The ship bound for Kaer Trolde cut through wind and spray, and in the cabin, the young man sat before a great cauldron in meditation, seventh contingency plan, twenty-ninth advance simulation...
The King's Gambit, the end of the struggle among the six claimants, the high point of the Skellige arc, had always left a deep impression on him. And after living in the middle of it for so long, Victor had naturally recovered the memory of it.
"Before the final vote for the throne, Birna Bran, the former queen of Clan Tuirseach, plots murders during the feast at Kaer Trolde. Halbjorn of Clan Dimun, Blueboy Lugos of Clan Drummond, and Otrygg an Hindar of Clan Heymaey are slain, and the blame is pinned on Clan an Craite, staining their name. Then, if no outside force intervenes, Svanrige takes the throne."
If this were some other transmigrator, maybe they could squeeze every last drop of advantage from the incident. They could pretend to know nothing, then leap out at the last moment to turn the tide. Or they could let the massacre happen first, then expose Birna's methods afterward, send her to justice, and walk away with fame and profit.
But no matter how Victor ran the scenario, if the feast hall incident occurred, innocent blood would be spilled, and it would be a tragedy he could have stopped with ease.
Thinking back on all the people he had met since arriving in the isles, not all of them fit any pure definition of "good," but they had all shown the Dragonborn a measure of respect and regard. And if a simple effort on his part could spare them from being harmed by a conspiracy, that aligned with the moral law in his heart.
With his mind made up, the young man opened his eyes. "I don't need that kind of gain, and I don't want to get tangled up in this. In this knot of grudges, there's no one I need to kill."
Knock, knock. Someone rapped at the door. It was Hjalmar, arriving as requested.
Victor rose, opened the door, and let him into the cabin.
"My brother, why do you look so serious? You called me here for something?"
"Of course. I foresee a new shadow gathering, and it has everything to do with Clan an Craite."
...
A few days later, thanks to Hjalmar's relentless urging, the expedition returned to Kaer Trolde much earlier than expected. The moment the ship docked, he leaped ashore, mounted up, and raced straight for Kaer Trolde keep.
Watching his back vanish into the distance, Victor shrugged. The good fight had been fought, the road that had to be run had been run, and the faith had been kept. From this moment on, the matter of kings was completely severed from him.
Folan had to transfer to another ship bound for Urialla Harbor, while the other warriors were each returning home, so after saying goodbye to them one by one, Victor strolled leisurely into the Kaer Trolde market.
A yellowed notice on the board caught his eye.
A Fine Opportunity for Warriors
Want glory and gold?
Got a sharp sword and no fear of death?
Then come see Master Shipwright Bjorg, I've got work for you.
Muire D'Yaeblen have appeared in Kaer Trolde Bay, and they need to be killed.
They breed fast, grow fast, and every ship that leaves the harbor runs into them.
Kill those monsters, and your name will be known across the isles, while your purse grows nice and heavy.
, Bjorg
Muire D'Yaeblen, sea devils, that was Skellige's word for drowners. Victor had seen this same notice the first time he came to Kaer Trolde, back when he was still riding the Going Merry. It felt like a lifetime ago. And yet no warrior had helped with it even now?
He didn't lack fame, and he definitely didn't lack money, but Victor still tore down the notice and went to pay Master Bjorg a visit. After facing an ice giant, something like drowners was barely worth mentioning.
Finish the contract this afternoon, come back and wash up, then head to the keep tonight to drink and chat with friends, a perfect plan.
With that settled, not long after, at the shipyard...
"You handle a sword well. Kill a monster for me."
"Two hundred crowns minimum!"
"This hundred is the advance."
"What exactly does the gentleman want killed?"
"The cave in Kaer Trolde Bay... Muire D'Yaeblen."
"Who?! You do know drowners come in packs, right?!"
"Aren't you supposed to be the sort who doesn't care about that?!"
"You misunderstand, sir. I mean there definitely won't be just one. If I'm chopping down a whole swarm in one go, that costs extra!"
...
Hjalmar rode at full gallop.
He thundered up through the tunnel winding through the mountain and straight toward the outer gate of Kaer Trolde. The guards naturally recognized the young master of their house and instantly pulled aside the barriers to let him through. Reaching the main hall, Hjalmar sprang from the saddle, handed the horse over to an attendant, and hurried inside in search of Crach.
Victor, after all, wasn't a Skelliger. He didn't understand the full workings of island politics, and a game could never fit reality perfectly, so his prophecy had been forced to stay vague on the finer details.
But the mere fact that the massacre would be so horrific, and that the mastermind pointed directly at Birna, one of the most exalted figures in Skellige, meant Hjalmar had to tell Crach as quickly as possible and let the clan leader decide how to handle it.
And after questioning servants along the way, the outlook was grim. Hjalmar guessed the conspiracy was about to begin, perhaps even tonight.
When he reached his father's room, Cerys happened to be stepping out. Seeing her brother return, she raised her stubborn chin ever so slightly.
"Perfect. Come listen in." Hjalmar grabbed her by the arm and dragged her right back inside to see their father.
...
At dusk in the Kaer Trolde shipyard, Victor stood there filthy, reeking, and bedraggled, arguing with Master Bjorg.
"This is outright fraud! You posted a drowner price and nearly got me killed! See this head? This thing is called a water hag! It's a lot more dangerous than drowners, so you're definitely paying extra!"
"No. Way. My purse isn't that deep!"
"Fine. Let me tell you this, the sea floor isn't that deep either, and those monsters breed like mad. One day you may need my help again, and when that day comes, I'll fold my arms and watch."
"Bastard, are you threatening me? Take it! Here's every last coin I've got. May you drink yourself to death."
Having won the bargaining war, the delighted young man tucked away a heavy pouch of crowns, turned around, and found himself abruptly surrounded by four guards of Clan an Craite.
Seeing that, Master Bjorg quickly spoke up. "Hey, brothers, no trouble here. We're just haggling fair and square. Don't make things hard for him."
The four guards ignored the shipwright and instead placed a hand over their chests and bowed to the Dragonborn. "Our respects to you, great giant-slayer, Dovahkiin!"
Bjorg froze on the spot. This filthy, foul-smelling young man he had just been haggling with, was the legendary warrior Dovahkiin?
And behind the guards, Angoulême stood there grinning. "Vic, you're seriously hard to find. If I hadn't heard you two arguing over the price, I almost would've missed you again."
"What do you want with me? I said what needed saying. The rest has nothing to do with me."
"Uncle Crach said there's business. Very serious business."
Victor yawned. "At least let me wash first."
"Hjalmar said you can use his bath. Even his maids too, he doesn't mind."
"But I do!"
...
After washing up, Victor followed Angoulême toward Kaer Trolde. Noticing how radiant she looked from behind, how open and confident every gesture had become, he couldn't resist taking her down a peg.
"Damn, after being apart a while, you've gotten pretty full of yourself, haven't you?"
"Heh-heh, that's because I've gotten really strong, insanely strong. I'm totally confident now. The Troupe's basically been shaped around me, it can't do without me anymore. Give me a chance and I'll show you."
"Idiot, no matter how strong you get, you're still my hired muscle." As he spoke, Victor casually kicked at her backside.
The kick was silent, and with no hostile intent behind it, it should have landed without fail. But with Eagle Vision in command, the blue outline marking an ally stood out clearly. Angoulême shifted one step forward with perfect timing and narrowly avoided the kick, as if she had eyes in the back of her head.
"Huh?" the boy said in surprise.
"Eh?!" the girl was even more shocked.
Because in that instant, when it looked like the kick could no longer reach, Victor reacted like lightning. His body adjusted on instinct, supple and perfectly balanced, taking a quick step to extend the motion, and his foot still smacked right into her rear.
It all happened in a flash, and the ability the other had just shown was something entirely new.
"How did you do that?" they asked in unison.
Noticing the guards beside them, both understood it wasn't the time to talk, so they exchanged a smile and kept walking.
"Did you settle things with Clan Brokvar?"
"What kind of question is that? Once the great exorcist Angoulême takes the field, instant success is inevitable."
"Who gave you the nerve to brag like that in front of me?"
"The great prophet Victor?"
"When you talk like that, keep going."
...
"Where's Vigi?"
"Back home doing his duty. Undvik needs him."
"Will he come back?"
"We'll meet again."
...
Once they entered the keep, Svani appeared at the doorway and continued leading them onward. Along the way they passed a group of burly men draped in bear pelts.
"Who are they?" Victor asked.
Svani's tone was icy. "Vildkaarls, fanatical berserkers from the cult of Svalblod, also called werebears.
"When bloodlust takes hold of them, they transform into giant bears. In a very short time, they can turn an unarmed feast hall into a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood."
Watching them go, the young man shook his head. "How did people that dangerous end up mixed in among the guests?"
"We'll find out," she replied.
They continued for a while longer, and at last Svani stopped before a towering, heavily guarded set of doors. She pulled Angoulême aside as well, then gestured for Victor to go in alone.
"What's this about? You two aren't coming in?"
"Under normal circumstances, only the heads of the seven clans, the druids who witness it, and the candidates themselves may enter the Hall of Choosing. Once the choosing begins, it is sealed until a result is reached."
"Then I'm truly honored."
Pushing open the great doors, Victor stepped inside, and they swung shut behind him.
Taking advantage of the rare chance to look around, he saw a circular hall, raised around the edges and sunken in the center. Swords and shields decorated it in lavish brilliance, while countless crystal chandeliers hanging overhead bathed the room in light.
A sweep of his eyes over the seats showed Birna Bran and Svanrige Tuirseach of Clan Tuirseach, Crach an Craite, Hjalmar an Craite, and Cerys an Craite of Clan an Craite, Madman Lugos and Blueboy Lugos of Clan Drummond, Donar an Hindar and Otrygg an Hindar of Clan Heymaey, Holger Blackhand and Halbjorn of Clan Dimun, and one figure he did not recognize, presumably Udalryk an Brokvar.
And among the druids in the witness gallery, he recognized two as well, Great Druid Ermion and the Dream Druid Malfurion.
Standing at the center of the hall and giving testimony under questioning was a rather special figure, Arnvald, seneschal of Clan an Craite.
Today he still wore a neat fitted doublet, looking every inch the perfect steward, his voice calm and steady. "...No one of Clan an Craite is fit to be elected King of Skellige. After so many years of service, I know them better than anyone. They are more reckless than others, and less responsible. The people of Skellige need a stable life, and a king of vision and ability, not drunken jarls making decisions on their behalf."
Donar an Hindar, the eldest of the assembled lords, barked, "Enough! Arnvald, we have no desire to hear your confession. Whether to forgive you is for the gods. You were brought into this hall to name the one who ordered you to invite the vildkaarls and mix blood and hallucinogenic mushrooms into the mead. Speak, and you will earn your reward, a swift and honorable death!"
The seneschal bowed slightly. "As you wish. Queen Birna wrote to me and ordered me to poison the mead, though she did not sign the letter. As for the matter of inviting the vildkaarls, I know nothing."
"Slander! Barefaced, despicable slander!" Birna shouted, pointing a finger.
Cerys rose and accused her directly. "Birna Bran, you orchestrated everything. You ordered Arnvald to drug the berserkers in an attempt to eliminate all the candidates, then frame Clan an Craite so Svanrige could succeed to the throne."
"What Cerys says is true. I am willing to testify to it," Arnvald said.
Birna gave a cold snort. "Such loyalty. He is Clan an Craite's lapdog. Whatever they tell him to say, he says. He would lie for them even at the cost of his head."
The Queen Mother's words were highly persuasive, and murmurs immediately spread through the hall.
Holger Blackhand spoke next. "That's true enough. Arnvald has served Clan an Craite for many years. False testimony is entirely possible. That alone cannot prove Birna is the mastermind."
Without yielding an inch, Sparrowhawk took out a letter and passed it around from the left so everyone could examine it.
Cerys said, "This is the letter Birna sent Arnvald. It explains how to poison the mead. Though it bears no signature, the perfume on the parchment is so strong you can still tell it's the kind the Queen uses."
Faced with the accusation, Birna only laughed in scorn. "Hahahaha, little girl, that's your evidence? You mean to prove I committed treason with this? Don't be ridiculous."
After looking over the letter, Madman Lugos shook his head. "Birna is right, Cerys. This isn't enough to prove she's the one behind it."
Sparrowhawk sat back down, somewhat deflated.
Donar an Hindar slowly summed it up. "Although Clan an Craite had almost no reason to stage this affair, once the accusation is brought before all in open judgment, if there is no further evidence to present, then we must dismiss it."
Hjalmar fumed. Crach stroked his beard in silence.
A victor's smile spread across Birna's face. Her meticulously arranged conspiracy had long accounted for the possibility of being discovered, and she had already prepared the means to shrug off the blame.
The one thing she had not expected was Victor. She glared at him fiercely. The exposure of her scheme had come from nothing more than the warning of a so-called prophet. Though that warning had proven imprecise enough, without any details at all, it had still been enough to make people wary.
Feeling Birna's icy stare on him, Victor was speechless with frustration.
For heaven's sake, an Craite, do you people really have to be this useless when dealing with a conspiracy?
Especially you, Hjalmar, you big idiot. I practically handed you every ace in the deck and the whole winning script, and you still somehow ended up serving Aunt Birna a nice latte?
Could you possibly drop the ball any harder than this?
You lot dragged me here in a full panic, don't tell me you expect me to save this mess with a speech?
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