Bab 13: MERCY!..MERCY!

"I'll see what I can do," I thought to myself.

There wasn't much of a fight here, but I'd try to draw it out, if only to give them the show they wanted.

For the first few seconds, we circled each other as the man sized me up. His grip tightened on the blade in his hand as he shifted his stance. I could see some confidence had returned to him.

He was a good swordsman, alright. I could tell from the look in his eyes and the confidence in his thoughts—it wasn't surprising, seeing as he was a captain, after all.

Having tapped into his thoughts, his quick swing of the blade didn't catch me by surprise.

I saw the attack forming well before his muscles even began to move. I could have dodged the strike several seconds before it reached me, but doing so would raise suspicion, as it would require more than normal human reflexes. So, I let the attack come, watching as the blade made a beeline for my exposed ribs. Only at the last second did I jump back, just in time to avoid the deadly stroke.

The force of the attack carried my opponent forward. If I wanted to, I could have easily closed the distance and disarmed him before he regained his balance, but I waited.

I was still planning to get rid of that sword—better safe than sorry. With the adrenaline already coursing through me, if the man so much as scratched me... well, I didn't want to think about that.

Recovering his stance, I noticed a bit of self-doubt creeping into his mind. His posture was no longer that of a man who was sure of himself. Slowly, I could see his face change as he committed the most common mistake men like him made in a duel: yielding to emotion.

His face contorted with fury as he swung again. This blow I also dodged easily.

Little by little, I was getting him more and more frustrated, as he sought to assert some kind of dominance in this duel.

It didn't hurt that Tyrion and almost the entire house were cheering him on. After all, he was fighting on behalf of everyone who wished they could win the prize for themselves.

I decided I had entertained them long enough. His attacks were getting faster but sloppier, driven purely by anger and the pressure of performing for the crowd.

At this point, I didn't even need to read his thoughts—his movements had become predictable. He feinted a right sweep with the sword, and I pretended to be fooled. But in the middle of the attack, he suddenly switched directions, aiming left with surprising reflexes.

He was good, I had to give him that. Changing the sword stroke mid-attack, especially with that speed, was a mark of true skill.

That move alone could've been fatal had he been fighting anyone else. But he wasn't. He was fighting someone death had long forgotten, someone for whom a second could stretch into hours.

I didn't move.

The soldier expected me to flinch, to cower when I realized I had been outmaneuvered. Instead, when he shifted his strike, I took the opportunity to achieve my goal.

I closed the gap between us and grabbed his sword arm. In doing so, I rendered the sword useless, as his own arm was now shielding me from the blade. With a quick twist, the soldier cried out in pain, dropping the weapon, which clattered to the floor. I kicked it aside and shoved him to the center of the space.

Now it was time to face each other as men. I wondered how many punches he could take before he surrendered. But that wasn't part of his plan. It seemed he wasn't willing to fight unarmed. He made a move for his dagger—but I wasn't going to let him reach it.

I dove towards him, using just a bit more speed than what would be considered normal. It was all calculated. No one would notice immediately because of a mix of fact and psychology. Their minds had seen nothing out of the ordinary so far, and anything strange now would just be dismissed. Besides, I was covering such a short distance that no one had time to process it properly.

We hit the floor with a thud—well, he did. My legs pinned his arms at his sides, and try as he might, he couldn't budge. His face paled as he realized the kind of strength he was up against.

But I wasn't done yet.

He stared at me, and I decided to use that eye contact to end the fight. There was no real enmity between us, and actually hitting him would cause me more problems than him, as I was bound to draw blood.

I reached into his mind and simulated a scene where I pummeled him—his face swelling, blood splattering from his broken nose and lips, teeth knocked loose. His face was becoming a red pulp.

The terror on his real face was palpable. He trembled, trying to free his hands to check if the damage was real.

Time to end it.

I raised my fist in reality, while in his mind, I made him see the final blow—the one that would end him.

"Have mercy, good ser! I yield, I yield!" he screamed in terror before my actual fist even began its descent.

The brothel erupted in disgusted yells.

"What a coward!" someone spat. "Filthy coward… and to think he's a soldier!"

I heard something shatter and turned to see Tyrion standing amidst broken shards, ale spilled across the floor. His face was furious, and if he could've, he might've picked up the sword and finished the fight himself.

"Fucking cunt," he muttered, casting a furious look at Benjen, who was now approaching me with the Lannister's purse

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