Bronn pressed his lips together and cursed violently in his mind.
*You’re the bloody dog.* Tyrion opened his mouth to argue.
“Enough!” Tywin’s voice boomed suddenly, the terrifying pressure belonging to the Warden of the West instantly filling the tent.
“He stays here!
That is a military order.
Say another word, Tyrion, and you can go push mules in the logistics battalion with him!” Tyrion bit his tongue hard, not daring to speak again.
Soren kept his head lowered, hiding his sharply constricted pupils.
He suddenly realized that his subtle hint—intended to help both himself and Tyrion climb higher—had instead turned into deadly poison against himself!
Too clever for his own good.
What a ruthless old lion.
Tywin had seen right through Soren as a potential threat.
He would never allow an uncontrolled, overly clever man to accompany his son to the center of power.
Keeping Soren in the Riverlands as a patrol commander?
That wasn’t just a demotion disguised as a promotion—it was a death sentence!
Earlier on the battlefield, Soren had offended House Crakehall and snubbed the quartermaster.
Once Tyrion left, Soren, stripped of his protective umbrella, wouldn’t survive a month among this twenty-thousand-strong army of Westerlands nobles.
He would be assigned the most dangerous supply transport missions, only to die “accidentally” under the arrows of Northern rangers or by the hidden blades of Westerlands knights.
He had to escape this quagmire.
He had to get to King’s Landing.
Soren’s mind raced, searching for leverage to break the deadlock.
Tywin intended to use the meat grinder of the Riverlands to legitimately grind this “overly clever liability” into blood and mud.
He had to escape this quagmire.
He had to reach King’s Landing.
Yet Soren didn’t dare say another word.
At least, not right now.
Soren slowly sank to one knee.
“As you command, my Lord.” His voice was steady, without a single ripple of emotion.
The moment he stepped out of the main tent, the night wind cut through him.
Only then did Soren realize that the coarse linen shirt against his back was completely soaked in cold sweat.
The internal injury in his chest from the Northern knight’s shield, along with the reopened laceration on his shoulder, throbbed with dull pain in the cold wind.
Bronn patted his shoulder, a rare trace of sympathy in his eyes.
“I told you, don’t show off your brains in front of the old lion.
Brother, being a patrol commander in the Riverlands…
dealing with moldy wheat and raiding deserters every day, I wish you a long life.” Tyrion stood in the wind, his face filled with guilt and helplessness.
“Soren, I…
I’ll find a way to issue a transfer order for you once I get a handle on the situation in King’s Landing…” “My Lord, get some rest early.
The road to King’s Landing tomorrow won’t be easy.” Soren interrupted him calmly, looking up into the pitch-black night sky.
He was trapped dead in this graveyard.
To his left were Westerlands nobles who might backstab him at any moment; to his right were elusive Northern forces.
His weak physical foundation had already caused him immense suffering during the brutal fight earlier today.
Right then, the cold electronic voice rang out in his mind, as if placing a final seal on this game of power and flesh: [Ding!
Phase Target Two: “Father Lion’s Chessboard” — Calculating…] [Target 1: Preserve the core fighting force of Tyrion and the Mountain Clans.] [Evaluation: Partial Success.] [Tyrion Lannister survived.
Core leaders of the mountain clans survived; force remains intact.] [However, the mountain clans’ structure has been forcibly stripped by Tywin Lannister.
Host and Tyrion’s actual influence over this force has significantly decreased.] [Target 2: Obtain substantial independent troop command status in the Lannister army.] [Evaluation: Failed.] [Host obtained nominal command of the “First Supply Patrol Battalion,” but this position is evaluated as a high-risk isolated post without stable military power gains, facing the risk of purge at any time.] [Overall Rating: Flawed Victory.] [System Comment: You saved the piece, but failed to save the board.] [Settlement Reward: Honor +10.
Current Honor: 17/100.] [Ding!
Detected Honor breaking through 10 points again.] [Low-tier White Card Selection unlocked.] [Please select a temporary White Card.
Validity: 10 days.] [A: Weapon Card ‘Balanced Short Staff (White)’: Obtain a hardwood short staff with an exceptionally stable center of gravity.] [B: Skill Card ‘Basic Staff Technique (White)’: Master basic staff holding, parrying, sweeping, thrusting, and disarming movements.] [C: Skill Card ‘Ten-Breath Breath-Holding (White)’: Breath-holding stability improved.] Soren looked at the three choices and fell silent for a moment.
A short staff was good.
However, in a military camp, the last things lacking were wooden sticks, spear shafts, torches, and hardwood branches easily snapped off trees.
What was truly lacking was knowing how to use them.
Breath-holding was useful too.
Underwater, thick smoke, ambushes, hiding—any of those scenarios could save a life.
But the place he was going to now was the First Supply Patrol Battalion.
That wasn’t just a battlefield; it was a realm of quarterstaffs, wagon trains, torches, sentries, grooms, deserters, and night roads.
A sword was too conspicuous.
A staff, however, could appear anywhere without suspicion.
“Option B.” [Selected: Skill Card ‘Basic Staff Technique (White)’.] [Detected current trait slots are full.] [Currently equipped traits:] [1: Beast Vision (Elementary)] [2: Wandering Swordplay (Proficient)] [3: Black Blade Initiate (White)] [4: Intimidating Vocal Cords (White, remaining validity: 9 days)] [Please select a trait to replace.] Soren’s eyes lingered on the traits for a moment.
*Beast Vision* could not be moved.
*Wandering Swordplay* was his foundation for direct combat.
*Black Blade Initiate* had just saved his life at the Green Fork.
That left only *Intimidating Vocal Cords*.
This trait had helped him suppress Shagga, Timett, and the mountain clansmen when they were on the verge of going wild.
But now, the mountain clans had been stripped away by Tywin.
Moving forward, he would no longer face a band of hill tribesmen who reasoned with roars and axes, but rather Westerlands nobles, quartermasters, patrol guards, deserters, and hidden blades.
“Replace Intimidating Vocal Cords.” [Unequipped temporary trait: Intimidating Vocal Cords (White).] [Equipped temporary trait: Basic Staff Technique (White).] [Current trait slots: 4/4.] [Currently equipped traits:] [1: Beast Vision (Elementary)] [2: Wandering Swordplay (Proficient)] [3: Black Blade Initiate (White)] [4: Basic Staff Technique (White, remaining validity: 10 days)] Looking at the words “breaking through the 10-point safety threshold again,” a thought suddenly stirred in Soren’s mind.
*Wait.* If Honor fell below 10 points and then rose above 10 points again, could it trigger the Low-tier White Card selection once more?
Did that mean he could keep his Honor fluctuating between 9 and 10 points, repeatedly refreshing White Cards using quest rewards?
The thought lasted for only an instant, but it caused Soren’s breathing to quicken slightly.
This could be an exploit.
Or it could be a trap.
The system provided no explanation.
And the most terrifying aspect of this system was never what it said, but what it left unsaid.
Yet one thing was undeniable.
If Honor existed, it was meant to be spent.
Soren glanced down at his bandage-wrapped chest.
That shield blow on the Green Fork battlefield had nearly driven his ribs into his lungs.
Now he was heading to the First Supply Patrol Battalion, where he would face not only Northern rangers, but also hidden daggers sent by Westerlands nobles and quartermasters.
He couldn’t go in with a body that was on the verge of falling apart.
Soren issued an instruction in his mind: “Spend 8 Honor points to enhance Constitution and Strength.” [Consumed 8 Honor points.] [Strength: 18 → 20.] [Constitution: 15 → 21.] [Current Honor: 9/100.] [Injury Status Updated: Unhealed rib fracture, reduced chest shock; continuous high-intensity combat may still worsen injury.] A heavy, scalding surge of heat poured out from deep within his bone crevices.
Unlike the nerve-shredding agony of increasing Agility, or the icy sensation of red-hot needles piercing his skull when increasing Intelligence— This time, it felt as though someone had poured a pot of boiling molten iron into his chest, then forcibly hammered the fractured places back into alignment.
Soren let out a muffled groan, leaning against a nearby tent pole for support.
After a few breaths, he finally stood upright once more.
The pain remained.
However, breathing no longer felt like swallowing knives.
He looked at the panel reappearing on his retina.
[Current Personal Panel:] Strength: 20 Agility: 22 Intelligence: 23 Constitution: 21 (Unhealed rib fracture) Current Honor: 9/100 Current Traits: Beast Vision (Elementary) Wandering Swordplay (Proficient) Black Blade Initiate (White) Basic Staff Technique (White, Temporary) Soren stood in the cold wind, staring at the cold numbers.
His Honor had dropped back to the dangerous threshold once more.
Just one step away from crossing 10 points again.
Whether he could infinitely farm card draws, he didn’t know.
Regardless, the 8 Honor points hadn’t been wasted.
At the very least, he wouldn’t have his ribs shattered by a single kick during the very first assassination attempt.
The system’s line—”You saved the piece, but failed to save the board”—scraped against his aching chest like a sharp rasp.
He hadn’t secured a ticket to King’s Landing.
Nor had he truly grasped a military force of his own.
Yet there was no despair in the depths of Soren’s eyes.
Instead, a flash of wild madness flared up, born from being pushed to the absolute edge.
*Won’t let me walk out in the open light?* He slowly clenched his fists, wrapped in blood-soaked bandages.
*Fine.* *Then I’ll carve my own bloody path to King’s Landing.*