(Male protagonist's perspective)
The clang of steel echoed across the battlefield, the sun's rays shimmering on the armored warriors as they fought for honor. I struck another Frey; they were like weeds, endless and relentless. The chainmail on his legs could barely withstand the power of the Red Rain, and he gasped as the sword pierced his leg. The pain forced him to momentarily lower his guard, and I seized the opportunity, swiftly striking his helmet.
The helmet remained unmoved by the blow; though bent and broken, it withstood the sword's penetration. However, the attack took its toll; his head snapped back, he tumbled off his horse, and a grimace of pain contorted his face. I gave him no respite, immediately casting the ( Flower of Life ) spell on my arms and legs to ease the sting. Now, both Hosteen and Lyman bore the same scars.
If the battle had taken place under the Nightfall, the faint glow emanating from my armor might have betrayed my healing spells. However, in the blazing sunlight, the light was still obscured by the gleam of my armor and the illumination of the sun. A surge of new life welled up within me; the final skirmish was drawing to a close. Rickard Karstark, aided by "The Mountain," was incapacitated, while the Hound engaged in fierce combat with his brother. Both warriors dismounted and lay prostrate on the ground.
In the struggle, " The Mountain " overpowered the Hound, rendering him unconscious. He gripped a large rock tightly, preparing to crush his brother's head with its weight. Facing the impending atrocity, I charged forward swiftly, a streak of Red Rain flashing through the air, striking " The Mountain's" helmet squarely. The blow slightly dented the helmet, and he fell backward, blood trickling from beneath it. I did not hesitate; this beast had tarnished the honor of a knight.
My victory was fleeting, replaced by a painful scene: he struggled in agony, his hands clutching his tattered helmet. The barbarian had not yet succumbed to death; the soldiers hastily gathered the fallen warriors from the battlefield. Finally, Lord Mallister, Blackfish, Boros Braun, and I remained standing. The melee was over, and we had won. Now, a chaotic contest to determine the top three would take place.
Blackfish closed in on me, his steps strained under immense pressure. His labored breathing revealed the price of the battle. His age seemed to have caught up with his pace; though he was visibly exhausted, his experience gave him unparalleled tenacity. After several minutes of fierce fighting, I managed to strike his shoulder, forcing him to surrender. My increased stamina proved its worth, but beads of sweat still appeared on my forehead, and my arms showed obvious signs of fatigue.
Meanwhile, Lord Mallister successfully dismounted Ser Blount. As Ser Blount scrambled to his feet, Lord Mallister seized the opportunity, kicking him in the head and galloping away on his steed. Lord Mallister then removed his helmet, revealing a wound above his left eye, deep red blood streaming down his face. He futilely tried to wipe the blood away with his sleeve, his frustration evident. I dismounted, approached him, and offered my advice.
" Lord Mallister, please allow the scholar to treat your eyes. I would much rather see you in your best condition."
After dismounting, Lord Mallister approached the waiting maester. Although the wound had been cleaned, the bleeding continued, and the maester's attempts to stop it were to no avail.
"Sir, I need more time to treat this wound."
"Let's stop the bleeding first."
I took a small box from my waist and tossed it to the scholar. Inside was an orange ointment that looked unfamiliar to him.
"What is this?"
"This is an ointment for treating bruises and bleeding. It can temporarily stop the bleeding and speed up wound healing."
The maester hesitated before applying the unknown ointment. Lord Mallister impatiently interrupted him.
"Use that damn thing then. Do you really believe Ser Drasil would provide something dangerous?"
After the ointment was applied, its effects gradually weakened until the bleeding stopped completely. Although the effects weakened as the wound widened, it effectively stopped the bleeding from minor cuts and lacerations. Lord Mallister walked towards me, holding the ointment in his hand, but I raised my hand and said with a smile.
"Keep it. You might find it useful."
He responded with a hearty laugh, declaring.
"You shameless bastard... Ser Drasil, let's see who ultimately needs it."
As the clang of steel against steel echoed in my ears, I met his first attack with the resounding cry of my Valyria sword, " Red Rain." Lord Mallister possessed superhuman strength, while I possessed five times the skill, experience, and magical attributes of Valyria weapons.
Our swords danced in the air like a whirlwind of steel and will. Every movement was deliberate, a dance of offense and defense, echoing the ebb and flow of the battle itself. Mallister's attacks were powerful and precise, each swing revealing his determination. His sword whistled through the air, aiming to exploit any opening in my defense.
However, my years of honing my swordsmanship had honed a subtle skill that allowed me to anticipate his movements. My reactions were fluid and precise, like a meticulously calculated symphony of parries and counterattacks. The audience watched our battle with awe, the clash of our weapons adding to the tense atmosphere.
Mallister's sweat-drenched eyebrows gleamed in the sunlight as he pressed on, panting heavily. His strategy was clear—to test my will and exploit any potential weaknesses. But I held my ground, focused and resolute. Our previous hand-to-hand combat had already shown its effectiveness; he was exhausted.
A barrage of lightning-fast attacks followed, each aimed at finding a weakness in my defense. Mallister's offensive prowess was undeniable, a testament to his strength. But after each strike, his breathing became even more rapid.
In a flawless maneuver, I parried Mallister's attack and swiftly launched a feint counterattack, momentarily lowering his guard. Taking advantage of this opportunity, I lunged forward, the tip of my sword aimed at his chest. Mallister reacted swiftly, twisting his body in time to dodge the heavy blow. The tip of Red Rain's sword tore through his armor, leaving a deep gash—proof of the demonic sword's danger and sharpness.
A murmur arose from the crowd, the tense atmosphere spreading as the battle reached its climax. Mallister's eyes held a mixture of frustration and respect, silently acknowledging the formidable opponent before him. He rekindled his energy and launched a final attack; his attack was as swift as ever, but lacked its previous ferocity.
In that tense moment, my skill, experience, and Valyrian steel converged into a decisive strike. I sidestepped Mallister's oncoming attack, letting his momentum carry him past me. I swiftly turned and unleashed " Red Rain " in a powerful arc, the blade clashing against his armor.
The immense impact dented his armor, causing him to stagger. The crowd gasped, holding their breath, for they had witnessed the pinnacle of our battle. Mallister's sword fell from his hand, the clang of steel against stone echoing through the arena. He staggered to his feet, and I approached him; " Red Rain " was pressed against his throat.
"Have you admitted defeat, Lord Mallister?"
"Admit defeat."
I helped him up, and he raised my arm and said...
"Our champions!"
With a raised arm, a cheer erupted from the crowd. I had won both the mounted duel and close combat, and the opponent I had previously defeated had won third place.
We stood before the king, and he addressed me.
" Ser Drasil, your numerous exploits on the battlefield have demonstrated your prowess as an exceptional warrior. As the monarch of the kingdom, I hereby bestow upon you this reward."
The gold I've received makes me richer than most lords in the North. My mind is now set on winning the archery competition. King Robert continued.
"As promised, I, King Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of Westeros, hereby bestow upon Ser Aermir Ser Drasil the title of Royal Noble."
I felt a huge weight lifted off my shoulders, followed by a sharp pain in my stomach. A major obstacle had been removed.
"However, merely granting you a noble title is insufficient to compensate for all your contributions in this war."
He turned to Lord Stark and asked.
" Ned, don't you agree that we should give him some land too? He almost single-handedly protected the North coastline."
Before Lord Stark could answer, Yohn Royce interrupted.
"Your Majesty, granting him the status of a landed noble so readily may prove inappropriate. Many landless nobles have made significant contributions to this war."
Yohn Royce's sneer was a display of self-satisfaction, as if he believed he had achieved some cunning victory. He was unaware that his interruption was pointless. I intend to refuse the land title. If I allow myself to be promoted twice in a row, it will undoubtedly incite the jealousy and resentment of those minor nobles who once fought alongside me.
The consequences are obvious: I will be seen as a nouveau riche, overly ambitious, and driven by greed. The major families will be suspicious of me, questioning my loyalty and intentions. My position will be precarious, potentially jeopardizing alliances and friendships forged in the conflict.
However, my inner ambition is no secret. I harbor lofty aspirations and a thirst for power, but this is a truth best kept hidden. I have learned the art of subtlety and the power of perception, using an air of honor and humility to my advantage. By refusing to offer land, I can further solidify my position as an upright man, a warrior who values honor more than personal gain.
As the cheers and triumphant cheers echoed in the air, I exchanged a knowing glance with Lord Stark. His approval was evident; his gaze reflected his understanding of the unspoken dynamics unfolding. Clearly, the decision was in my hands, and I had made up my mind to take this path.
I calmly approached the assembled crowd, where King Robert Baratheon stood. His words carried great weight, for he had the power not only to bestow titles but also to decide my future. His majestic and commanding voice pierced the air as he addressed the victorious warriors.
" Ser Drasil, your bravery in this war has brought glory to your name and honor to the kingdom. As King of the Seven Kingdoms, I have been honored to witness your battle. Ha ha ha!"
This battle maniac. The crowd fell silent, all eyes fixed on me standing before the king, the air thick with anticipation and curiosity. Golden light shimmered in my palm, a tangible symbol of recognition and reward. The weight of this moment was undeniable; this was a crossroads where my fate would be decided.
"Today," King Robert continued, his words carrying his authority; he drew his sword and placed it on my shoulder. "I hereby declare Aermir Ser Drasil a nobleman of the kingdom."
As soon as I finished speaking, a surge of emotion welled up inside me. This was proof of my dedication, sacrifice, and unwavering commitment.
However, at the very moment I received the noble title, I knew I now had to make a choice: accept the land bestowed upon me by the king, or refuse it. Of course, this wasn't even my choice. I had my own plans.