Gavin’s legs drove hard against the dirt.
He exploded forward like a thunderbolt straight into the Hightower line.
Their spears came fast—two long points stabbing out at once.
Gavin slipped left like smoke, let the first thrust pass his ribs, then arched back hard and let the second spear whistle past his face.
In the next heartbeat he was inside their formation.
His sword moved in a silver blur.
One man never even raised his shield before the blade punched through his heart.
He dropped without a sound.
Gavin was already moving again, arrowing straight for the man carrying their banner.
The soldier’s eyes went wide.
He tried to bring his lance up to block.
Gavin’s wrist snapped, the sword snaking around the shaft, then drove back in a vicious reverse thrust that opened the man’s throat from ear to ear.
Hot blood sprayed across Gavin’s armor.
A third fighter lunged in from the side.
Gavin pivoted, drove a boot into the man’s gut and sent him flying backward.
Another came from behind, thinking he had a clean shot.
Gavin spun without looking, smashed the sword hilt into the attacker’s temple.
The man grunted once and collapsed.
Hightower’s allies roared and rushed in to help.
Gavin didn’t slow.
His eyes went colder, harder.
The sword became a wall of flashing steel—thrusts that came from impossible angles, rising flicks that opened arteries, heavy chops that split mail and bone.
Every movement carried the full weight of master swordsmanship.
He cut an arm clean off at the elbow.
A man screamed and fell.
Another took a blade through the neck and dropped before he could finish his swing.
Gavin moved through them like they were standing still.
Ten men tried to surround him.
None of them could touch him.
His sword carved bright, lethal arcs through the air.
Screams followed every stroke.
The Hightower formation that had looked so solid moments ago was coming apart in blood and panic.
Gavin fought like something out of legend—a slaughter dancer whose every step was death.
When the last man’s throat opened under his blade, the field went quiet except for Gavin’s breathing.
He stood alone in the center of the carnage.
Bodies lay scattered around him like broken toys.
The Hightower banner still fluttered on the lance he had planted earlier.
Gavin’s chest rose and fell hard.
Sweat ran down his face and mixed with the blood on his armor.
He straightened slowly, let the sword hang at his side.
A single drop of blood fell from the tip and hit the stained ground.
The other teams still standing around the circle stared at him in stunned silence.
Gavin lifted his head, looked from one group to the next, and felt no pity, no fear.
He raised his free hand and crooked two fingers in an unmistakable challenge.
The stands erupted.
The roar hit like a physical wave—cheers, shouts, gasps, curses, all crashing together.
Nobles were on their feet.
Commoners were screaming themselves hoarse.
The sound rolled across the field and shook the banners.
Gavin felt alive in a way he never had before.
Tired, yes—his arms burned and his lungs worked like bellows—but the exhaustion only made the power inside him sharper.
The master swordsmanship the panel had given him had finally clicked into something real, something his body understood in its bones.
No one answered his challenge.
He smiled, a small, cold curve of the mouth, and charged again.
The first team that tried to stand their ground went down fast.
After that the rest broke.
Men threw down weapons and ran for the barriers.
Others dropped to their knees and yelled surrender the moment Gavin turned toward them.
In less than a minute the field was empty except for one silver-haired youth standing among the dead and the discarded arms.
Only Gavin remained.
— In the days that followed, Ser Emond threw three separate feasts in Gavin’s honor.
Every one of them revolved around the same young man.
Emond showed no sign of slowing down.
He had already sent servants out to buy more wine and meat for a fourth celebration.
Gavin was done with it.
After the usual round of polite toasts and forced smiles, he let his eyes glaze over, mumbled something about too much wine, and slipped out while Emond was busy laughing with a group of Reach lords.
Tommen was waiting outside with a quiet grin and led him straight through the camp.
They stopped at a large, plain tent flying no banners.
Inside, the betting syndicate’s steward was already sweating.
“My lord,” the man said, voice tight, “we can pay you one hundred and ten thousand gold dragons in cash right now.
The remaining forty thousand we’ll have in ten days.
The guild doesn’t keep that much coin sitting in the Reach at once.
If you prefer, we can give you goods of equal value as collateral until the balance is ready.
We’ll also add two thousand gold dragons as compensation for the delay.” The steward kept his head bowed.
His hands twisted together.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip.
He had watched the melee from the stands.
The memory of Gavin moving through armed men like they were children still made his stomach twist.
Gavin studied him for a long moment, frowning slightly.
The man looked terrified but not dishonest.
After a few seconds Gavin gave a short nod.
The steward let out a shaky breath.
“Thank you, my lord.
Our house has run wagers across Westeros for more than two hundred years.
Even the Iron Bank holds a share.
Your coin is safe.
And if there’s anything else you ever need—goods, contacts, information—we can arrange it.
Anything at all.” Gavin’s mind turned to the list he had been carrying in his head for weeks.
He met the man’s eyes.
“I’ll wait the ten days,” he said.
“But I need certain materials bought immediately.
Can your people handle that?” The steward straightened at once, eager to please.
“Of course, my lord.
Whatever you require.” Gavin took the offered parchment and pen.
He wrote quickly, listing every herb, mineral, and alchemical compound needed for the Blood Puppet ritual.
When he finished he slid the page across the table.
The steward read it, eyes widening slightly at the length and the rarity of some items.
He looked up.
“We can gather everything within a day or two.
The total would normally run around twelve hundred gold dragons, but…” He swallowed.
“Given the circumstances, and as thanks for your patience, I can offer it to you for one thousand gold dragons per complete set.” Gavin held his gaze for a moment, then gave another short nod.
“Done.”