“Get up!” Lysa Arryn’s scream cut across the hall like glass dragged over slate.
“Ser Vardis, I command you—get up and kill him!” Vardis braced on his shield.
The muscles of his good leg bunched hard beneath the plate.
Teeth clenched, he forced the wounded knee off the marble.
Blood seeped through the torn chainmail in a thin dark line, but the old knight refused to yield.
He roared and lunged, dragging the injured leg, longsword whistling down in a furious arc.
Nero caught the blow on his own blade, the impact lighting fresh fire through his already torn hand.
Instinct from the Wandering Swordsmanship carried him left and inside.
Vardis tried to turn, but the ruined knee cost him half a heartbeat.
Nero’s point struck like a snake for the armpit.
Chainmail burst.
The tip sank half an inch into flesh.
Vardis did not retreat.
He drove forward onto the steel, clamped his right arm shut, and locked the longsword tight against the heavy pauldron.
In the same motion the kite shield came around like a battering ram.
The rim smashed into Nero’s ribs with a wet crack of bone.
He flew.
Marble met his back hard.
The longsword spun from nerveless fingers and skittered more than three meters away.
Vardis had nothing left either.
Blood from armpit and knee painted half his armor.
He collapsed to one knee in a spreading pool, propped only by his sword, chest heaving.
Both men were broken.
Neither could finish it.
Robert Arryn shrieked with laughter, a string of spit swinging from his lip.
“He’s down!
Mother!
He’s down!” “Now!” Lysa hiked her skirts and rushed down three steps from the throne, finger stabbing at the unarmed man on the floor.
“Anyone!
Get in there and kill him while you still can!” The words rang clear under the dome.
No one moved.
The knights of the Vale stood rigid.
They despised sellswords, yes—but more than that, they were men who still measured themselves by chivalry and honor.
Trial by combat was a sacred contract of one man against one man, witnessed by the Seven.
To swarm a fallen opponent was the work of cutthroats and thieves.
Many lowered their eyes.
Hands stayed clasped behind backs, as if the hilts of their own swords had turned red-hot.
Even Vardis looked up at his lady in open disbelief.
“I command you!” Lysa’s voice climbed into pure hysteria.
“Ser Rouss Thorne!
Your father is my husband’s vassal!
Draw your sword and slaughter him this instant!” The young knight’s face went purple.
Honor on one side, his liege’s direct order on the other.
His lips trembled.
In the end the oath of fealty won.
Steel rang free.
The sound was harsh, almost ashamed, in the sudden quiet of the hall.
Nero clutched his broken ribs and tried to rise.
Pain blurred the world.
His fingertips still lay two steps short of the fallen sword.
“Enough!
This trial is over!” Tyrion stepped out from behind the pillar.
“This is murder.
And blasphemy against the Seven.” Rouss took one hard step forward— A cold line of steel kissed the soft leather under his chin.
Bronn stood there as if he had simply appeared, the tip of his sword resting precisely against the gap in Rouss’s armor.
One more inch and it would open the throat.
The sellsword’s posture was almost lazy; his free hand rested in his belt.
“He said it’s over.” Bronn tilted his head.
The tone was the same one he used when ordering cheap ale.
Rouss froze.
Something very close to relief flickered behind his eyes.
“And who are you, base sellsword?” Lysa screamed.
Bronn lifted the point half an inch, just enough to press harder against the leather.
“The Imp said it’s over.” “My lady.” Vardis’s voice was weak but still carried dignity.
With his squire’s help the captain of the guard forced himself upright.
“He is right.
Ser Rouss has no place in these lists.” Vardis looked once around the hall.
The shame-faced knights of the Vale could not meet his gaze.
“This trial has been tainted.” He sheathed his longsword with a heavy, final motion.
“I will not continue under such dishonor.” He turned to Nero and gave a short, stiff nod.
“You are a better swordsman than you look, sellsword.
May the Seven watch over you.” Then he limped from the field on his squire’s arm.
“Cowards!
Every last one of you!” Lysa shook with rage.
She stabbed a finger at Nero.
“You have no honor!
You only scuttle like a rat and never face a true fight!” Bronn spun his sword once and sheathed it.
He jerked a thumb toward the retreating, ashen-faced Rouss.
“True enough,” he said, mouth curling.
“But he does.” Rouss’s face went the color of old parchment.
He said nothing and melted back into the crowd.
Tyrion crossed the floor on short legs, picked up Nero’s sword, wiped the blood on his sleeve, and held it out.
“Take it.
Don’t give these lunatics another excuse to change their minds.” Nero took the blade.
Broken ribs pulsed with every breath, but his eyes stayed clear.
“We can leave.” Tyrion nodded, then turned that familiar crafty smile on Bronn.
“Bronn.
Lady Catelyn will not be paying you for this work anymore.
House Lannister pays better—and the ale is free for life.
Interested in a new employer?” Bronn rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted.
“You should have named that price earlier, Imp.” They were turning toward the doors when the boy on the throne spoke around his thumb.
“Mommy, is it over?” “Yes,” Lysa said sullenly.
“Can I make the little bad man fly now?” Robert pointed eagerly at the open Moon Door.
Tyrion brushed dust from his sleeves and stood as straight as his stature allowed.
“It will not be this little bad man who flies.
This little bad man intends to take the basket down the mountain with Bronn and our new swordsman.
Thank you for the hospitality.” Lysa laughed, a short, ugly sound.
“You think—” “I thought House Arryn still remembered its words.” Tyrion’s voice dripped mockery.
“‘As High as Honor.'” “You promised I could make him fly!” the Lord of the Eyrie screamed at his mother, then began to twitch and thrash on the throne.
Lysa’s face flooded crimson.
“Child, the gods have judged this man innocent.
We have no choice but to let him go!” She spun and raised her voice to the entire hall.
“Guards!
Take the Lannister lord and his… two knights.
Escort them to the Bloody Gate and set them free.
Return their weapons and baggage.
Give them horses and provisions enough to reach the Trident.” A small, spiteful smile touched her mouth.
“They will find the mountain road… necessary.” Catelyn Stark understood at once.
The Mountains of the Moon crawled with clans that would cut a man’s throat for his boots.
This was simply another way to kill them.
Tyrion knew it too.
He only bowed with exaggerated politeness.
“As you command, my lady.
We know the way.” The three of them turned and walked toward the exit.
The knights of the Vale parted in silence, like the Red Sea.
No spears barred the path.
No voices challenged them.
Some looked away in shame at their lady’s conduct and kept their eyes on the floor.
Nero did not look back.
He crossed the threshold of the High Hall one careful step at a time, broken ribs grinding with every breath.
The moment his iron-shod boot touched the drawbridge outside, the mechanical voice returned—louder this time, like a bell struck against the inside of his skull.
[Ding.
Current scene decision task completed.] [Host has survived and made a name.
System core logic fully unlocked.] [Select your growth path immediately.
Once chosen, the path cannot be altered.] [Route One: Sellsword] Take the gold.
Do the job.
Never go soft.
Initial reward: 5 gold dragons.
[Basic Horsemanship].
[Route Two: Knight] Protect the weak.
Punish the wicked.
Uphold the code.
Initial reward: [Lesser Constitution Reshaping] — immediately heals all current fractures and external injuries.
Nero’s stride checked for half a second.
Every breath still felt like swallowing broken glass.
The Knight path’s reward was the only one that mattered right now.
And some stubborn remnant of the modern mind he had brought with him still flinched from the pure sellsword’s creed.
He made the choice without further thought.
“Two.” [Route Two locked.
Knight System activated.] [[Lesser Constitution Reshaping] granted.] Warmth flooded his chest.
The cracked ribs knitted with a faint, crawling itch.
The bruises on his left arm faded as though they had never been.
He exhaled a long, shaky breath and felt the steel leave his nerves.
[Ding.
Personal panel updated.] [Basic Panel] Name: Nero Status: Healthy (Lesser Constitution Reshaping complete) [Attributes] (Average adult male of Westeros = 10) Strength: 14 | Agility: 13 | Constitution: 15 | Intelligence: 16 Charisma: 10 (Evaluation: Mediocre) Current Honor: 10 / 100 (Note: Original host carried a notorious reputation.
Host is in extreme danger.
Honor reaching zero will trigger system penalty.) Activated Entry: [Wandering Swordsmanship (Proficient)] Nero followed Tyrion into the biting wind and squinted against the cold.
The system had been generous.
Instant healing, clean numbers, nothing flowery.
Intelligence 16 made sense—drop a modern education into the middle ages and the gap was inevitable.
Strength and Constitution were respectable enough for a body that had lived by the sword.
Only the Charisma line made his eye twitch.
This face was his own, rebuilt one-to-one from the life he had left behind.
The system had simply rewritten local memory so that everyone accepted it without question.
“This system’s taste,” he thought darkly, “must have been ruined by too many silver-haired Targaryens.” Still, the panel was clear.
Kill things, gain skills.
Kill men, gain entries.
Straightforward.
Only the Honor bar at the bottom made him frown.
What the hell was that for?