Chapter 9:
On the edge of Flea Bottom in King's Landing stood an abandoned blacksmith shop.
The place had already been thoroughly cleaned by the Shadow Guards. The perimeter was under strict surveillance — not even a fly could get in.
The furnace roared fiercely, the heat so intense it was suffocating.
In this era, ordinary blacksmiths could only rely on experience to judge temperature, resulting in armor that was often thick, heavy, and brittle. But Victor was different.
At this moment, he was shirtless, sweat sliding down his well-defined muscles and gleaming with a bronze luster under the firelight. He gripped a heavy iron hammer, each swing carrying a sharp whistling sound.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The rhythmic hammering sounded like war drums.
Guided by the Primary Steelmaking Technique, Victor was performing "stir-frying steel" and quenching processes that this era could not comprehend.
Desulfurization, dephosphorization, precise carbon content control…
Lumps of crude iron full of impurities were transformed in his hands into shiny, mirror-like high-carbon steel.
"This… is true steel."
Old steward Morsen stood at a distance, holding a jug of water, his eyes wide as copper bells. Though he didn't understand the technique, he could clearly see that the metal plates his young master forged were thinner and lighter than the white armor worn by the Kingsguard, yet so hard that even a dagger left no mark.
Three hours later.
As the final heart-guard plate cooled, a full suit of pitch-black plate armor with dark gold trim stood silently on the rack.
This was not the bulky, stiff-jointed plate armor common in Westeros.
It was a pinnacle design inspired by later-era Milanese full plate — the streamlined breastplate could deflect direct lance thrusts, the precisely articulated joints ensured absolute flexibility, and the fully enclosed helmet left only a T-shaped vision slit, like the gaze of the Grim Reaper.
Victor put on the armor and moved his limbs.
There was no feeling of heaviness.
Thanks to the lightweight high-strength steel and his system-enhanced body, the armor felt almost weightless on him.
[Ding! Congratulations, host, on forging your first "transcendent-era" equipment!] [Item Name: Black Griffon's Fury (Superior Quality)] [Attributes: Physical Defense 80, Durability MAX, Joint Flexibility 30%.] [Special Effect: When facing ordinary iron weapons, there is a 50% chance to directly shatter the opponent's weapon!]
"The Mountain?"
Victor looked at his reflection in the mirror — a black steel demon god — and let out a cold laugh through the visor. "I hope that thick iron shell of yours can withstand my lance."
Equipment ready. Next — it was time to make money.
…
Silk Street, the best brothel in King's Landing and the city's largest money pit.
Even though it was daytime, the place was still filled with singing and dancing. The air reeked of cheap makeup and raw desire.
Victor had changed back into luxurious civilian clothes and strode in boldly with two Shadow Guards. This time, he wasn't here for women — he was here for the man behind the scenes.
In a private room on the second floor.
"Well, well, a rare guest."
Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger) sat behind a desk piled high with ledgers, toying with a gold dragon. The moment he saw Victor enter, his grey-green eyes narrowed into slits. "Baron Pompey, I hear you've become quite the favorite in the Red Keep lately. Even that 'Conquest' perfume has gone viral in the palace."
Littlefinger's information network was indeed impressive.
"You flatter me, Lord Baelish."
Victor didn't stand on ceremony. He sat directly opposite him and casually tossed a heavy pouch onto the table.
Clink!
The bag opened, revealing a dazzling pile of gold dragons. A full one thousand coins! This was the startup capital from the system — and currently Victor's entire fortune.
Littlefinger raised an eyebrow, his greedy gaze sweeping over the coins. "What does the baron mean by this? Want to buy my top girl? A thousand gold dragons is indeed a huge sum, but…"
"No."
Victor leaned forward, hands clasped under his chin, his eyes sharp as blades. "I hear you're running betting pools for the upcoming tourney. I'd like to place a wager."
"Oh?" Littlefinger's interest was piqued. "Who are you betting on? The Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell? The Kingslayer Jaime Lannister? Or that invincible monster, the Mountain?"
"I'm betting on…"
Victor pointed a finger at himself. "Victor Pompey."
Littlefinger froze.
Then he burst into a low, contemptuous laugh, his shoulders shaking.
"Baron Pompey, since it's just the two of us in this room, I won't waste time with pleasantries." Littlefinger wiped away tears of laughter. "I know you have some impressive guards, but a joust is a knight's battlefield. You? Forgive my bluntness — your odds on the betting board are 1 to 50. Because no one believes you can even survive the first round."
1 to 50.
That meant if Victor won, these 1,000 gold dragons would turn into 50,000!
Fifty thousand gold dragons was enough to buy a medium-sized mercenary company or allow House Pompey to live luxuriously for ten years.
"Since the odds are so high, I want to bet even more."
Victor's eyes remained firm, showing no hesitation. "What's wrong? Does the man known as the 'Littlefinger' with the golden touch not dare to take this wager?"
A provocation.
It was crude, but it worked perfectly on Littlefinger. In his eyes, this was simply someone rushing to hand over money. A fallen minor noble — what made him think he could beat the Mountain? Or Jaime?
"I'll take it!
Why wouldn't I?"
Littlefinger quickly dropped his smile and regained his sharp merchant's demeanor. He swiftly wrote up a contract and stamped it with his personal seal. "Since the baron wishes to do me a favor and fund my business, I'd be a fool to refuse. Bet on Victor Pompey to win the tourney championship. One thousand gold dragons at 1 to 50 odds."
"If I lose, the money is yours."
Victor pocketed the contract and stood up. At the doorway, he suddenly paused, turned back, and gave a meaningful smile.
"But if I win… Lord Baelish, I hope your coffers will have enough ready coin. I don't accept IOUs."
With that, Victor strode out.
Watching Victor's departing figure, the smile on Littlefinger's face gradually faded, replaced by a trace of doubt.
That confidence… felt too real.
Could this fallen noble actually have some hidden trump card?
"Hmph, bluffing." Littlefinger shook his head and swept the bag of gold into his drawer. "On the tourney field, it's not words that win — it's steel. When the Mountain spills your guts, this money will be mine."
…
After leaving the brothel, Victor did not head straight home.
Following the system's guidance, he arrived at a dark corner of the slums.
[Ding! Special talent detected wandering the streets!] [Target: Bronn.] [Occupation: Wandering Mercenary / Top-tier Swordsman.] [Current Status: Broke and planning to try his luck at the tourney.]
Victor looked at the black-haired man leaning against the wall, casually peeling an apple with a broken dagger.
This was the man who would later be hired by Tyrion, rise to become a knight of the Blackwater, and even Master of Coin — the "strongest sellsword."
Right now, he was masterless.
"Hey."
Victor tossed a gold dragon.
The coin drew a golden arc through the air and landed precisely in the mercenary's lap.
Bronn didn't even raise his head. With a casual backhand grab, the coin was in his palm. He looked up, his eyes wary yet lazy. "Who do you want killed? Or bodyguard work? Just so we're clear — I don't do suicide missions."
"Be my sparring partner."
Victor looked at the future legendary mercenary. "Until the tourney ends. This coin is the deposit. Do a good job, and you'll get one every day."
Bronn bit the coin to check its authenticity, then grinned, revealing uneven teeth.
"One gold dragon a day? Boss, you're a generous man. As long as you don't ask me to slay a dragon, this sword is yours."
Victor smiled.
With Bronn as his sparring partner and the system's enhancements, his real combat experience would improve dramatically within this week.
Everything was ready.
All that remained was the east wind.
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