Skyrim System In Westeros

The gold cloaks stopped their training and gathered to greet the King. Wright stepped forward to bow as well. In Westeros, kneeling on both knees was reserved for prisoners, slaves, and captives. For nobles, the highest courtesy was a single-knee bow, though most of the time a simple gesture—right hand on the chest with a slight incline of the head—sufficed.

Robert, still in his prime and strong, had only begun to show the first signs of a growing belly. Servants brought three chairs to the raised platform of the training ground, allowing the King, Queen Cersei, and young Joffrey to sit. The seven Kingsguard flanked them, while Wright and the gold cloaks stood by, awaiting Robert's intentions.

"Wright!"

Hearing his name, Wright stepped forward from the crowd and stood before Robert.

"Barristan tells me your swordsmanship is nearly on par with his?"

Wright didn't feel the need for false modesty. He responded truthfully:

"Ser Barristan still holds the advantage in reach and height with a sword, but with a spear, those advantages are less pronounced. I've managed to win a few bouts by luck."

Robert, already aware of Wright's magical talents, had come to confirm his brother's martial prowess after hearing reports that Wright could stand toe-to-toe with Barristan. In this world, honor was often earned through strength, and Robert wanted Joffrey to witness this firsthand, hoping to inspire his son.

The gold cloaks, who had seen Wright and Barristan spar, had assumed the latter was holding back. Hearing Wright's claim left them stunned. Even among the Kingsguard, skepticism was evident. Jaime and the others exchanged incredulous looks, with a few failing to suppress their laughter.

Robert, annoyed by the insolence of his Kingsguard, turned to Wright.

"You hear them? It seems not everyone believes in your skill. How will you prove them wrong?"

Wright internally sighed. There wasn't really a need to prove anything. This was clearly Robert's way of setting him up for a display.

Opening his character sheet, Wright reviewed his stats:

Name: Wright Baratheon

Age: 11

Attributes (Adult average: 100):

Health: 400

Magicka: 1400

Stamina: 200

Combat Skills (Max Level: 100):

One-Handed Weapons: 35

Two-Handed Weapons: 31

Block: 20

Archery: 15

Light Armor: 33

Heavy Armor: 10

Magic Skills:

Destruction: 56 (Intermediate)

Restoration: 40 (Intermediate)

Alteration: 40 (Intermediate)

Conjuration: 22 (Apprentice)

Illusion: 13 (Novice)

Alchemy: 22

Enchantment: 12

Life Skills:

Speech: 82

Lockpicking: 40

Pickpocket: 40

Stealth: 40

Smithing: 66

Free Points: 23

Talents: Dragonborn, Fractured Dimensional Storage, Magic Affinity

Most of Wright's points had been spent on enhancing magic. Warriors were a dime a dozen in Westeros, but powerful mages were rare. If one could wield magic, who would choose to be just a soldier?

Scanning the Kingsguard, Wright called out two names.

"Ser Boros. Ser Meryn."

Both men, who had been exchanging smirks and sneers, froze. These two were notorious for being unworthy of the Kingsguard, having been placed there by Cersei through political manipulation. They were skilled fighters but fell far short of the elite standards expected of the King's personal guards. Their loyalty lay not with Robert but with Cersei, making them perfect targets for a lesson.

In the entire world of Westeros, fools rarely survived to adulthood. Families would abandon dim-witted children early, ensuring only those with normal or exceptional intelligence lived to maturity. Yet there was one exception to this rule: Cersei Lannister, the only true imbecile to reach adulthood.

Boros and Meryn, their chests puffed with pride, strode onto the training grounds after being called out. Each selected a blunted training sword from the nearby rack while the gold cloaks stepped back to clear the dueling space. More onlookers gathered, drawn by the commotion.

Boros waved Meryn aside with a single hand, signaling he'd go first. Meryn stepped to the center, unsheathing his blade and then sheathing it again theatrically.

"Ser Wright, Kingsguard do not remove their armor. Perhaps you should don yours first," he said, his words filled with knightly airs as murmurs of approval came from the onlookers.

"I've never commissioned a suit of armor, nor have I ever worn one."

Wright stood clad in a yellow, single-breasted long-sleeved robe embroidered with the crowned stag of Baratheon, flames licking its antlers. The robe reached his knees—a typical noble's attire. In his left hand, he held a large tome, while his right casually wielded the training sword.

"I'll fight as I am," he declared. "And I didn't call you two here to duel one-on-one. I'll take both of you on at once!"

The crowd erupted in shock. Wright was taller and more robust than most ten-year-olds, but challenging two Kingsguard simultaneously was unheard of.

Boros and Meryn, however, felt slighted. A boy without armor, holding a book, had dismissed them so casually. Both turned to Robert for guidance. The King's face was alight with amusement.

"Blades will not be drawn today. Fight until a clear victor emerges. Begin!"

With Robert's approval, the two men's expressions darkened, their anger simmering. They resolved to humiliate the boy, at the very least forcing him to eat dirt. The three combatants spaced themselves ten paces apart, readying their weapons.

"We'll let you strike first," Meryn sneered, gesturing magnanimously.

"Well, since you insist." Wright smiled. He enjoyed it when others underestimated him.

Wright's stamina was already twice that of an average adult, and in his sparring sessions with Barristan, he never unleashed his full strength, focusing instead on honing his techniques. Against Boros and Meryn, however, he felt no need to hold back.

His knees bent slightly, his body leaning forward. With a powerful push, he launched himself toward Boros, dirt flying into the faces of those watching. His speed was breathtaking.

Boros and Meryn had expected Wright to rely on agility due to his lack of armor, but they hadn't anticipated this. In the blink of an eye, Wright was upon Boros, his shorter stature necessitating a leap to strike.

Boros sidestepped to the right, intending to parry Wright's thrust. Yet Wright adjusted mid-air, shifting from a stab to a block. His blade caught Boros's, and using the man's shoulder as a foothold, Wright kicked off with tremendous force, propelling himself toward Meryn.

The impact sent Boros stumbling backward before losing balance and falling to the ground. Meryn, who had been rushing to support Boros, found himself the target instead. He barely had time to raise his sword in defense.

Their blades clashed. Meryn, unprepared for Wright's sheer power, staggered back two steps. Regaining his footing, he tried to mount a counterattack, but Wright was relentless. A diagonal slash came at him, forcing another block.

Wright's strikes were both swift and heavy. Each blow rattled Meryn's defenses, leaving him vulnerable. Sparks flew as the blunt blade struck Meryn's armor repeatedly, unable to penetrate but undeniably relentless.

The onlookers watched in awe as Wright methodically dismantled Meryn's defense. Despite multiple opportunities to exploit gaps in Meryn's armor, Wright held back, refusing to press a decisive blow. Instead, he circled his opponent, knocking aside Meryn's sword with calculated strikes and hammering his armor, producing a cascade of sparks.

Meryn's movements grew slower and more desperate. Each block was weaker than the last, his body swaying under the relentless assault. Wright's intent was clear—this wasn't about defeating Meryn quickly but showcasing absolute dominance. Boros, meanwhile, struggled to rise, humiliated and fuming.

Boros rushed in to assist. Seeing him approach, Wright drove his sword into the gap between Meryn's blade and gauntlet, twisting sharply to send Meryn's sword flying. Without hesitation, he turned to face Boros.

With Meryn disarmed, his defeat was clear.

Boros, having watched Wright batter Meryn's armor earlier, calculated that the training sword couldn't penetrate his armor. Deciding there was no need to dodge, he planned to rely on his superior strength as an adult to overpower the boy.

Wright noted Boros shifting into a diagonal-slash stance.

"So, you want to clash brute strength? As you wish!"

The two fighters struck at nearly the same moment, their blades meeting with a resounding clang.

Boros staggered back a step, his hands trembling from the impact. Before he could recover, Wright delivered another blow. Boros, forced to block hastily, raised his sword horizontally against an overhead strike so powerful it nearly drove him to one knee. To his shock, Wright had managed this using only one hand.

But Wright didn't stop. With the same single-handed grip, he unleashed a relentless barrage of overhead strikes, each one heavier and faster than the last. Boros's arms ached, his grip faltered, and he had no chance to counter. All he could do was desperately block the onslaught.

The crowd watched in stunned silence as Boros, who had started upright, was steadily driven backward under the weight of Wright's attacks. The rhythmic clanging of their swords echoed like a blacksmith's hammer striking an anvil. Some spectators exchanged glances, noting how the ferocity of Wright's blows resembled the legendary hammer techniques of House Baratheon.

Blow after blow rained down on Boros, forcing him to his knees, then to a seated position. Wright delivered one final strike, his sword descending like a thunderbolt. The training blade shattered on impact, fragments scattering across the yard.

Wright stepped aside to avoid the flying shards, glancing at the broken remains of his sword—only an inch of steel remained attached to the hilt. The fact that the training sword had lasted this long was a testament to the skill of the Red Keep's smiths.

Fragments struck Boros's armor but caused no harm. Spotting Wright momentarily distracted by his broken weapon, Boros seized his chance. Summoning his remaining strength, he lunged from his seated position, aiming his sword at Wright's neck.

Wright, however, had been watching Boros out of the corner of his eye. He sidestepped the thrust with a quick tilt of his head. Opening the large tome he held in his left hand, he trapped Boros's blade between its pages. A sharp twist disarmed Boros, sending the sword clattering to the ground.

Wright tossed the broken training sword aside, breathing slightly heavier. With Boros's sword still trapped in the book, he walked confidently to the base of Robert's platform. Releasing the sword from the book, he spun it in his hand with a flourish before driving it point-first into the ground. Dusting off his robes, he looked up.

"I win."

The courtyard erupted in cheers and whistles from the gold cloaks.

Robert roared with laughter, clapping his hands in delight. Barristan Selmy allowed himself a faint smile, clearly impressed. Jaime Lannister's eyes gleamed with excitement, his fingers twitching as though itching to take up a sword and challenge the boy himself.