Hearing the sudden commotion outside, how could the people in the great hall fail to realize what was happening.
The troops brought by Kal were camped outside the castle, and on top of that, their lord had been seized and threatened by the Kingsguard, who loudly berated him and accused the Crakehall family of plotting to murder the king.
There was no need to think about it—the situation outside had already descended into complete chaos.
This only further inflamed the anger of those who were either members of the Crakehall family or people who depended on the Crakehalls for their livelihood.
Stimulated by fury, the crowd raised their weapons and surged forward, and a clash was on the verge of erupting.
Frightened by the renewed chill at his neck, Roland Crakehall shouted again at the top of his lungs, finally stopping the confrontation and incidentally saving his own life.
In the corner, the guests from Highgarden who had been happily drinking with members of the Crakehall family just moments ago saw this sudden turn of events and immediately turned pale.
"Damn it, this is a trap!"
"Despicable! Shameless!"
Listening to the accusations the Kingsguard had just leveled against the Crakehall family, this knight of House Tyrell could not help but curse, his expression turning extremely ugly.
After all, when the Crakehall steward had just come to report matters concerning Kal to Roland Crakehall, he had been standing right there and had heard everything clearly.
Yet now Kal's Kingsguard had suddenly seized someone, and the charges were collusion with the enemy and an attempt to murder the king.
Wasn't this the classic case of taking everything and then denying it outright?!
Thinking of this, he grabbed the wine cup on the table and smashed it viciously to the ground. The crystal-polished goblet shattered, and summerwine from Dorne spilled across the floor.
The blood-red liquid assaulted his senses as he looked at the restrained Roland Crakehall, gnashing his teeth as he cursed again, "Damn bastard, shameless, greedy maggot!"
At this moment, however, he was far from the only one cursing. Outside, the sound of rain rose and fell with peals of thunder, while screams from beyond the hall mingled with the humiliated, furious shouting inside.
The chaotic scene only made everyone more agitated.
Watching the Lord of Crakehall, kicked to his knees, his hair yanked back and his neck held under threat, the people felt both furious and indignant, yet for the moment utterly helpless.
Hearing the sounds of fighting outside, some wanted to go out first to take a look.
But listening to Lord Roland Crakehall's pleas and attempts to stabilize the situation, it was clear that, for the moment, what was happening inside the great hall was even more critical than what was unfolding outside.
So amid the chaos, instead, everyone ended up standing in place for the moment, each unsure of what to do.
Leaderless.
And at that moment, Tybolt Crakehall, who had likewise drawn his longsword, fixed the two Kingsguard before him with eyes full of fury.
Looking at the disorder before him, he thought for a moment, then moved around Marlin Warwick, who was holding up his shield defensively in front of him, and turned to stand before Alex Oakheart.
He was Roland Crakehall's eldest son and the heir to Crakehall.
With his father being held hostage, he was the only one present who was qualified to step forward.
"Ser Arys Oakheart, I do not understand what has happened, but I can guarantee that the Crakehall family has never harbored any intention of harming the king."
"This is a misunderstanding, and you cannot treat and humiliate the Crakehall family in this way."
"Release my father, and I can treat everything as if it never happened."
Suppressing the anger in his heart, Tybolt Crakehall spoke in a conciliatory tone, trying to persuade Arys Oakheart to release his father.
However, Tybolt Crakehall might have taken Arys Oakheart for a fool, but Arys Oakheart was not a fool.
Faced with his persuasion, Arys Oakheart merely gave a cold snort.
"Sorry. Your joke isn't funny."
"I will warn you again—if you do not lay down your weapons and surrender, I will cut his throat. The evidence of the Crakehall family's betrayal is conclusive. You have only one choice!"
"And that is to kneel!"
Arys Oakheart was uncompromising. In the tense, blade-drawn standoff, the sword in his hand pressed even closer to Lord Roland Crakehall's neck.
Terrified, Roland Crakehall wailed for him not to move, not to move, tears streaming down his face.
Seeing that Arys Oakheart was not joking, that he responded neither to soft words nor hard pressure, and that there was no room left in his words to turn the matter around—
Hearing his father's cries, Tybolt Crakehall could only fall silent once more.
He frowned, knowing this was going to be difficult.
Watching his son still hesitate there, Roland Crakehall's face turned deathly pale.
But just as the situation fell into a deadlock, the knight from House Tyrell stepped forward.
He cast a grim, hostile glance at Arys Oakheart and the other man, then bent down and leaned to Tybolt Crakehall's ear. "Looks like their purpose is only to take Lord Roland Crakehall hostage, using that to buy time so their troops outside can achieve their goal."
"If we truly surrender now, then it's all over."
"So what's happening outside is even more important. We can't let their troops take control of the castle, so if we want to rescue Lord Roland Crakehall, we must first deal with the troops outside."
This knight from House Tyrell saw through the situation and the balance of forces at a glance, and his words also jolted Tybolt Crakehall awake.
As his words fell, Tybolt's expression changed at once.
"Everyone, we must go outside first to resist those troops, and then come back to deal with them!"
However, as his order was given, the drillmaster in Crakehall and those knights all instinctively looked toward Roland Crakehall, whose neck was still being held at swordpoint.
Tybolt Crakehall had not lowered his voice, so Arys Oakheart also heard his words.
But he and his sworn brother, Marlin Warwick, had taken the risk of coming here to seize Roland Crakehall, the Lord of Crakehall. Besides Kal's order for them to arrest Roland Crakehall, wasn't the rest of it precisely to cooperate with the troops outside to take this castle?
So how could Arys Oakheart possibly allow Tybolt Crakehall to have his way.
At once, he raised his voice in a shout.
"No one move. Move, and I'll cut his throat."
Already in pain and crying, Roland Crakehall had no intention of leaving his life here.
Seeing that, under someone else's instigation, his son actually dared to gamble with his own father's life, he grew even more frantic and hurriedly shouted, "Don't—don't move!"
"We surrender, we surrender!"
"Listen, this is a misunderstanding. Ser Arys Oakheart, there must absolutely be some misunderstanding in this."
"I want to meet the king. The Crakehall family has not betrayed him."
However, how could Arys Oakheart listen to his sophistry. He only pressed the sword even closer to make him shut his mouth.
But before he could say anything further, he was already thinking about how to resolve the standoff before him.
At the same time, he was wondering when Sandor Clegane, Bronn, and the others outside would break in and completely bring the situation under control.
Outside the great hall, amid the thunderstorm-dark night, a clinking sound of metal scraping against stone suddenly rang out.
The direction from which the sound came was so peculiar that the people locked in tense confrontation inside the hall could not help but turn to look behind them.
At that moment, another bolt of lightning split the sky.
Under the sudden white glare, a figure stepped forward at a measured pace through the rainy night.
In his right hand, it seemed as though he was dragging something, and in the darkness, sparks flared up intermittently.
That faint yet striking clink was coming precisely from the shadowy object.
Carrying an indescribable sense of pressure, the figure slowly approached the doors of the great hall.
Only when he took a step into the brightly lit hall, illuminated by candles as bright as day, did the people clearly see who the newcomer was—and what he held in his hand.
"Who is he?"
Someone asked instinctively.
Most of those present did not recognize who the man before them was.
But that did not include Roland Crakehall, who still had a sword pressed to his neck.
"King Kal—this is a misunderstanding, a misunderstanding!"
"The Crakehall family has never once thought of betraying you!"
At a moment of life and death, Roland Crakehall no longer had the presence of mind for schemes or interests.
All he wanted now was to live.
Hearing his words, those in the hall who had never seen Kal before cried out in shock.
"So he's the king? And what is that in his hand— a sword?"
Hearing the pleas, Kal—who had just come in from outside and had incidentally helped Sandor Clegane and the others deal with the difficulty of taking the castle—finally shook the rainwater from his soaked hair.
He then raised his free hand and combed the wet hair back with his fingers.
Rainwater, mixed with the not particularly large amount of blood clinging to his body, slowly dripped onto the stone floor of the great hall.
His still-icy gaze swept across everyone present.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
"Lord Roland Crakehall, from the moment you colluded with House Tyrell to scheme against me, this was no longer a misunderstanding."
As Kal spoke, he planted the greatsword he had casually taken from his inventory earlier, when he had been cutting people down, upright in front of him.
Under its immense, inhuman force, the sharp tip pierced straight through the stone slab and plunged into the packed gravel and earth beneath.
Tobho Mott's craftsmanship truly was excellent. This thing felt genuinely comfortable in his hands—especially in situations like this, where one had to face many enemies alone.
Unconcealed killing intent spread from Kal, and everyone in the great hall—men and women alike—instinctively shivered.
Especially the more observant noblewomen, who could clearly see blood on the man before them.
That sight made them instinctively retreat behind the men who had stepped forward.
Yet those men—who had drawn their weapons and were pointing them at the Kingsguard and the newly arrived Kal—had hands that trembled slightly, unsure for the moment what to do.
Showing hostility toward a king always carried a certain pressure.
Kneeling on the ground, enduring the pain in his body while listening to Kal El's merciless words, Roland Crakehall—
Just as he was desperately racking his brain, trying to think of how to talk his way out of it—
Once again, it was the knight of House Tyrell who stepped forward.
Having likewise drawn his weapon, his face was flushed red with anger.
Hearing Kal's words and seeing what he was doing now, how could he not realize that their plan had already been exposed.
But faced with the killing intent Kal revealed, he also knew that if he did not find a way out, he himself would likely die here.
Looking at the man before him, and thinking of the heavy responsibility House Tyrell had placed on his shoulders, as well as their current choice—King Renly Baratheon—
Without further hesitation, this knight of House Tyrell let anger override caution, and a thought immediately formed in his mind.
As long as Kal El died here, everything would come to an end.
As for how Kal died here at Crakehall—
Hadn't Kal El and his Kingsguard already said it themselves? That the Crakehall family had colluded with the enemy and betrayed him.
Once he had thought this through, the knight of House Tyrell immediately realized that this was his only remaining way out.
At once, he shouted again toward Tybolt.
"He wants to kill us—no, he wants your family's castle!"
"If we don't fight back now, then the Crakehall family will meet the same fate as House Lannister. Tybolt, you have no choice left!"
"Kill him, and everything will be over. Following King Renly Baratheon means a glorious future!"
"King Renly will even reward the Crakehall family for this merit by naming you Warden of the West!"
Listening to this guest's words, Tybolt Crakehall's eyes, fixed on Kal, could not help but redden.
Young men were always hot-blooded and hungry for distinction.
A knight whom House Tyrell could send to escort Margaery Tyrell—the Rose of Highgarden—and who could also discuss cooperation and interests with the Crakehall family was, naturally, no fool.
He had precisely seized an opportunity amid the chaos.
With only a few words, he stirred the conflict through temptation.
Hearing him speak, even Kal could not help but turn his head to look at this nameless knight with golden hair.
"Are you of House Tyrell?"
Looking at the knight, who was no longer young, Kal felt a trace of curiosity.
After all, this man did not look simple, and he even seemed to be the one linking the Crakehall family with House Tyrell in collusion.
Kal could tell that this was likely someone of some importance.
Facing Kal's question, the knight from House Tyrell answered with a proud expression.
"My name is Garse Flowers. Garth Tyrell is my father."
Hearing him announce both his name and lineage, Kal tilted his head slightly, unable to recall who he was.
But Kal did know Garth Tyrell.
However, Kal merely smiled faintly, his tone carrying a hint of something strange. "Flowers? Then it seems you are also a bastard—"
He had not expected that the person House Tyrell sent to handle this matter would turn out to be a bastard. Though he could be considered a cadet branch of House Tyrell, his status made his presence here somewhat unbecoming.
Still, no matter what, at least there was someone like this present—and one who had even stepped forward on his own.
That alone proved that Margaery Tyrell's talk of coming for love was, in truth, not very credible.
Everything was nothing more than calculation.
Since it was all calculation, then it became easy to deal with.
Hearing Kal bluntly call him a bastard, Garse Flowers' expression grew even uglier.
He turned his head, eyes blazing with anger as he stared at Tybolt.
"Tybolt, we don't have time to hesitate. If we don't deal with this quickly, I think the consequences need no explanation from me!"
"Don't, Tybolt—don't listen to him!"
Seeing that this man still dared to incite his son, Roland Crakehall no longer cared even though a sword was still at his neck, and hurriedly shouted.
Hearing his father's voice, Tybolt Crakehall turned back to look at him, his gaze flicking briefly over the bloodstains on his father's neck.
But Garse Flowers had no intention of waiting for Tybolt to hesitate.
"There are only three of them here. We have so many people. As long as we take him down, the crisis will be resolved at once, and the Crakehall family will reach its peak."
Listening to Garse Flowers at his ear, Tybolt withdrew his gaze from the blood on his father's neck, his expression hardening.
He looked at Garse Flowers and spoke in a low, steady voice. "Yes, Ser Garse, you're right. There are only three of them—and their troops are all outside."
"So since they dare to threaten my father, why shouldn't we turn the tables and capture this king instead?"
As he finished speaking, a trace of madness appeared on his face.
He felt that Garse Flowers was right.
After all, one undeniable fact was that Kal, this king, had actually dared to come with only three men, relying on his skill and courage, to try to take on the Crakehall family.
If that wasn't a joke, then what was?
"All knights loyal to House Crakehall, hear my command. Your lord—my father—was betrayed by this king, whom we personally invited here."
"My father bent the knee and swore loyalty to him, yet after coming beneath the roof of his host, he instead raised blade and arms against the master of this house!"
"Therefore, in my father's name, I command you: if you are still loyal to House Crakehall, then seize this king before you—this king without virtue and without shame!"
Seeing him make up his mind, Garse Flowers felt a surge of joy and immediately raised his sword, pointing it at Kal.
"Kal El, you are not worthy to be king—nor are you worthy to be Warden of the West!"
"Move!"
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