Chapter 11:
Night fell over King's Landing, and the lights of the Red Keep illuminated half the city.
To celebrate the day's tourney, King Robert held a grand feast in the Throne Room. Wine flowed like rivers, and the aroma of roasted boar filled the air.
But beneath the glittering surface, the rats in the sewers were already moving.
In the dark stables beside the tourney grounds.
A shadowy figure crept toward Victor's warhorse, "Black Wind." In his hand was a fine needle coated with poison. This was a stable hand bought off by Littlefinger with a hefty sum. A single deep stab into the horse's leg muscle would cause the animal to suddenly go berserk and collapse during tomorrow's high-speed charge.
At that point, the arrogant Baron Pompey would either be crushed to death under several hundred pounds of armor or cleaved in half by the Mountain's greatsword.
"Don't blame me. Blame yourself for blocking Lord Baelish's path to riches…"
The stable hand grinned viciously and raised the poisoned needle.
Schlick!
A very faint, muffled sound.
The stable hand froze. He looked down in horror and saw the tip of a black dagger protruding from his own chest. Blood dripped silently down the blood groove.
Behind him, a Shadow Guard emerged like a ghost from the darkness, his emotionless eyes gleaming coldly.
"Clean it up," came the low whisper of the Shadow Guard captain from the shadows. "Send this poisoned needle back to Lord Baelish. Tell him the interest has doubled."
…
Inside the Throne Room, the feast was in full swing with music and dance.
When Victor Pompey entered the hall, the noisy crowd fell silent for a brief moment.
Although he wasn't wearing the terrifying black armor, his well-tailored velvet doublet still made him stand out like a crane among chickens. His earth-shattering performance during the day had already made him the undisputed star of the evening.
"Lord Victor!"
Sansa Stark flew toward him like a happy little bird. She had specially changed into an even more gorgeous dress tonight — the color Victor had once complimented.
"You were amazing today! Even my father said you're the finest knight he's ever seen!"
Victor smiled and bowed politely to Sansa, but his gaze traveled over her shoulder and met Cersei's eyes from the high platform.
The Queen looked breathtakingly beautiful tonight. She raised her wine cup in a distant toast to Victor, her eyes full of amusement and seduction. The message was clear: Well done, my ally.
Suddenly, a sweet and fragrant breeze interrupted the moment.
"Only the finest knight deserves this crown of flowers, doesn't he?"
A sweet, soft, yet clever voice rang out.
Sansa froze and turned around.
A young woman in a daring off-shoulder gown embroidered with golden roses approached. She had large, deer-like brown eyes and a smile as sweet as honey, but hidden deep in her gaze was a wisdom far beyond her years.
The daughter of the Lord of Highgarden — "Little Rose" Margaery Tyrell.
"First time meeting you, Baron Pompey."
Margaery gracefully extended her hand. Her eyes unabashedly scanned Victor up and down, like an experienced appraiser evaluating a newly unearthed gem. "My grandmother, the Queen of Thorns, often complains that King's Landing is full of fools these days. But if she met you, I'm sure she would take those words back."
"You flatter me, Lady Tyrell."
Victor took her fingertips, but unlike the gentle protectiveness he showed Sansa, he returned the handshake with the firm, equal pressure of one adult to another. "The roses of Highgarden are famous across the world. Seeing you today… I understand why they say they come with thorns."
Margaery felt the strength in his grip and her eyes brightened.
This man is smart.
Unlike that idiot Joffrey or the pretty vase Renly. This one understood her probe.
"Thorns make them harder to pluck," Margaery stepped half a pace closer — close enough for her to catch the unique cologne scent on Victor, and for him to clearly see the dizzying fair skin at her neckline. "I heard you placed a massive 50,000-gold-dragon bet on yourself to win. Even Highgarden, wealthy as it is, admires your boldness. If you ever need… financial support, House Tyrell would be very happy to make a friend."
This was an investment.
A naked, direct investment.
What Margaery saw in Victor wasn't just his martial prowess, but his potential to challenge the Lannisters and the rumors about his ability to produce "genius offspring."
"What? Sister Margaery also wants to give Lord Victor a gift?"
Though innocent, Sansa instinctively sensed the threat and couldn't help but interrupt, like a little beast protecting her food.
"Hehe, how adorable you are, little sister Sansa," Margaery covered her mouth and laughed lightly, deflecting with ease. "I was merely discussing some… adult business with the baron."
Three women, three different plays.
On the high platform, Cersei's expression darkened as she watched the scene below. The wine cup in her hand creaked under her tightening grip.
He is mine! How dare these two little girls try to steal from her right in front of her?
Just as the battlefield between the women was about to escalate—
"Baron Pompey."
A sinister voice cut through the delicate atmosphere.
Littlefinger, Petyr Baelish, had appeared behind them at some point. His face was slightly pale, and his eyes carried barely concealed shock and fury — because just moments ago, he had found a blood-stained poisoned needle on his pillow.
"Lord Baelish," Victor turned around with a brilliant smile. "Why do you look so unwell? Worried about paying out those one thousand gold dragons? Don't worry, I'm not in a hurry. You can take your time collecting it. Selling a few brothels should cover it."
Littlefinger's eye twitched.
He stared hard at Victor and lowered his voice. "You're a devil, Pompey. But remember — the Mountain is not a stable hand. Tomorrow, no one will be able to save you."
"We'll see."
Victor dropped his smile, leaned close to Littlefinger's ear, and spoke in a voice only the two of them could hear: "Also, next time you hire an assassin, find someone more professional. That trash wasn't even worthy of brushing my horse."
With that, Victor laughed loudly, patted Littlefinger's shoulder, put his arm around the adoring Sansa, and glided into the dance floor under Margaery's meaningful gaze.
In the center of the dance floor.
Victor felt Sansa's soft waist in his hands, but his mind was already calculating tomorrow's battle.
[System Notification: Multiple factions' attention has reached its peak!] ["Rose of Highgarden" Margaery Tyrell Favorability Unlocked: Under Evaluation (50/100).] [Tomorrow's Final Battle: The Mountain has taken an enhanced version of "Milk of the Poppy" (Rage Potion).] [Quest Reward Added: If you publicly slay the Mountain in the final, you will receive the title "Godslayer" (50% intimidation effect on all warriors across Westeros)!]
After the dance ended.
Under everyone's watchful eyes, Victor did something shocking.
He removed the red flower from his chest — but gave it to neither Sansa nor Margaery.
Instead, he walked up to the high platform and, amid King Robert's drunken laughter, placed the flower on Queen Cersei's table.
"May tomorrow's victory bring a smile to Your Grace."
The entire hall erupted in an uproar.
This was open flirting! He was dancing on the edge of a blade!
Cersei was momentarily stunned, then burst into delighted laughter. She picked up the flower and tucked it into her hair.
"Go win, Victor," Cersei said with misty eyes. "If you win, I'll give you everything you want."
…
Late at night, at the old Pompey residence.
Victor returned home but did not rest.
He went down to the basement, where Bronn was already waiting.
"Boss, I heard the Mountain is sharpening his greatsword tonight so he can split open your new armor tomorrow," Bronn toyed with a dagger. "That sword weighs eighty pounds. A single graze means death."
"I know."
Victor removed his formal clothes, revealing his muscular upper body.
"That's why tonight is the final special training."
Victor opened the system panel and dumped all the free attribute points he had accumulated during this period into a single stat — Agility!
Against a brute-force monster like the Mountain, meeting strength with strength was foolish.
In martial arts, speed alone could break all techniques.
"Come on, Bronn," Victor picked up a practice sword. "If you don't exhaust me tonight, you won't get a single gold coin."
Bronn grinned. "You said it yourself, boss."
Sword shadows danced wildly.
That night, for the fifty thousand gold dragons, for those beautiful women, and most of all — for the future of House Pompey.
Victor had to evolve into a true — God of Slaughter!
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