Skyrim System In Westeros

Robb left quickly and returned even faster. In his frenzy, he swung his fist in a wide arc and landed a punch on Geralt's stomach, but at the same time, he was struck by a heavy blow and sent flying backward.

"You foolish insect, did you really think I'd let you get close?" Seeing Robb lose his mind, Geralt's grin widened. He raised his fist, wrapped in golden magic, and with a thunderous crash, he smashed it into Robb's face. The golden light erupted upon impact, sending Robb hurtling back once more.

Robb spun through the air, blood spraying in all directions. When he finally crashed to the ground, his body dragged across the floor, leaving a five- or six-meter-long trail behind him.

Geralt, however, remained unmoved. He lowered his gaze to his stomach, where Robb had struck him. The scorched fist imprint on his skin was already healing, vanishing without a trace.

"That big guy sure is fierce. He might just be worthy of being my next husband."

"Stop fighting, end it now!"

"This is what a battle between mages should look like! Robb, get up and keep going!"

The two combatants moved at breakneck speed. When the crowd saw Robb go berserk, they erupted into shouts—some worried for him, others cheering for the fight to continue.

Eddard and Catelyn stood up anxiously. As neither of them were mages, they didn't dare approach the battlefield. Catelyn clung tightly to Eddard's hand, tugging at him frantically. Calling off the duel now would mean Robb's defeat. Eddard knew his son had endured far harsher training, so instead of intervening, he turned to Wight for help.

"Silence."

Though Wight's voice wasn't loud, it carried with perfect clarity to every person in the hall, echoing in their ears multiple times.

At this moment, Wight had no choice but to step forward. Robb wasn't just a mage—he was also the heir to Winterfell. Mages and nobles viewed duels differently. The mages wanted a thrilling and intense fight, while the nobles couldn't allow Robb to suffer crippling injuries. After all, if he lost an arm or a leg, how would he follow them into battle and earn glory in the future?

Raising one's voice or glaring wouldn't work here—these Northerners could shout louder and glare harder. Instead, it required the delicate manipulation of magic to control sound, a high-level technique that could subdue these proud and unruly Northern mages. This was the lesson Wight had learned from his time among them.

Wight raised his left hand. The broken hilt and shattered fragments of the greatsword scattered on the ground were drawn toward him, gathering in a clump before his palm. He placed the pieces on the dining table in front of Eddard and then walked over to a wall entwined with vines.

"The duel continues. Robb is fine."

"Is he really okay?" Seran clutched Sansa's hand tightly, her face filled with worry as she looked at Robb, lying motionless on the ground.

Wight gave her a reassuring smile. "The North has no worthy opponents. You've never seen Robb truly fight, have you?"

Seran shook her head. Seeing Wight standing guard by the battlefield and reassured by his calm smile, she felt somewhat relieved. Just then, a small boy ran over in terror, and Seran quickly pulled him into her arms to comfort him.

The boy, around seven or eight years old, bore a striking resemblance to Robb. Wight didn't even need to ask who he was. Winterfell had been crowded with guests lately, so the boy had been kept inside, learning his letters. Wight had only seen him once when he first arrived.

Reaching out, Wight ruffled the child's hair. "Little Robb, Big Robb is fine. He'll wake up soon."

Perhaps it was the sight of his father lying motionless on the ground, or perhaps he was simply shy, but the boy buried his face in Seran's embrace, hiding away.

"Little Robb… I chose that name for him before he was even born." A flush crept across Seran's cheeks—it was a testament to her love with Robb.

"Seran, you are intelligent and well-educated, and I trust you to raise your children well. But you are too kind." Wight's tone suddenly turned stern.

Seran was no longer the innocent girl she once was. As a mother and Robb's partner in managing many affairs, she had matured significantly. Hearing Wight's criticism, she thought carefully. She didn't believe she had done anything wrong, so she held her ground and retorted,

"Lord Wight, my family matters are none of your concern. Robb and I are doing well, and our children are growing up strong and healthy."

Hugging little Robb, Seran raised her head and stared at Wright without backing down. Even if Robb was his apprentice, that didn't give him the right to meddle in her affairs! Now that Catelyn had lost her edge after becoming a grandmother, it was Seran who had the final say in the Stark household.

With her fair skin, rosy lips, golden hair neatly pinned up, and a lavish noble gown, Seran was undeniably beautiful. But it was the haughty little expression on her face that Wright found amusing.

"Both the big one and the little one are lost in your gentle embrace! The young one lacks courage, and the older one has lost his sharpness!" Wright remarked, unintentionally raising a finger as he spoke.

Seran, who barely reached Wright's shoulder in height, followed the direction of his finger and looked down, only to catch sight of the deep valley between the two fair mounds peeking from her neckline. Being a mother of two, she didn't find Wright's gesture offensive. Instead, she proudly straightened her chest. "Lord Wright, I've given birth to two already, and I will have even more in the future."

"I wasn't referring to those two 'gentle embraces,'" Wright quickly corrected her, shifting the topic before she could misunderstand further. "I meant that you only teach the children knowledge, but combat skills require practice, and character is forged through experience. Locking them up in a castle will only turn them into cowards."

"The North is freezing. Where do you expect me to send them?" Seran countered, catching onto his train of thought. She wasn't unaware of this issue, but the external conditions simply didn't seem favorable.

"Haven't you always admired Kana? After tomorrow, she'll have plenty of time to exchange ideas with you. And since I'll be staying in Winterfell for a while after returning from the North, little Robb will be under my care during that time," Wright stated decisively, settling the matter on the spot.

Seran hesitated. "And Robb?"

"This journey north will be incredibly perilous. If Robb remains in his current state of mind, he will die," Wright's voice was heavy, sending a shiver through Seran's heart.

She was already unable to mourn her family in the Westerlands under the name of Lannister, and she would not bear the pain of losing Robb as well. "Then what should I do?"

"Just leave Robb to me as well." Wright felt that he was doing her a favor by taking both of them away from their woman's embrace.

The frigid North was relatively isolated. Many women and children had already been relocated to Tyrosh, leaving behind only the able-bodied men, the elderly who refused to leave their homes, mercenaries, and prostitutes.

There had been no major turmoil, only occasional bandits, petty thieves, and drunken brawls. The knights following Robb had also matured, leaving him with fewer opportunities to engage in battle himself. Over time, Robb had begun to resemble a noble lord ruling his domain rather than the close-combat mage he once was.

Eddard was still alive, and as Lord and Warden of the North, he was responsible for governance. But in the coming war against the Others, Robb could not afford to stay this way. Wright had greater plans for him. He needed to regain his combat prowess and confidence, or he might not even make it past the Wall alive.

Lying on the ground, the magical flames surrounding Robb had flickered out for a moment before reigniting. Struggling to rise, he slammed his fists against the floor repeatedly, his roars filled with fury.

"Raaahhh!" Having briefly lost consciousness from the blow, Robb had now regained his senses. His furious outburst was not just to vent—it was his shame and rage over breaking his ice-forged sword through his own incompetence.