Chapter 4: Sword in the Frost, Part 2
[Winterfell Tower - Dawn, Simulation]
[Your arm bleeds, a thin red line against the paleness of your skin. The tower's stone bites at your knees as you stumble and brace yourself. The system confirms the objective is ongoing: [SIMULATION ONGOING: CONFRONT JAIME LANNISTER]. Above you, the boy, Bran, climbs higher, his boots scraping against the stone. He is oblivious to the fight, lost in his own world. You charge forward, your sword scraping against Jaime's golden armor, sparks flying in a desperate, clumsy dance. Jaime's elbow slams into your chest, and you feel the air flee from your lungs, your ribs aching like a fire has been lit inside you. The sounds of the bustling courtyard below are muffled by the wind, distant and unreal.]
You fell to your knees, gasping for breath, your vision blurring. The world was a spinning kaleidoscope of grey stone, gold armor, and crimson cloak. Jaime stood over you, his sword pointed at your throat. His face, usually so smug, was now a mask of cold, professional dismissal. He was no longer playing.
"Lungs screaming, sword useless. This system's a cruel coach, but I have to keep going. I can't give up. Not here. Not now. I have to create a diversion. I have to buy Bran more time. I have to die for the greater good."
You rolled, avoiding his strike, and scrambled to your feet. The pain was a constant thrum, a dull ache that had become a part of you. You had to push through it. You had to keep fighting.
[Winterfell Tower - Moments Later, Simulation]
[You roll on the stone, dodging Jaime's blade, the impact bruising your back. The boy, Bran, pauses his climb, glancing down, his eyes wide with confusion. You shout a hoarse warning, urging him to run. Jaime, swift as a cat, begins to climb toward Bran, his armor clinking softly. In a desperate move, you grab a loose stone and hurl it. The stone misses, but it startles Bran, who slips but manages to catch a ledge, dangling precariously. Jaime snarls with frustration, his blade slicing your shoulder, the warm blood soaking into your tunic.]
The blood felt hot, sticky against your skin. You were a punching bag, a distraction. That was your role in this simulation. You had to sacrifice yourself to save Bran, even if it was just for a moment. You charged Jaime, not with a sword, but with your body, a desperate, clumsy tackle that sent both of you tumbling. The stone was unforgiving, bruising your ribs, scraping your skin. He kicked free, his boot a sharp pain in your stomach, and his blade flashed, cutting your arm again. The pain was a familiar friend now.
"Every cut's a lesson. Gotta keep Bran alive. The pain is just data. It's information that will make me stronger. I will not fail. I will not fail. I will not fail."
He was a ghost, a blur of speed and a flash of steel. You were a clumsy, bleeding wreck. But you were still fighting. You grabbed another stone, another handful of dirt and grit, and you threw it at his face. It was a pathetic, futile gesture, but it bought you a moment. A single, precious moment. Bran had reached a lower ledge, safer now. You had done your job. Your purpose was fulfilled. Your death was imminent.