[June 24, 298 AC | Dusk | Mountain Trail below the Mountains of the Moon] After leaving the Eyrie, the icy wind sliced through the rock clefts like knives.
Soren led the way.
After his physique was reshaped, his body felt unfamiliar, almost weightlessly light.
Though a tear still gaped in the hem of his leather armor, the flesh beneath had fully healed.
Tyrion brought up the rear.
His short legs struggled terribly against the gravel path, leaving him gasping for air, but his tongue refused to stay still.
“In all my life,” Tyrion said, leaning against the rock face to wipe away a cold sweat, “I’ve met countless people who wanted to kill me, trick me out of my coin, or wag their tails like dogs just because my surname is Lannister.
But someone with no blood tie to me who risked his life to take a blade in my place?
You’re the first.” “If I said I did it for knighthood and honor, would you believe me?” Soren let out a soft chuckle.
Before Tyrion could reply, Soren added offhandedly, “Back at the inn at the foot of the mountain, when Lady Catelyn had her men point their swords at you, the sound of your purse hitting the floor was music to my ears.
‘A Lannister always pays his debts,’ right?
I gambled with my life, and I’d say the math checks out.” Tyrion froze for two seconds before letting out a hearty, low laugh from the back of his throat.
“By the gods, a calculating mercenary.
Bronn, did you hear that?
He sees me as an investment.” “I heard,” Bronn replied coldly.
“Sounds like a moneylender.
My kind of man.” The sky darkened rapidly as the three rounded a narrow mountain ridge.
Bronn suddenly raised a hand, pointing toward a dim yellow flicker in the valley below.
“It’s an Eyrie outpost down the path.
Three to five guards, most likely.” Bronn stroked the stubble on his chin like a wolf eyeing its prey.
“The mad bitch definitely sent pursuers after us.
We sneak down, slit the guards’ throats while it’s dark, and dump them on the trail.
The Wildlings in the mountains will smell blood and pounce.
That clears the obstacle ahead and bogs down our pursuers behind us.
Two birds with one stone.” Soren paused in his tracks.
Just as Bronn finished speaking, a cold, mechanical voice suddenly rang out in Soren’s mind: [Warning: Unrighteous act proposed (Deliberate murder of innocents).] [If the host participates or acquiesces, 5 Honor points will be deducted.] [Current Honor: 10/100.
If Honor drops below 0, immediate Obliteration by Law will be triggered!] Soren’s fingers tightened sharply.
This damn system didn’t even come with a manual when he chose his path!
The warning was crystal clear: so long as he partook in willful slaughter or betrayal, the Knight System would ruthlessly erase him from existence.
Seeing Bronn’s dagger already halfway out of its sheath, Soren felt his scalp go numb.
How was he supposed to stop a cold-blooded mercenary?
Talk to him about chivalric mercy and honor?
Bronn would think he was a complete idiot.
Soren’s mind raced, desperately trying to construct a cutthroat excuse that would appeal to a sellsword’s sensibilities in the shortest possible time.
“Wait,” Soren said, suddenly reaching out to grab Bronn’s wrist.
His grip was iron-firm, though a slight sheen of cold sweat coated his palm.
Bronn stopped and frowned, his eyes turning dangerous.
“What?
You were fast enough to fight for your life in the high hall, but now you’re too scared to cut a throat?” Tyrion cast a suspicious glance at him as well.
“I’m afraid of dying,” Soren said, staring straight into Bronn’s eyes as he forced down the tension in his chest.
“Bronn, you’re treating the Mountain Clans like wild dogs that only follow the scent of blood.” He released his hold, stepped half a pace closer, and delivered the logic he had just scrambled together: “The Mountain Clans aren’t stupid.
Once they strip the boots off dead men, they won’t hang around to fight fully armed Vale guards.
Instead, they’ll find three sets of fresh footprints leading away from the post.” Soren took another step forward.
“Do you think they’d rather pick a tough fight, or follow those tracks to hunt down three fat sheep without horses?” Bronn went silent.
He stared at Soren for a few seconds, quickly weighing the math in his head, and finally shrugged.
“You’re right.
Drawing a pack of savages with shiny new steel swords on our tail isn’t a bright idea.” [Ding!
Upheld moral boundary and rejected unrighteousness.
Honor +2.
Current Honor: 12/100.] Hearing the chime in his head, Soren lowered his eyes.
Hidden in the shadows where no one could see, he let out a quiet sigh of relief.
His back was drenched in cold sweat.
…
Night fell completely, and the temperature plummeted.
“We need a fire,” Tyrion said, shivering violently.
“It’s freezing here after dark.
Something hot would warm our bellies and lift our spirits.” “A fire?” Bronn spat.
“Are you eager to die, dwarf?
A fire will draw every Wildling within miles right to us.
Don’t blame me for not stopping to dig your grave when they do.
If you want to live, hide by day, move by night, keep quiet, and don’t build a damn fire!” Tyrion sighed.
“A splendid plan, Bronn.
Why don’t you try it by yourself?
If you want to stumble around in the dark, go ahead.
I’d rather walk slowly and comfortably.
No matter what we do, eyes in these mountains will spot us sooner or later.” “Doing that makes us as good as dead,” Bronn grunted, scowling.
“I can get meat, but first I ought to leave you and this pile of firewood right here.
If I take your horse too, my odds of escaping double.
What would you do then, Master Dwarf?” “Die, most likely,” Tyrion replied, bending down to pick up another branch.
“You think I wouldn’t?” “If your life depended on it, you wouldn’t hesitate for a second.
When your friend Chiggen took an arrow to the belly, weren’t you quick to put a knife through him?” Soren’s eyes flickered.
As a transmigrator familiar with the original book, he remembered that scene vividly—Bronn had yanked Chiggen back by the hair and driven a dagger straight through his ear, only to lie to Lady Catelyn Stark later that their mercenary companion had died of arrow wounds.
“He was going to die anyway,” Bronn said.
“Besides, he wouldn’t stop screaming and drawing enemies right to us.
If I’d been the one shot that day, Chiggen would’ve done the same to me.
He wasn’t a friend, just a travel companion.
Get one thing straight, dwarf: I kill for your coin, but that doesn’t mean I like you.” “I only need you to kill for me,” Tyrion said.
“I don’t require your affection.” He dropped the armful of wood onto the ground.
In the end, the three of them lit a small campfire inside a natural rock alcove.
Tyrion twirled a twig in his hand, his suspicious mismatched eyes suddenly locking onto Soren as he launched his probing.
“Soren of the Trident.
I’ve traveled all across the Seven Kingdoms, yet I’ve never heard of a noble house with such a surname.
Who dubbed you a knight?” “A hedge knight named Jory,” Soren replied without batting an eye, pulling from the original body’s memories.
“He tapped my shoulders with a broken sword right before he breathed his last.
Died of a gut wound, and wild dogs ate his corpse.
I’m just a nobody without a house name.
Soren is my only name.” It was a flawless answer.
Tyrion gave a faint smile and pressed no further; hedge knights covered in mud and blood were a dime a dozen across Westeros.
“Since we aren’t planning on having our throats cut by savages just yet,” Tyrion said, rubbing his hands together, “let’s talk about where we go next.
Past these mountains lie the Riverlands, where my father’s ‘Mountain’ is burning and plundering.
Our only way out is west, to my father’s army.” Tyrion looked between the two.
“Get me back alive, and you’ll be enlisted in my personal guard.
Soren as captain, Bronn as second-in-command.
Salaries drawn directly from my vault.” Bronn’s hands paused for a moment.
He raised an eyebrow and cast a glance at Soren.
He had watched Soren’s reckless, trading-blows swordplay in the high hall of the Eyrie, and clearly remained unimpressed by this “Captain’s” fighting capability.
However, he glanced at Tyrion’s coin purse, shrugged, and kept quiet.
Soren gazed into the flickering campfire, calculating in his mind.
Knowing the future, he was well aware that Tyrion was the biggest “thigh” he could cling to at the moment.
Though the Imp was disliked by his family, he was intelligent, wealthy, and relatively reasonable—ten thousand times better to deal with than the brutal Mountain or the treacherous Cersei.
Using Tyrion to gain status was his best stepping stone to surviving in this harsh world.
Furthermore, as a transmigrator, he understood the fatal risk of the butterfly effect.
Ned’s execution, the War of the Five Kings, the Red Wedding…
If he rushed to alter these main events, he would instantly lose his greatest advantage: foreknowledge.
He needed to feast off the beast of history without derailing its course.
While he was lost in thought, the howling wind suddenly carried a chilling sound of crunching chewing and dull metallic clashing.
Bronn immediately stamped out the embers.
All three fell instantly silent and crept to the edge of the ledge to look down.
In a small gully not far below, two bands of Wildlings—fewer than eight men in total—stood off against each other in the dark.
Three of them, their faces painted with war paint, were huddled around the upper half of a corpse dressed in merchant garb, feasting hungrily.
The other group, featuring notched or missing ears, brandished rusty axes in an attempt to snatch the merchant’s pack lying on the ground.
The sight of cannibalism turned Soren’s stomach upside down.
“Cannibal tribes fighting over scrap…” Tyrion whispered, disgust written across his face.
[Ding—] [System Notification: Trait possessor detected.
Core mechanism unlocked: Killing enemies possessing traits will unlock corresponding traits, skills, or upgrade identical traits.] Soren froze for a split second before realizing what this meant.
He tightened his grip on his longsword, locking his gaze onto the chieftain who was tearing into a human arm, mouth slick with blood.
Could it be him?
He urgently needed to test the system’s trait acquisition mechanism, and these were the ultimate “legitimate red-named mobs.” In his current state, taking them head-on was risky, but a stealth strike from behind was just right.
“Cover me.” Leaving behind those two words, Soren darted out of the cave like a hunting leopard.
Bronn’s eyes widened.
Just as he was about to curse him as a lunatic, Soren had already charged into the faint moonlight.
His reshaped physique completely discarded the sluggishness of the original body.
Under stealth conditions, his hedge-swordsman techniques demonstrated lethal efficiency.
Soren closed in silently.
His left hand jerked back hard on the Wildling chieftain’s mouth from behind, breaking his balance.
Simultaneously, his right hand thrust the longsword forward like a striking viper, plunging precisely into the carotid artery and skewering through the throat at an angle!
*Pfft!* Blood gushed out along the fuller of the blade.
It all happened in the blink of an eye.
Before either band of Wildlings could react, their strongest leader was already on the ground, twitching.
The moment the corpse hit the dirt, a crisp notification sounded in Soren’s head: [Killed cannibalistic Mountain Clan chieftain.
Meets criteria for ‘Punishing Evil and Promoting Good’.
Honor +2.
Current Honor: 14/100.] [Kill Looting triggered!
Extracted equippable trait: [Feral Vision (Basic)].] *Equip,* Soren commanded mentally.
Instantly, a faint electric current rushed through his nerves.
The swaying of surrounding leaves, the heaving chests of the Wildlings in the dark, and even the pre-movement twitches of their muscles became startlingly vivid within Soren’s heightened perception.
Stunned by this sudden god of slaughter, and with Bronn drawing his blade to join the fray, the remaining Wildlings lost all will to fight.
Screaming in terror, they abandoned the mutilated body and goods, scattering into the dark pine forest.
Soren flicked the drops of blood off his blade, his breathing steady.
Behind him, Bronn raised an eyebrow, the disdain in his eyes subtly fading.
The kid’s killing art at full strength was far cleaner than it had been back in the hall.
Tyrion waddled over on his short legs and nudged the Wildling corpse with his boot.
“The way you charged out just now didn’t look like a knight defending justice.
You looked more like a ravenous wolf.” Soren sheathed his sword, ignoring Tyrion’s probing as he looked down at the small dwarf.
“Tyrion, if you want to get back to the Westerlands alive, just the two of us won’t be enough.” “Do you have a better idea?” Soren turned to face the pitch-black depths of the Mountains of the Moon.
“We recruit them.”