The journey to King's Landing was one of quiet contemplation for Vincent. As the carriage moved steadily along the winding roads, he leaned back against the plush seat, his eyes closed but his mind active.
The rhythmic clatter of the wheels over cobblestones provided a soothing backdrop to his thoughts.
Vincent wrinkled his nose as the carriage rolled into King's Landing, the city sprawling out before him in all its chaotic glory.
"The stench here is worse than I imagined," he mumbled, his expression hardening. "Do they not know how to manage waste?"
The foul smells of the crowded streets, a mix of sweat, rot, and something indescribable, assaulted his senses, making him long for the fresh air of the Nightshade estate.
"How do people live like this?" he wondered, his distaste evident as he continued to observe the city through narrowed eyes.
Sitting across from him, Alfred remained silent, his keen eyes occasionally drifting to his young master.
He could sense the thoughts racing through Vincent's mind but knew better than to disturb him.
Over the years, Alfred had come to understand that Vincent's calm and composed exterior often concealed a mind constantly at work, weaving intricate strategies and plans.
Despite his young age, Vincent had achieved feats that left even seasoned minds in awe, establishing himself as a prodigy within the noble circles of Westeros.
It wasn't just his prowess with the sword or families mastery over shadows that set him apart—Vincent's brilliance extended far beyond the battlefield.
His Lord had introduced a series of innovations that quickly spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
One of his most notable inventions was a self-refilling pen, a marvel of convenience in a world where quills and ink pots were the norm.
The pen, which never required ink refills, became a sensation among the nobility. Its practicality and elegance made it a coveted item, and soon, every lord and lady of standing possessed one.
The demand grew so much that noble houses began commissioning more prestigious versions of the pen, adorned with gold and precious stones, to reflect their status.
These pens were not only used for correspondence but also became symbols of wealth and sophistication, often exchanged as gifts between noble families.
Alfred had witnessed firsthand how Vincent's creations revolutionized daily life for the upper echelons of society. But he also knew that these inventions served a dual purpose.
While they brought Vincent wealth and influence, they were also part of a larger, more calculated plan—a way to subtly weave himself into the fabric of the realm, gaining favor and power without ever drawing a sword.
The carriage passed through the gates and into the crowded streets of the capital. Commoners and nobles alike filled the roads, all caught up in the excitement of the upcoming tournament.
"We'll arrive at the estate shortly," Alfred informed him, his voice low but clear.
Vincent nodded, his eyes scanning the cityscape. The Targaryen banners fluttered proudly in the breeze, a constant reminder of the royal family's presence.
As the carriage wound its way through the streets, Vincent mentally prepared himself for what was to come.
The estate they were staying at belonged to a minor house sworn to the Nightshade family. It was modest compared to the grandeur of the Red Keep, but it was well-situated, offering a clear view of the tournament grounds.
The moment they arrived, Vincent wasted no time in familiarizing himself with his surroundings.
"Ensure that everything is in order," Vincent instructed Alfred. "I want no surprises."
He had to be strict at times like these.
"Of course, my lord." Alfred replied, bowing slightly before moving to oversee the preparations.
...
After time has passed, Alfred entered the room where Vincent was currently preparing.
"The tournament begins at shortly, my Lord," Alfred announced. "Would you like to review the participants' list?"
Vincent took the offered parchment, his eyes scanning the names.
Vincent's gaze lingered on one name in particular: Ser Criston Cole.
'His past self would not believe if he told him that he was gonna be in House of The Dragon.' Vincent mused.
He handed the list back to Alfred, a plan already forming in his mind. "Ensure the Valyrian steel sword is ready, if needed." Vincent instructed.
"As you command," Alfred replied, bowing deeply before leaving to carry out his orders.
As night fell, Vincent stood by the window, looking out at the city that glittered under the moonlight. The tournament would be his first major step into this world.
A small smile played on his lips as he turned away from the window, heading towards his bed. Tomorrow would be the start of something new. Something that would set the course for his future.
'Let's see what this life has in store for us,' Vincent thought.
-------------------------------------------------------------
The morning sun rose over King's Landing, casting a golden hue across the city as it awoke to the long-anticipated day of the tournament. The streets, once bustling with the everyday noise of the city, now thrummed with an electric excitement.
Nobles in their finest attire and commoners alike filled the roads, eager to witness the grand spectacle that was about to unfold.
Vincent stood on the balcony of the estate that had been provided to him. From this vantage point, he could see the tournament grounds in the distance, a vast expanse that had been meticulously prepared for the day's events.
The air was crisp, and the distant sounds of trumpets and cheering carried over to where he stood.
As Vincent finished dressing in his finely tailored tunic, adorned with the Nightshade family crest, he turned to Alfred, who was making final preparations.
The loyal butler had already ensured that Vincent's Valyrian steel sword was perfectly maintained and ready for action.
"The grounds are set, my Lord," Alfred said, his voice steady and calm as always. "Shall we head to the tournament grounds?"
Vincent nodded, his eyes sharp and focused. "Yes, let's go. I want to get a sense of the layout and see the competition before the opening ceremonies."
The carriage ride to the tournament grounds was filled with anticipation.
Vincent's mind was already running through potential strategies and evaluating the skills of the participants he had learned about from the list.
When they arrived, the sight that met Vincent's eyes was both impressive and chaotic. The tournament grounds were abuzz with activity, from knights and their squires preparing for the events to heralds announcing the upcoming matches.
The stands were packed with spectators, their excitement palpable as they settled into their seats.
Vincent made his way to the designated area for participants, where he was greeted by a mix of competitors, their armor glinting in the sunlight.
He took note of the various competitors, their skills and demeanor. To his disappointment what Rhaneys said was true.
These men are inexperienced they just want glory, they have no honor.
Vincent's keen eyes missed nothing, and he made mental notes on who might pose a challenge.
There wasnt many that would pose a challange, only Criston Cole and Daemon Targaryen would with his current skills.
...
As the opening ceremonies commenced, the crowd's roar grew louder.
The banners of House Targaryen fluttered proudly, and the spectacle of knights in colorful livery parading before the king and his court.
Vincent watched with a discerning eye, analyzing the participants as they were introduced.
Alfred approached Vincent, carrying a small satchel. "Everything is in order, my Lord. Your presence is requested at the competitors' assembly."
Vincent nodded and followed Alfred to the assembly area. The competitors were gathered, their conversations a low murmur of strategy and camaraderie.
Vincent's entrance did not go unnoticed, and he could feel the eyes of the other participants upon him.
He had already anticipated this, since House Nightshade was widely known. And they must be been informed that he will participate in the event.
As he mingled with the other knights, Vincent's calm demeanor and confidence were evident. He exchanged polite nods.
His presence alone seemed to command respect, and he was soon approached by several participants who sought to gain his favor.
As the opening ceremonies commenced, the crowd's roar grew louder. King Viserys Targaryen, seated on his throne, radiated a sense of joyous anticipation.
With a broad smile, he addressed the crowd, his voice carrying over the excited murmur."Ladies and gentlemen, noble lords and ladies, it is with great joy that I announce our beloved Queen Aemma has gone into labor!"
The announcement was met with an eruption of cheers from the spectators.
The atmosphere was charged with celebration, a fitting backdrop for the day's events.As the crowd settled, the first joust of the tournament was about to commence.
The competitors lined up, and the heralds announced the match: Ser Criston Cole versus a knight of House Tarly.The two combatants took their positions, their horses snorting and stamping in anticipation.
The trumpet's blast signaled the start of the joust. Both knights charged forward with impressive speed, lances aimed and shields up.
Ser Criston Cole's lance struck true, shattering against the knight from House Tarly's shield.
With a second, decisive blow, he unhorsed his opponent, sending the Tarly knight crashing to the ground.
The crowd erupted into cheers, their approval echoing across the grounds. Ser Criston Cole, dismounted his horse and bowed deeply before the royal family.
----------------------------------
Years after the tourney.
In the training court yard of the Night Shade Manor.
The midday sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the training grounds as Vincent swung his sword with precision and speed.
Each movement was fluid, honed by years of relentless practice and the use of the Combat Reflex Enhancer he had recently acquired from the System.
This particular enhancement had sharpened his reflexes to an almost supernatural level, allowing him to anticipate and counter attack with an ease that had labeled him a prodigy
As Vincent executed a particularly complex maneuver, he couldn't help but let his thoughts drift to his next goal: obtaining the Swordsmanship Training Manual.
He had saved up a significant amount of system coins, but the manual was still just out of reach.
With the expertise it promised, his skill with the blade would ascend to a new level, and he was determined to acquire it, no matter the cost.
Lost in thought, Vincent almost didn't notice Alfred approaching until the butler cleared his throat. "Young master, are you free? I have something I need to discuss with you."
Vincent halted mid-strike, lowering his sword as he turned to face Alfred. The usual calm demeanor in Alfred's voice was tinged with something that immediately put Vincent on alert. "Yes, of course, Alfred. Is there something wrong?"
Alfred gestured to a nearby bench, and the two sat down. For Alfred to come directly to Vincent with a problem meant it was something serious—something beyond what Alfred could handle alone.
In the past, Alfred would have resolved such issues without burdening his young master, but Vincent's maturity and growing influence within the Nightshade family had changed that dynamic.
Alfred took a deep breath before beginning. "We're facing a problem, young master." His voice was measured, but the weight of the situation was evident.
Vincent's expression grew serious. "Give me the details."
Alfred nodded, his face grim as he recounted the situation. "A bandit group has been terrorizing a nearby village within our territory. Normally, this wouldn't be an issue—we've dealt with such scum before. I sent a group of our knights to handle it, as I have done many times before. However, it has been two days since they departed, and they haven't returned."
A flash of worry crossed Vincent's features. "What have you discovered?"
"I sent a scout to investigate," Alfred continued, his voice tightening. "The news is… troubling. Our knights were ambushed and killed. The bandits are more organized than we anticipated. They seem to be well-armed and unusually coordinated. It's clear these are not ordinary bandits."
Vincent listened intently, his mind already working on a plan. Alfred's assessment was correct—this was no ordinary situation. He needed to act decisively.
As Alfred finished explaining the problem, a transparent notification appeared before his eyes:
---
**[Defeat the Bandits that are Terrorizing the Village]**
**Reward: 400 Coins**
**Mission Difficulty: Challenging**
---
Vincent's eyes widened. He had been searching for ways to earn more coins, and this mission was a golden opportunity—one he couldn't afford to miss.
The reward would bring him much closer to acquiring the Swordsmanship Training Manual.
His decision was made in an instant.
"Ready my horse, Alfred," Vincent said, his tone firm. "I'm going to deal with these bandits personally."
Alfred's eyes widened in shock. Although he had come to rely on Vincent's judgment and recognized his young master's prodigious combat skills, the idea of Vincent facing a bandit group alone filled him with unease.
But then he saw the look on Vincent's face—the same resolute expression his father once wore when facing a challenge. The determination in Vincent's eyes left no room for argument.
Alfred sighed, the weight of his responsibility as both a protector and a servant heavy on his shoulders. "Very well, young master," he conceded, though there was a condition. "But on one condition—I'm coming with you."
Vincent's lips curved into a slight smile. He had expected as much from Alfred, and truthfully, he welcomed the company. Alfred was not only a trusted advisor but also an experienced warrior in his own right. Having him by his side would only strengthen their chances of success.
"Agreed," Vincent replied with a nod. "Then I'll prepare the horses."
As they rose from the bench, Vincent felt a rush of anticipation.
The hunt for the bandits had begun.
------------
Vincent and Alfred rode side by side, their horses galloping through the forested path leading to the village. The sound of hooves pounding against the earth echoed through the trees, but neither of them spoke, their minds focused on the task ahead. Vincent rode with a natural grace, his body moving fluidly with the horse's rhythm, maintaining an impressive pace. Alfred couldn't help but watch him with a mix of admiration and surprise. Though Alfred had trained Vincent in many arts, horsemanship wasn't one of them. Yet Vincent rode as if he had been born in the saddle.
Alfred, unaware of Vincent's past life as a seasoned warrior, could only marvel at how quickly the young master had mastered such a skill.
The boy had always been exceptional, but this level of proficiency hinted at something more—something that Alfred couldn't quite put his finger on.
The village came into view, a small collection of stone and wood structures nestled in a valley. But as they approached, the atmosphere grew heavy. The village was eerily silent, the usual bustle of activity absent. Instead, a sense of desolation hung in the air, like a lingering fog.
The streets were empty, doors and windows shut tight. It was as if the entire village had been abandoned.
Vincent and Alfred dismounted their horses, tying them to a post at the village's edge. As they began to walk through the deserted streets, Vincent's eyes scanned their surroundings, his senses heightened. There was something off about this place, something that put him on edge.
The silence was broken by a sudden, piercing cry. The sound of a woman in distress. Without a moment's hesitation, Vincent and Alfred sprinted towards the source of the noise, their boots pounding against the cobblestones.
They arrived at a small clearing between two houses. There, they saw three bandits standing over a woman who lay crumpled on the ground, her face bruised and bloodied. The sight ignited a cold fury in Vincent's chest. These men were nothing but scum.
Vincent's gaze flicked to Alfred. "You take the one on the right. Leave the other two to me."
Alfred opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter a word, Vincent was already moving. He dashed towards the bandits with a speed that left Alfred momentarily stunned. The bandits, surprised by the sudden appearance of the boy, barely had time to react before Vincent was upon them.
The first bandit, a wiry man with a dagger, lunged at Vincent, his blade aimed at the boy's chest. But Vincent, anticipating the move, sidestepped the attack with ease. In a swift motion, he drew the sword Alfred had given him and slashed at the man's arm. The blade cut through flesh and bone, severing the limb with a sickening crunch.
The bandit screamed, a high-pitched wail of pain and terror as he stared at the stump where his arm had been. His companions froze, their eyes wide with shock. They had expected an easy kill, but instead, they were faced with a nightmare.
Alfred, too, was taken aback by the sheer ruthlessness of Vincent's attack. He had always known Vincent was skilled, but this… This was something else entirely. The calmness with which Vincent had dismembered the man, the unflinching coldness in his eyes—Alfred could see the aura of a seasoned warrior radiating from him. There was no hesitation, no fear—only deadly precision.
One of the remaining bandits, seeing his comrade fall, rushed at Vincent, slashing wildly with his dagger in a desperate attempt to land a blow. But Vincent's enhanced reflexes made it almost laughably easy to dodge the attacks. He danced around the bandit, his movements fluid and controlled, before delivering a swift, lethal strike to the man's neck. The bandit's head toppled from his shoulders, his body crumpling to the ground in a heap.
Meanwhile, Alfred engaged the third bandit, dispatching him with the efficiency of a seasoned knight. The bandit barely had time to draw his weapon before Alfred's sword plunged into his chest, ending his life in an instant.
As the last bandit's body hit the ground, Vincent turned to the final man, who stood paralyzed with fear. His eyes were wide, his remaining hand trembling as he dropped his weapon. "Please," the bandit begged, falling to his knees. "Don't kill me. I promise I'll change. I'll be a better person."
Alfred watched the scene, curious to see what Vincent would do. The boy's face was unreadable as he approached the bandit, his sword still dripping with blood. Without a word, without a flicker of emotion, Vincent swung his blade, beheading the man in one swift motion.
"You didn't show him any mercy," Alfred observed quietly.
Vincent turned to him, his expression as cold and calm as ever. "He deserved none."
Vincent's gaze fell on the bodies before him, and he felt the familiar pull of his power. Raising his hand, he uttered a single word: "Arise."
At his command, shadows began to seep from the corpses, coalescing into dark, spectral forms. The three bandits, now transformed into Vincent's loyal shadows, knelt before him in silent obedience. Alfred, though he had seen Vincent's power before, couldn't help but feel a shiver run down his spine.
The sight of the shadows rising from the dead was both awe-inspiring and unsettling.
Before he could fully absorb what had just happened, the sound of approaching footsteps drew Alfred and Vincent's attention. Five more bandits emerged from the trees, their weapons drawn. Four of them were similar to the ones they had just killed—rough-looking men, with no special features. But the fifth was different.
The leader of the bandits was a large man clad in armor, his face partially hidden beneath a helmet. He rode a sturdy horse, and the sword he carried was larger and more menacing than the others'. There was a confidence in his bearing that set him apart from the rest. He was clearly the one in charge.
The leader's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene before him—the bodies of his fallen men, the shadows kneeling at Vincent's feet. There was fear in the eyes of his men, but the leader seemed unfazed. He dismounted, his gaze locking onto Vincent.
"So, you're the head of House Nightshade," the leader said, his voice deep and gravelly. "I didn't expect you to be a child. You've got some strange tricks up your sleeve, I'll give you that. Almost made me afraid."
Vincent met the leader's gaze, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "So you're the one who killed my knights?"
The leader's expression hardened. "They put up a decent fight, but they were no match for me. I'm not like these weaklings," he gestured to the fallen bandits. "I'm the one who'll end you."
Alfred, observing the exchange, realized that this man was indeed the one responsible for the deaths of their knights. The previous bandits had been too weak, but this leader—he was different. He was a true threat.
Vincent, however, remained unperturbed. His smirk widened, and his eyes gleamed with a cold light. "Arise."
With that, Vincent's shadows rose from the ground, ready to strike. The battle was far from over.