Domineering!
Overbearing presence laid bare!
Kal's words struck Margaery directly, pinning her in place.
As the look in her eyes as she stared at him slowly turned into disbelief, Kal gave a cold snort. The knife and fork in his hand tapped against the plate, snapping Margaery back to herself.
"So let me guess—if I accept your 'goodwill,' what kind of ending will my uncle, Renly Baratheon, be given?"
"An accidental poisoning?"
"Or some sort of assassination—perhaps even an 'accident'?"
"Or could it be that you would wrap him up like a gift and present him directly before me?"
Faced with Kal's aggressive questioning, Margaery could not help but feel tense, to the point that she struggled to speak.
"I—I—I don't know."
Kal did not pay her answer much heed.
He then set the fork back down, picked up the silk napkin beside the table and wiped the corner of his mouth, before folding his arms and leaning back against the wooden table.
His deep blue eyes rested on Margaery Tyrell—the Highgarden rose who had offered herself at his door.
"I remember that House Tyrell has already sworn loyalty to him, yet now, for certain reasons, you have turned and pledged yourselves to me."
"Then can I assume that if, one day in the future, another enemy appears, House Tyrell would treat me the same way?"
"So tell me, Margaery—should I regard you as friends, or as enemies?"
The successive barrage of questions left Margaery completely unable to speak.
Or rather, at this point, whatever she said would no longer matter.
Clever as she was, she had already clearly realized what Kal's response toward House Tyrell would be.
"You—what will you do?"
For reasons she did not understand, after grasping certain key points, Margaery suddenly found herself calming down.
Her emotions were no longer so choked with sorrow, nor were they filled with the same fear and dread as before.
She now wanted only one thing—to hear an answer from Kal's own mouth.
"Conquest."
Kal rose to his feet.
He let the silk napkin he had just used to wipe his mouth fall from his hand and stepped toward Margaery, stopping in front of her.
His expression was calm as he spoke slowly.
"Why?"
"What necessity is there in this—just to flaunt your martial strength?"
Margaery's brows lifted slightly. She could not quite understand what he meant.
"Don't tell me you merely wish to imitate Aegon the Conqueror?"
"Or is it because you have brought dragons back into this world, and want to use that to prove that what flows in your veins was never base blood?"
As she spoke, Margaery gradually raised her head. Her brown eyes looked straight at Kal, filled with a streak of stubbornness and defiance.
She refused to accept that if Kal rejected the olive branch proactively offered by House Tyrell for nothing more than such a reason, then the man before her would deserve nothing but her contempt.
Because she believed that if Kal truly thought that way, then he was utterly unworthy of her love.
After experiencing so much in this moment, Margaery could not help but feel that a faint sense of self-awakening had taken root within her.
Because everything Kal had done had brought her pain.
Deceiving her, taking her, betraying her—and now, toying with her.
In the span of a single day, this man had made her endure such suffering that, without even realizing it, the halo she once placed upon Kal was being stripped away. She herself became increasingly rational and calm.
Toward this dazzling man, she had already begun to lose her infatuation, regaining the clarity to think soberly.
Instinctively, she wanted to pull the situation—so disadvantageous to House Tyrell—back from the brink.
However, in response to her direct, challenging gaze, Kal suddenly reached out, seized Margaery by the chin, and lifted her face so that it faced him directly.
Deep blue eyes met brown eyes, locked together.
Suddenly, Kal let out a soft chuckle.
"The Conqueror was indeed great. He pushed the wheel of history forward by a tremendous step."
"But his vision ended there."
"Or rather—he could only go that far."
"So, would you like to hear about my 'conquest'?"
Kal spoke with a light laugh, and when he reached the final words, he smiled as he extended his thumb, gently rubbing it across Margaery's rosy lips.
Having just passed through the throes of passion, Margaery—who had once been merely youthful and beautiful—now carried an added trace of mature allure.
In addition to that sheet she had only casually draped over herself, under the candlelight she looked like an oil painting weathered by time.
Hazy—yet within reach.
Outside the window, the rain fell with a steady patter, and the low rumble of thunder faintly rolled, swallowing up every word spoken within the room.
Margaery Tyrell, her chin pinched as her head was forcibly turned to look at Kal, saw him gazing down at her—contempt in his calm eyes, and that confident, unhurried smile.
All at once, she found that she truly had become interested in this so-called "conquest."
Beneath the cloak of candlelight, those brown eyes of hers gained a layer of misty moisture.
The sensation of those firm yet not rough fingers on her lips also made Margaery feel as though the room had grown stiflingly hot again.
A deeper flush spread across her face, like a flower that grows in the gardens of Highgarden, yet blooms only at night.
"Conquest only brings bloodshed, death—how can you claim your ambition is noble?"
For some reason, the Highgarden rose's tone was no longer so rigid; even her gaze could not quite meet Kal's, evasively slipping away.
Yet in the face of Margaery's involuntary, from-within-born allure, Kal's fingers paused.
Then even his expression turned incomparably serious.
"Since ancient times, reforms and upheavals have never begun without bloodshed and sacrifice."
"But now, the Seven Kingdoms rule themselves—this is why the realm does not prosper."
"My conquest is total unification—building a truly powerful, whole empire!"
Thunder that had not sounded for a long time, as Kal's words fell, happened to resound through the heavens once again.
A bluish-purple, pale-white glare suddenly flared outside the window; a gale howled, making the tightly shut windowpanes boom and rattle.
Torrential raindrops smashed onto the bluestone and dark tiles, shattering into bead-like pearls before merging into the rainwater running through the grooves.
Yet compared to the "liveliness" outside the window, the room at this moment was so still that a pin could be heard dropping.
Now Kal did not even need to force Margaery's chin around to make her meet his eyes, because her eyes were already wide open, and she could not help but rise to her feet, stunned by Kal's declaration.
The sheet that had only been used to cover herself against the cold also slipped down to the floor at her feet as she stood.
But at this moment, how could Margaery possibly spare attention for any of that?
She looked at Kal, her lips working twice as if she wanted to say something, yet her feet involuntarily retreated half a step.
Only at this moment did she truly realize just how immense the ambition within the heart of the bastard king before her truly was.
Yet at the instant she wanted to refute him, faced with a man who was steadily revealing his strength, his wisdom, and his schemes, watching the confidence and calm on his face, Margaery found herself unable to utter a single word.
For some reason, deep within her heart, there was always a faint voice telling her—this man truly thought this way.
And that he even seemed to have a real chance of accomplishing it.
But—but—
"Do you even know what you're saying?!"
"You're making enemies of everyone!"
"Your ambition is devouring you!"
At this moment, Margaery Tyrell could no longer conceal her fear. As she spoke these words, it was as though she could see, behind Kal, an incomparably enormous shadow slowly rising to its feet.
And that shadow was also slowly opening its mouth.
Within it was an abyss—bloodshed.
Waiting to devour its prey.
Faced with Margaery's shock, Kal did not care.
It could be said that, on this rain-soaked night that had only just seen bloodshed, Margaery was the first person to truly know what he had always been thinking. Even Tyrion Lannister—Kal had never said anything like this to him.
But now that Kal had released the beast within his heart, it was naturally because he believed the time had already come.
The actions of House Crakehall, and the Tyrell family's covert maneuvers, had made him realize that he had to make a change. Continuing to bide his time in silence, developing quietly and fighting a drawn-out, evenly matched war, was simply impossible for him now.
And since that was the case, why not do it now?
The Tyrell family and House Crakehall had conveniently joined forces to deliver an excuse right before him—why not take advantage of it?
"You're right. I am indeed making enemies of everyone."
"But if you don't tear down the old house, how can you build a new tower?"
Kal bent down, picked up the sheet, and said in a low voice, a trace of complexity flashing through his eyes.
Then, amid Margaery's still-confused gaze, he draped the sheet over her shoulders and wrapped it around her.
With a flick of his wrist, Kal then lifted Margaery horizontally into his arms.
Margaery Tyrell, who had just been about to question him, was interrupted by his sudden movement. She instinctively let out a startled cry and fell into Kal's embrace.
Her hand instinctively touched that broad, solid chest. The tide-like surge of hormones emanating from Kal struck Margaery so forcefully that she was left unable to speak.
Kal simply held Margaery Tyrell like that, turned, and placed her back onto the bed.
"You—you…"
Now the Highgarden rose's face had completely flushed to the color of a rose.
Because Kal had leaned over her once again.
Feeling his heavy breathing wash over her face, Margaery's heartbeat accelerated, and waves of dizziness began to flood her mind.
"Only by making those vested interests my enemies do I gain the reason and the justification to shatter them."
"A powerful, prosperous kingdom with centralized authority requires their sacrifice."
Kal looked down at Margaery, his tone still carrying that same calm composure.
"I—I…"
Margaery tried to push Kal away, but when she reached out, she found she had no strength left at all.
Then, when Kal's breath brushed against her ear, Margaery shivered instinctively and barely managed to struggle free by a small margin.
"The Tyrell family as well?"
"Will it become a sacrifice on your path of conquest?"
Under Kal's looming "suppression," Margaery clenched her teeth and forced out the question.
Before Kal bit down on her earlobe, he answered her with a single sentence.
"I will only tolerate true submission!"
...
Last night's rainfall brought a trace of freshness to the following day, and in passing also washed away the bloodshed of the night before.
Within the castle of Crakehall, the surviving soldiers and knights who had been gathered together squatted in the mud in a daze, glancing around at the soldiers who stared at them with cold, piercing gazes.
No one had expected that Kal Baratheon, on the very night he was welcomed into the castle by House Crakehall, would carry out a bloody purge against them and then seize the castle outright.
As for what had occurred within the castle the previous night, Arys Oakheart had already informed these men after tending to the bodies of his sworn brothers.
This did nothing to erase the resentment in the eyes of some.
But most had instead fallen into confusion.
No matter how unwilling they were, everything before them had already become reality.
Having gone a night without sleep and endured a battle, Ser Arys Oakheart was utterly exhausted.
The sellsword Bronn and the knight Sandor Clegane were no different.
Yet unlike Ser Arys Oakheart, who was still busy, the two of them had withdrawn to one side to rest, changing out— with the help of soldiers— the clothes and armor that had been soaked through by rain and blood.
"Damn it, I thought I'd see blood on the battlefield."
Sandor Clegane spoke as he pulled off his boots, tipping the filthy water inside them onto the ground.
A strong stench spread from his feet, soaked so long they had turned pale.
Off to the side by the water's edge, Bronn was using a wooden bucket to pour water over himself, rinsing his body. Unlike the Hound's complaints, although he was also exhausted, his overall mood was clearly cheerful.
After washing the blood and rainwater off himself in a few quick motions, without even drying off, he walked barefoot over to Sandor's side.
Yet his gaze was not on the ugly man beside him at all. Instead, it wandered across the surrounding castle.
A glimmer of light flickered repeatedly in his eyes.
Receiving no response after a few complaints, the Hound instinctively turned his head to look at the skinny man beside him.
Noticing his gaze, the Hound also scanned the surroundings, but found nothing out of the ordinary.
"What are you looking at?" Sandor Clegane asked instinctively.
Hearing this, Bronn chuckled twice.
"I've seen plenty of castles, but I don't think I've ever looked at a noble's castle from this kind of angle, in this kind of way. Because if I'd ever dared to do that before, the retribution would've been those noble lords slipping a hemp noose around my neck."
"And standing off to the side would be one of those soldiers who crouch in corners like wild dogs, slowly cutting through the rope with a dagger so dull it could smash stones."
"I reckon my tongue would stick out pretty far. The whores all say I'm good at that."
Bronn spoke as if recounting something he had personally witnessed, weaving the scene into a vivid story.
Sandor Clegane frowned, then chose to pull off his other boot, too lazy to bother with this scrawny wolf.
Just then, a figure walked over.
Along the way, soldiers who saw him lowered their heads and murmured, "Your Majesty."
Hearing the movement, Bronn and the Hound exchanged a glance, then stood and offered their salute.
Kal stopped in front of the two of them.
"You did well."
"So, Bronn—what's your choice? Gold dragons, or what you just mentioned: having the power to hang those who offend you?"
Hearing Kal's words, Bronn froze slightly.
Sandor Clegane glanced at him and let out a disdainful snort.
But Bronn did not look at him. His gaze instead returned to the castle before him.
Then, without the slightest hesitation, he knelt, raising high the dragonbone-handled dagger that the Kingsguard had handed him the night before.
"It seems you've made your choice."
Kal took the dagger, smiling faintly.
"Get up, Ser Bronn. You can start thinking of a suitable name for your house."
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