Skyrim System In Westeros

Several powerful Skinchangers mages stepped to the sidelines, scattering a few seeds onto the ground. Vines immediately sprouted from the stone floor, intertwining rapidly to form a circular fence. The vines ensured an unobstructed view for the audience, while the faint green glow they emitted could heal anyone inside who touched them.

A battle between melee mages—Robb versus Geralt, ice against Sea Wraith. The observing shapeshifters each cast spells to ensure the combatants' safety, having already placed their bets and eagerly awaiting the match.

Wright was particularly interested in how this father-son duel would conclude. Would Robb emerge victorious and reprimand Geralt for his arrogance, or would Geralt win and mock Robb in return?

Neither of them chose to wear the armor Eddard had provided. The moment Wright shouted for the fight to begin, both fighters exhaled a mist of cold air as frost armor enveloped them simultaneously. However, the anticipated fierce battle did not commence right away.

Geralt understood Robb's personality—since he was younger, Robb would never initiate the attack. So, he simply reached into the small pouch at his waist, pulled out a tiny glass bottle, removed the cork, and tilted his head back to drink it.

Robb, gripping his sword with both hands in a balanced offensive and defensive stance, withdrew his posture upon seeing Geralt take a potion. Recalling Wright's advice, Robb also took a potion from his waist and drank it.

"Robb's in trouble." Bran, rather than joining the spectators, walked over to Wright with his arms crossed, looking as if he had everything under control.

"Robb can't beat Geralt?" Rickon excitedly grabbed his older brother Bran's arm and shook it vigorously. Bran was often right about things, and Rickon worried that Robb might embarrass himself.

Rickon was a year older than Geralt. With several older siblings, he never had to concern himself with household matters. Catelyn had protected him well, and even now, his mannerisms and personality remained that of a child.

"Do you even need to ask? Lord Wright said they use the same type of magic. Now, just look at how many potions Geralt has drunk."

Recently, Bran's shapeshifting abilities had mutated somewhat—at times, his vision could detach from his body and his direwolf. It troubled him, so he sought out Lord Wright for answers, only to receive a vague response: "It's your talent. Keep exploring it."

In the arena, Robb, after drinking the potion, underwent visible changes.

The standard potion formulas all came from Wright, but the specific measurements and any additional "special ingredients" were up to the user. This was one of the greatest variables of Robb's fighting style.

His blood circulated at an accelerated rate, and the black veins bulging around his neck and eyes indicated that he was in a state of extreme excitement. In contrast, Geralt's outward appearance showed no changes—they had taken different potions.

Raising his greatsword once more, Robb prepared to attack. However, Geralt simply took out another potion and drank it.

Gulp~ Gulp~ After finishing, Geralt wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"Raise your sword!" Robb spun Ice in a flourish, adjusting his combat stance.

The duel had officially begun, but Geralt's Sea Wraith sword remained sheathed at his waist. Ignoring Robb's words, he took out yet another potion and drank it.

"Does winning with potions even count as a mage's achievement?"

"Why wouldn't it? Isn't alchemy part of magic?"

"Are you seriously planning to rely solely on potions and alchemy in battle?"

"What's wrong with that? My son only studies alchemy!"

The audience began to murmur among themselves.

Geralt drank his third potion, and he still wasn't stopping—he kept drinking until he reached his fifth bottle.

"Are you done yet? Are we fighting or not?!" Robb roared in frustration.

His exposed skin had turned crimson, his bulging veins like writhing serpents. He scratched circles into the stone floor with Ice, producing an ear-piercing screech. In truth, Robb was extremely calm. This deceptive outward appearance had misled many enemies into lowering their guard—only for him to turn the tables on them.

"This is the last one." Geralt held a pale green potion in his hand.

The bottle was no larger than a pinky finger. Drinking several in succession wouldn't make one bloated—the only concern was whether the user's body could withstand it.

Tucking the empty bottles back into his belt, Geralt finally drew his Sea Wraith sword and looked at Robb. "Unlike what you might think, I deeply respect this duel. That's why I've brought out my full strength from the very beginning—this is only the second time I've ever done so."

Raising his sword with one hand and pointing it at Robb, Geralt flashed a slight smile.

A thin stream of blue electricity shot out from Geralt's hand, flying toward Robb along the path indicated by his sword.

Robb's eyes, enhanced by the potion, granted him reaction speed and strength far beyond that of a normal person. He could detect even the slightest movement of a single strand of Geralt's hair. The moment Geralt began gathering magic, Robb had already observed the subtle shifts in his arm muscles.

The output of magic was minimal; there was no need to dodge. Robb swiftly made his judgment. He reversed his greatsword and planted its tip into the ground before him. The broad blade blocked the incoming electricity, which then surged down the greatsword and disappeared into the floor.

"Drank six potions in a row—is this what you call going all out?" Robb taunted. Trash-talking to unsettle an opponent's mind was an essential skill for any northern knight.

Though he said this, he knew full well that Geralt hadn't been drinking water. Whatever came next wouldn't be simple. Robb gathered all his magic within himself, ready to respond at any moment, while his right foot tapped the ground rhythmically.

"That was my last ranged spell. There won't be any more," Geralt said. As soon as he finished speaking, his body tilted forward, seemingly about to collapse. Then, with a powerful push of his legs, he shot across the ground toward Robb at an incredible speed.

"Yaaah—!" Geralt thrust his sword forward, unleashing a piercing shriek that echoed through the hall like the wail of a banshee. The sound was so sharp it felt like it was drilling into everyone's skulls.

Catelyn, Seraa, and the others who lacked magical abilities clutched their heads in agony, nausea overtaking them. Even the mages felt their internal magic tremble uncontrollably under the sonic assault. Experiencing this once was enough—those who managed to stabilize their magic hurriedly erected a circle of soundproofing wards around the arena, blocking out most of the noise.

Faced with the incoming thrust, Robb sidestepped and swung his greatsword in a precise strike against Geralt's sword. The sheer force of the blow knocked Geralt off balance. Before he could regain his footing, Ice carved an arc through the air, sweeping toward him again.

Robb's use of a greatsword was unexpectedly swift. Geralt barely managed to bring his sword up to block the strike before using the momentum to retreat.

Clang! Clang! The clash of Valyrian steel against Valyrian steel was usually crisp and resounding, a sound that could carry across a battlefield and earn the admiration of countless knights. But now, the collision between Ice and Sea Wraith produced an ear-piercing, grating noise.

"Your sword isn't as fast as Jon's!"

Robb had plenty of experience dealing with fast blades—his Jon had endured years of brutal training under Wright's supervision.

"Oh, really?" Geralt retorted, launching himself at Robb once more.

To maintain visibility for the spectators, the mages hadn't completely sealed off the sound. Geralt's battle cries, the shrieking wail of Sea Wraith, and the clashing of steel merged into a chaotic symphony. Though they didn't physically harm Robb, they gave Geralt's attacks an overwhelming momentum.

At first, Robb parried with ease, countering when he saw an opening. But soon, he noticed something alarming—Geralt's strikes were growing heavier, his speed increasing. Sparks of electricity even flickered across the surface of Sea Wraith.

As the potions took effect, Geralt's body began to change.

His limbs swelled with muscle, his once-lean chest filling out, veins bulging under his skin—just like Robb's. But unlike Robb, whose veins were blackened, Geralt's blood could be seen through his skin, flowing an unnatural green.

As their swords clashed once more, Geralt's transformation reached its peak—before Robb's eyes, he grew into a hulking musclebound warrior!

Boom—!

With a mighty horizontal sweep, Geralt sent Robb flying into the air.

"ROAR!" Victorious in his strike, Geralt threw up his arms in excitement and ripped off his shirt.

The massive, musclebound figure stood there, his body coursing with bulging green veins. His long white hair and glowing red eyes gave him an almost demonic appearance. Holding his black sword in one hand, he grinned at Robb. "Looks good, doesn't it?"

Robb twisted mid-air, landing smoothly on his feet, though his hands burned from the impact.

He stared at Wright in disbelief, his expression clear even without words.

What the hell kind of magic have the Tyroshi been researching all these years?!