I returned to my tent long after the crowds began drifting from the lists.
The cheering still echoed faintly in the distance, mixed with the calls of merchants closing their stalls and the clatter of horses being led to water. Egg had gone to fetch a food, leaving me a little quiet—and a little time to think.
In evening I would joust.
Not Aerion—thank the gods—but someone still worthy enough that a fool's mistake would see me on my back in the dirt. I could not rely on strength alone.
I sat on my cot and opened the System.
A faint shimmer spread before my eyes, letters forming as crisp as if carved into glass.
[ SYSTEM SHOP ]
Available Skills:
- Sword Mastery (Purchased)
- Jousting Mastery — 4 Gold Dragons
- Advanced Horsemanship — 3 Gold Dragons
I exhaled slowly.
Seven gold wasn't problem for me now, after advance payment of wine.
"Aye," I whispered. "I'll take them."
I selected both.
The coins vanished from my purse in an instant.
A new message appeared:
[ Skill infusion process will begin. ]
Description: Grants user instinctive proficiency with jousting. Integration will be painful.
The pain that tore through bone and sinew like fire given shape.
I stuffed a folded cloth into my mouth and lay back.
The world narrowed to a white hot line of agony.
My muscles tightened, every joint locking as though some invisible blacksmith hammered me, on his anvil.
I tasted blood from biting the cloth. My back arched. I could not move. Could not breathe.
I do not know how long it lasted. After painfully long time, Air rushed back into my lungs.
The pain subsided, leaving only the ache of what it destroyed.
I lay there panting.
But I could feel it:
My balance had shifted. My arms knew how to brace for impact. My legs felt the memory of riding long hours in the saddle.
The skills were mine.
I drank water slowly, my hands trembling. For a moment, I thought I was done.
But I wasn't.
I returned to the System.
- WARGING — 50 Gold Dragons
I stared.
Fifty gold,
I pressed my thumb against the rune.
[ Purchased: WARGING ]
[ Infusion beginning. Brace yourself. ]
There was no cloth to bite this time.
The pain was different.
Not flesh, but mind.
A sharp spike drove straight behind my eyes. My vision blurred, bent, shattered into fragments. I tried to breathe but breath was meaningless. The tent vanished. The cot vanished.
The world fell away, and only then. I opened my eyes.
But they were not mine,
I saw through the eyes of a sparrow perched atop the lists' railing, the field spread below like a great canvas of trampled grass. I felt the air through small wings.
Then I shifted.
I saw through the eyes of a hound tied beside a merchant's wagon, its world a flood of smells—meat, sweat, fear, leather, rain coming soon!?
Then I shifted again.
I fell.
Or flew.
Or tumbled through vision after vision, too fast to hold, too deep to understand all things around me.
A hundred lives, one heartbeat.
The world was enormous and alive and fucking beautiful, as absurdly it started it ended.
I woke on the floor of my tent.
My shirt was soaked with sweat. My throat felt raw, my fingers numb.
It was dark outside now. A lantern burned low.
A new message hovered faintly:
[ WARGING infusion complete. ]
I lay still for a long time.
Egg slipped inside a moment later, carrying a bowl of stew gone cold.
"Huh? What happened?" He asked.
…
At evening,
Before I left the tent, I opened the System Shop again.
No skill. The healing skill in the shop can only be used on others, so.
Potions.
- High Healing Potion — 100 Silver Stags (Regrows limbs, heals critical wounds)
- Intermediate Healing Potion — 50 Silver Stags (Heals serious wounds, stops bleeding)
I bought 10 high healing and 20 intermediate.
The bottles appeared neatly in a wooden chest at my bedside. Clear glass filled with shimmering liquid—golden-red for the high grade, soft blue-green for the mid.
I took them out from box and put the in inventory.
Then I equipped my armor.
My horse, Thunder, waited in the stable.
"Aye, lad," I murmured, stroking his neck. "Let's give them something to watch."
We rode toward the lists.
There where few clouds but otherwise sky was clear. The stands were half-full already—lords and smallfolk eager to see steel clash and wood splinter.
And there—already mounted—waited Ser Lyonel Baratheon.
The man was huge. Broad as a stable door. Thick arms, thick neck, a mountain of muscle wrapped in armor.
His helm carried a set of proud antlers. His lance rested in the crook of his elbow like it weighed no more than a feather.
He turned his horse when I approached. His voice carried easily across the space between us—deep, steady, and without mockery.
"I heard you defeated a Kingsguard," he said. "And when I heard, I went to the stewards and had the lists changed. I wanted you for my match."
"I've crossed lances with many knights," Lyonel continued, "but rarely with one I've not heard tales of. A man who rises from nowhere—now that interests me."
I felt my grip tighten on Thunder's reins.
"So I changed the order," he finished. "I wanted to exchange blows with you myself."
There was challenge in his words—but respect as well.
I lifted my visor so he could see my face. "I thank ye for the honor," I said. "And I'll give you my best."
His mouth pulled into a short, pleased grin.
"That's the only way worth fighting, lad."
"Don't underestimate me," he said—not threatening, simply truthful. "I hit hard, and I do not break easy."
I nodded.
We turned our horses, separating to our starting marks.
Thunder pawed at the dirt. My gauntlet rested steady on the reins. My other hand closed around the lance—solid ash wood, smooth, balanced.
Across the field, Lyonel lowered his visor.
I lowered mine.
The horn would sound soon.
My heart did not race.
My breath did not rush.
Everything had sharpened into a single, narrow road.
The charge.
That first thunder of hooves.
The crash of lance upon shield.
Across the lists, Lyonel Baratheon leveled his lance.
I lowered mine to match, same time it start raining, out of nowhere, but We didn't stop.
…