by Lord Randyll Tarly to take the black at the Wall.
At this moment, these four were the only true followers Kal could rely on within the Eyrie.
No—that wasn't quite right.
Samwell Tarly, shrinking into himself, head ducked low, fingers twisting into knots, too afraid even to meet his eyes… he could barely count as half a follower.
Perhaps not even that. And more likely, just another burden.
The thought struck him, and as Kal looked at the four before him, a sudden wave of sorrow welled up in his eyes.
Looking at them now, he could not even tell whether he was lucky or unlucky.
If lucky, then there was Samwell he had picked up halfway.
If unlucky, then it was the Vale business—he had stumbled into it by sheer dogshit luck, following his instincts only to end up defusing a powder keg that could have blown apart all Seven Kingdoms.
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