Chapter 3: Sword in the Frost, Part 1
[Adam's Quarters - Night, Day 2]
The air in your dim quarters was heavy with anticipation. The straw mattress creaked as you sat on it, your heart pounding a steady rhythm against your ribs. The holographic text pulsed with an eerie light, a beacon in the darkness. You had chosen a normal simulation, the most basic tier, to test the waters and gain a small reward. This was your chance to learn, to fail safely, and to come back stronger.
[NORMAL SIMULATION LOADING… 99.01%… 100%]
[SIMULATION INITIATED: NO TALENT. USER ACTION—CONFRONT JAIME LANNISTER.]
You gripped a rusty sword, its weight awkward and clumsy in your hand. This was your first simulation, your first real test. You didn't have a talent, just your own wits and a dull blade. You had to make it work. The world around you dissolved into a swirling vortex of colors, and then, with a jarring thud, you were in the simulation. The air was colder, the stones of the tower slick with frost. This wasn't a game. It felt real. The cold was real. The fear was real. But you knew it wasn't.
"Here we go, system. No talent? Figures. Just me and a dull blade. This is going to be a long, painful day. I'm going to die. But I'll learn. I'll learn his moves, his tells, and I'll use that knowledge to come back and beat him for real."
[Winterfell Tower - Dawn, Simulation]
[The bitter frost stings your face, the tower's grey stone slick and treacherous under your boots. The boy, Bran, climbs high, his brown curls bouncing, blissfully unaware of the lurking danger below. The figure of Jaime Lannister, cloaked in crimson, stands at the base of the tower. His golden hair catches the first light of dawn, and his smile is sharp as Valyrian steel. You step forward, the rusty sword raised, and you make a challenge. Your movement alerts Jaime, who laughs with a sound of condescension as he draws his own blade, steel glinting like ice. You swing your heavy, clumsy sword, your muscles straining with the unfamiliar movement. Jaime parries with effortless grace, his blade grazing your arm, and you feel the warm sting of blood, a pain sharp as a needle. The tower's wind howls around you, carrying the faint sound of Bran's innocent gasps from above.]
You fall back, your arm burning. The rusty sword felt like a dead weight. You were an amateur, and he was a master. He moved with a liquid grace you could only dream of. His every parry was a mockery, his every strike a lesson in pain. You ducked under a wide, sweeping strike, the blade a silver blur over your head. You lunged, a desperate, clumsy move that he easily sidestepped. He was playing with you, a cat to your mouse. You could see the boredom in his eyes, the casual cruelty of a man who was used to being the best.
"This sword's a joke, and Jaime's a damn artist with his. I'm outmatched. But this is just a simulation. I can die a thousand times and I'll still learn from it. I'll memorize his movements, the flicker of his eyes, the way he holds his blade. This pain is just data. It's information that will make me stronger."
He lunged again, and you braced yourself for the impact, your mind already analyzing the angle of his thrust, the speed of his footwork, the way he shifted his weight. You were a sponge, soaking up every detail of his fighting style. You were a student, and he was the most dangerous teacher in Westeros.