“Get up!” Lysa Arryn’s shriek sliced through the hall from the high seat, so sharp it sounded like glass scraping across stone.
“Ser Vardis, I command you to get up!
Kill him!” Vardis braced himself against his shield, his right thigh muscles bunched hard beneath his plate armor.
Gritting his teeth, he forced his left knee off the marble floor.
Blood trickled from a tear in his mail, running down his faulds in a thin line, but he did not yield.
The old knight let out a bellow and lunged forward, dragging his injured leg, his broadsword coming down in a furious diagonal slash.
Soren fought through the agonizing tear in the web of his hand, parrying Vardis’s blade outward.
Driven by the instincts of his Wandering Swordplay, he sidestepped to the left, closing the distance.
Vardis tried to pivot, but his bad leg made him half a beat too slow.
Soren’s sword tip thrust like a pit viper toward the old knight’s armpit.
*Chih!* Mail gave way, and the point bit half an inch into flesh.
But Vardis was a true beast.
Instead of retreating, he clamped his right arm down against the incoming blade, locking Soren’s sword tight against his heavy pauldrons.
In the next instant, his heavy kite shield slammed around like a battering ram.
*Bang!* The steel rim struck Soren’s ribs with crushing force.
With a sickening crack of splintering bone, Soren was knocked off his feet, crashing heavily onto the cold marble.
His sword flew from his grip, skidding ten feet away.
Vardis, too, had exhausted his last reserve of strength.
Blood from his armpit and knee drenched half his armor.
He collapsed with a heavy clatter, dropping to one knee in a pool of blood, leaning heavily on his sword, his chest heaving violently.
A double defeat.
Both men were pushed to the absolute brink of exhaustion.
Neither had the strength left to strike a fatal blow.
Robert Arryn giggled shrilly, a long string of drool trailing from his mouth.
“He fell!
Mommy!
He fell!” “Now!” Lysa gathered her long skirts and rushed down three steps from her seat, pointing a shaking finger at the unarmed, fallen Soren.
“Anyone!
Go on!
Kill him now while he’s down!” Her words rang out clearly beneath the high vaulted ceiling of the High Hall.
But the hall remained deathly silent.
…
On the right side of the hall, not a single knight of the Vale so much as twitched.
They were proud men who looked down on mercenaries, but they were Valemen above all—men who held chivalry and honor dearer than life itself.
Trial by combat was a sacred rite, a matter of life and death between two opponents, solemnized under the eyes of the Seven.
To strike down a helpless man, to jump him in a pack?
That was the work of thieves and cutthroats.
Many knights hung their heads in shame.
They kept their hands tucked behind their backs, as if touching their sword hilts would scorch them like hot irons.
Even Vardis stared in disbelief from behind his visor, looking up at his lady.
“I command you!” Lysa’s shrieks dissolved into pure hysteria.
“Ser Russell Thorne!
Your father was my lord husband’s vassal!
Go up there and gut him now!” The young knight so called turned a mottled, flushed red.
Knightly honor stood on his left; his liege’s strict command pressed from his right.
His lips trembled until, at last, the weight of his oath of fealty crushed his resolve.
*Schwing—* He drew his sword.
The ringing steel rasped through the hall, painfully harsh and tainted with a sickening tang of dishonor.
Soren clutched his broken ribs and tried to push himself up, his vision blurring from the intense pain.
His fingertips were still two paces short of his fallen hilt.
“Enough!
This trial is finished!” Tyrion stepped forcefully out from beside a stone pillar.
“This is murder, and worse, a blasphemy against the Seven!” Russel gritted his teeth and took a step forward— —only for a flash of cold steel to cut across his path.
Bronn.
The shaggy-haired sellsword held the point of his blade squarely against Russel’s throat, just half an inch from piercing the leather beneath his visor.
Bronn stood in a lounging, easy posture, his other hand hitched lazily into his belt.
“He said it’s finished,” Bronn said, cocking his head, his tone as flat as if he were ordering a tankard of sour ale in a tavern.
Russel froze, a flicker of deeply hidden relief darting across his eyes.
“And who are you, you filthy sellsword?” Lysa shrieked.
“I said,” Bronn shifted the blade up half an inch, nudging right into the gap in the gorget leather, “the dwarf says it’s finished.” His voice remained completely deadpan, casual as a tavern request for another round.
“My lady.” Ser Vardis Egen’s voice, raspy yet filled with quiet authority, broke through the scene.
The Captain of the Guard gritted his teeth and pushed himself upright with the help of his squire.
“He speaks true.
Ser Russell had no place entering this yard.” Vardis looked around the hall, and the ashamed knights of the Vale averted their gazes.
“This trial by combat has been defiled.” The old knight slammed his sword back into its scabbard, his movements stiff with humiliation.
“I refuse to go on fighting under such dishonorable terms.” He turned to Soren and gave a brief nod.
“You are a good swordsman, sellsword.
Far better than you look.
May the Seven preserve you.” With that, he limped off, leaning heavily on his squire.
“Cowards!
You are all cowards!” Shaking with rage, Lysa Arryn jabbed her finger at Soren and screamed in fury, “You have no honor, no courage!
You dodged like a rat!
You didn’t dare face him head-on!” Bronn lowered his blade and gave it a lazy twirl.
He turned his head and jerked his thumb toward Ser Russell, who was slinking back into the crowd.
“Aye,” Bronn smirked, a mocking sneer curling his lip.
“But he does.” Russel turned pale as slate, unable to utter a word of defense, and slunk sheepishly into the ranks.
Tyrion waddled forward on his short legs, picked up Soren’s fallen sword, wiped the blood from the steel, and offered it back.
“Hold onto it.
Don’t give these lunatics an excuse to change their minds.” “We can go now.” Soren took the sword.
His broken ribs throbbed with dull pain, but his eyes were sharp and focused.
Tyrion nodded.
Then he turned, his gaze settling familiarly onto Bronn.
“Bronn,” Tyrion raised an eyebrow, wearing his signature sly grin.
“Lady Catelyn isn’t likely to pay out your wages for this trip.
Lannister gold pays better, and it comes with free wine for life.
What do you say—care to switch employers?” Bronn rolled his eyes and sheathed his sword with a clean click, though his lips twitched into a grin.
“You should’ve led with that offer, dwarf.” Just as the three turned to leave, the thumb-sucking boy on the high seat finally spoke up.
“Mommy, is it over?” asked the Lord of the Eyrie.
“Yes,” Lysa said sourly.
“Can I make the bad man fly now?” Robert Arryn pointed excitedly toward the Moon Door.
Tyrion brushed the dust off his coat and straightened up.
“Well, this bad man won’t be flying.
This bad man intends to take the winches down the mountain with Bronn and our swordsman here, with my thanks for your hospitality.” “You think—” Lysa laughed in venomous fury.
“I thought House Arryn remembered its words,” the Imp said, staring at her with unabashed mockery.
“‘As High as Honor.'” “You promised I could make him fly!” the Lord of the Eyrie squealed at his mother, beginning to twitch and tremble in his seat.
Lady Lysa’s face burned crimson.
“Sweetling, the gods above have declared this man innocent!
We have no choice but to let him go!” She whipped around and raised her voice to order the room: “Guards!
Escort the Lannister lord and his…
two ‘sires’ away!
Escort them to the Bloody Gate and grant them their freedom.
Return all their belongings and arms, and supply them with enough horses and provisions to reach the Trident.” A faint, spiteful smirk touched the corner of Lysa’s lips.
“Taking the high road through the mountains, they’ll surely have need of such gear.” *The high road?* Beside her, Catelyn Stark suddenly understood.
The Mountains of the Moon swarmed with murderous mountain clan Wildlings.
This was nothing less than a death sentence in disguise!
Tyrion Lannister surely realized it as well.
Yet the little dwarf merely bowed to Lysa Arryn with exaggerated politeness.
“As you command, my lady,” he said.
“We know the way.” The three turned together and strode toward the exit of the High Hall.
The knights of the Vale standing in their path parted silently, like the Red Sea.
No halberds blocked their path, no harsh words challenged them.
Ashamed by their liege lady’s outburst, some turned their faces away and hung their heads.
Soren did not look back.
Enduring the stabbing pain of his fractured ribs, he crossed the threshold of the High Hall step by step.
The moment his steel-shod boot stepped onto the drawbridge outside, the long-dormant mechanical prompt rang in his mind once again.
This time, it struck like a heavy bell echoing directly against his nerves.
[Ding!
Current scenario decision task completed.] [Host detected to have survived and achieved renown.
System base logic unfreezing.] [Please select a path of development immediately (Note: Once selected, this choice cannot be altered):] [Path 1: Mercenary] [Work for coin, never show mercy.] [Initial Reward: 5 Gold Dragons, “Basic Riding”.] [Path 2: Knight] [Protect the weak, punish evil, promote good.] [Initial Reward: “Lesser Physique Reconstruction” (Instantly cures all current fractures and external injuries).] Soren’s footing paused almost imperceptibly.
The intense pain in his ribcage made every breath feel like swallowing glass.
Glancing at the panel, the initial reward for the Knight path clearly fit his immediate needs much better.
Besides, as a modern man who had received higher education in a civilized society, he instinctively repelled the idea of becoming a cold-blooded killer without moral boundaries.
Soren’s brain throbbed with pain; he gave it hardly a second thought.
*Option two,* he declared mentally.
[Path 2 locked.
Knight System formally activated.] [“Lesser Physique Reconstruction” distributed.] A rush of warm energy burst through his chest.
A faint tingling sensation spread through his broken ribs as the sharp pain receded like a tide, leaving even the deep bruising on his left arm gone without a trace.
Soren let out a long, slow breath, the tension unwinding from his nerves.
[Ding!
Your personal character panel has been updated.] [Basic Panel] Name: Soren Status: Healthy (Lesser Physique Reconstruction Completed) [Basic Attributes] (Note: Average standard value for an adult male in Westeros is 10) Strength: 14 | Agility: 13 | Constitution: 15 | Intelligence: 16 Charisma: 10 (Evaluation: Unremarkable) Current Honor Points: 10/100 (Note: Original host possessed a foul reputation; currently in a critical state.
Honor dropping to 0 will trigger system penalty.) Activated Traits: “Wandering Swordplay (Proficient)” Now walking behind Tyrion into the biting mountain wind, Soren narrowed his eyes contentedly.
He felt the system was decent enough.
A big heal right off the bat—it didn’t just mend his ribs, but laid out his stats clearly too.
Intelligence 16 made perfect sense.
Dropping a modern, higher-educated mind into a medieval setting meant intellectual superiority was standard procedure.
His Strength and Constitution stats were fair and reasonable.
Only when he saw “Charisma: 10” and the evaluation “Unremarkable” did Soren’s eyelids twitch violently.
This body had clearly been reconstructed 1:1 based on his original appearance before death.
The system had merely altered the baseline memory of Westerosi people so everyone subconsciously accepted the presence of his face.
*This garbage system’s aesthetic standard has definitely been poisoned by Targaryen silver hair!* Soren grumbled inwardly.
Still, the panel was clean and direct: defeating enemies to gain skills, killing to rack up traits—everything was transparent.
However, that “Honor Points” bar at the bottom made his brow furrow slightly.
What exactly was this used for?
Soren wondered.