Using a Bear Trap to Catch a Tyrannosaurus Rex—Was Something Wrong Here?

Roose Bolton's words reached Ramsay's ears, and his expression shifted again and again.

Anticipation, desolation, viciousness, calm.

But when he looked again at the heavily armored swordsman, then at Jon, who stood a head shorter than the man—

Jon still held that stick that would snap at a touch. Ramsay believed there was no way Jon could win.

More importantly, Ramsay knew the role he was playing. It was not his place to agree or disagree.

Thus, both sides finally placed their stakes upon the table.

If Jon lost, not only would he die, but Robb would also lose the hard-won authority he had built.

If Jon won, he would not only walk away unharmed, but also take Ramsay's life.

Both sides quickly made their preparations and entered the makeshift dueling ground.

With no time for proper arrangements, they had merely ordered someone to draw a circle the size of a sitting room on the ground with white lime.

Jon stood before the towering swordsman, gripping his long staff tightly.

"I know you're Lord Eddard's bastard, so I won't kill you. If you confess now, that can still be arranged."

The swordsman spoke with a lofty, condescending air.

"Hmph!" Jon sneered. "Remember this—today, the man who defeats you will be even stronger than the Sword of the Morning!"

As a legendary swordsman of the Seven Kingdoms and a Kingsguard to the king, Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, was known to all.

Seeing Jon act so arrogantly, the heavily armored swordsman only grew more contemptuous.

A brat who had barely come of age, whose piss was probably still green, dared compare himself to the Sword of the Morning.

Fine. He only needed to knock this bastard to the ground, and everything he wanted would be his.

With a low shout, he prepared to charge at Jon.

But Jon moved faster. Choosing to attack first, he caught everyone by surprise. No one had expected him to dare take the initiative.

Theon watched Jon nervously.

He had always used Jon to make himself feel important, but for some reason, Jon had become much more pleasing to the eye lately.

He knew Jon's plan, so he still admired him greatly.

Robb, seated in the middle, wore no expression, but his hand clenched tightly inside his sleeve.

Not far away, Bran shouted,

"Come on, Jon! Don't lose to him!"

"Hodor!"

Bran still did not understand that a trial by combat was practically a fight to the death.

Perhaps he did not yet understand what life and death meant.

He simply thought that as long as Jon won, everything would be fine.

Though the heavily armored swordsman had been thrown into a fluster by Jon's sudden attack, he soon steadied himself.

His attacks were broad and fierce, forcing Jon to retreat again and again.

To the soldiers of the Dreadfort, this was also a chance for their Dreadfort to shine, and they began shouting encouragement for their own man.

But they soon realized something was wrong. Jon's movements and footwork were incredibly quick.

Though he was continually forced back, he escaped every time and then launched a counterattack.

"This kid is fast—he's practically a monkey." Greatjon said excitedly, tugging at his beard.

Rickard also watched Jon's every move with interest, growing curious about him.

Could it be that the boy had not gone mad at all? Was he simply extremely confident in himself?

"I get it! No wonder he isn't wearing armor. Jon is wearing him down." Theon suddenly said excitedly.

The swordsman's attacks were fierce, but they also consumed a great deal of strength.

After more than a dozen exchanges, the swordsman's movements had clearly slowed.

Robb instinctively shot Theon a glance, thinking, Even if you figured it out, you shouldn't have said it aloud.

Realizing he had misspoken, Theon lowered his head in shame.

Sure enough, Ramsay beside them had heard every word.

"Be careful, Ser Tuck! He's trying to wear you down!"

Ramsay shouted the warning, and many people frowned.

That was truly shameless.

"Where did this little bastard come from?!" Greatjon roared, pointing at Ramsay and frightening him so badly that his legs went weak.

Roose Bolton, who was also standing beside Robb, said expressionlessly,

"He is my bastard."

"Oh, so he's Leech Lord's bastard. Then it's no surprise! Hahaha!"

The crowd then turned their attention back to the duel.

Having received the warning, the swordsman stopped attacking and shifted into a defensive stance, hoping to recover his strength.

"You almost fooled me, boy. You're pretty sharp, and your footwork isn't bad either."

"Do you really think I was trying to wear you down?" Jon sneered.

"Hm?" A sense of foreboding suddenly rose in the swordsman's heart.

"I've simply never been on a battlefield before. I wanted to see what someone who has truly fought in war and killed people was capable of. Now it seems you're nothing special.

"Next, it's my turn."

With that, Jon began his attack.

Seeing Jon's wooden staff sweep toward him, the swordsman instinctively raised his weapon to block, only for Jon to close in.

The staff struck the towering swordsman's body in a dense flurry. Though he was thick-skinned and tough, the pain still left him drenched in sweat.

That was precisely why Jon had chosen a staff instead of a sword.

Though soft armor was light and did not hinder movement, it was nearly useless against blunt strikes.

A rapid series of thuds rang out, like a piece of music with a powerful rhythm.

When the swordsman used his longsword to protect his lower body, Jon planted the staff against the ground, vaulted himself up, and kicked the man in the head. Blood-streaked saliva sprayed from his mouth.

Whoa!!!

The spectators feasted their eyes upon the sight. They had never imagined a fight could be fought like Jon fought—so... imaginatively.

Robb and Theon clenched their fists even tighter, not from nerves, but excitement.

Both of them were intensely curious.

Where had Jon learned such moves?

If he had learned them at The Wall, then when had there been someone like that at The Wall?

"Go, Jon!"

Bran, watching from afar, was beside himself with excitement, a flush appearing on his little face.

Fortunately, Hodor, his "mount," was steady enough. Otherwise, Bran would have fallen off.

"Well done, boy! Just like Eddard's blood! Hahaha!"

Greatjon looked entirely delighted by the spectacle, especially when he saw Roose Bolton's gloomy face. It made him feel as pleased as if he had eaten bee dung.

In truth, Roose Bolton's face had merely darkened. His expression itself had not changed much.

Ramsay did not possess such composure. Watching the swordsman get beaten so badly by Jon that he could not fight back at all, his heart raced faster and faster, as though he might vomit.

This useless piece of trash! He can't even beat someone holding a stick?!

Ramsay roared inwardly. He had to admit that Jon's technique was truly formidable.

But it only made the imbalance in his heart worse.

They were both bastards, so why the hell was Jon so damn impressive?

By now, the swordsman fighting Jon had completely lost the ability to retaliate. Without realizing it, he had been forced to the edge.

Of course, this was not a duel where being knocked out of the ring meant defeat.

The only way to determine victory or defeat was for one side to fall.

Jon attacked again. He actually leaped onto the swordsman's back, placed the wooden staff across his neck, and pulled hard.

The swordsman only felt darkness close over his vision before his massive body crashed to the ground.

One second, two seconds, three seconds...

Gradually, everyone could see the swordsman's eyes rolling white and foam spilling from his mouth.

Ramsay felt as though he had fallen into an icy abyss. Then, suddenly, he realized Jon's attention was no longer on the match. Jon was staring straight at him with both eyes.