Chapter 159: The Peculiarity of the Spirit Attribute

Samwell, who had been leaning on the window to watch the scene below, paused for a moment. Then he grinned and nodded, saying,

"Alright!"

He headed downstairs and entered the courtyard. Although the Bravosi sword master, Syrio Forel, represented the very type of opponent Samwell dreaded most—an agile assassin-type fighter—he wanted to face him firsthand. This way, he could gauge just how much he'd need to improve if he ever had to face someone of that caliber.

He didn't expect to win, but Arya had total confidence in him. She eagerly handed him a wooden practice sword and winked, clearly hoping Samwell would help her "get back" at her teacher.

Holding the sword upright, Samwell gave a polite bow. "Samwell Caesar, at your service."

"Syrio Forel, at yours," Syrio replied, matching Samwell's bow. Aware that this young knight had recently won the jousting tournament, Syrio approached the duel with respectful caution.

They assumed their stances, yet neither attacked. Samwell held back, knowing he was slower and hoping his opponent would make the first move, while Syrio, unsure of his opponent's capabilities, waited as well.

But Syrio was the first to act. His wooden sword darted toward Samwell's chest in a lightning-quick thrust.

Samwell moved instantly, but instead of dodging, he lunged forward and swung his sword downward, aiming for Syrio's head. Syrio, anticipating the move, slipped gracefully to the left, his body flowing like water.

Samwell's attack hit nothing but air, and before he could recover, a sharp sting hit his left lower back.

"Dear knight, this is not the kind of fight that suits you," Syrio's calm voice carried over, almost inviting Samwell to concede.

"True. I'm better suited for mounted charges," Samwell admitted, but didn't yield. "Still, give me a bit of time to warm up, and we'll see."

Syrio, saying no more, continued to circle him with light, flowing movements. He had already discerned Samwell's weaknesses and took every opportunity to avoid a head-on clash, aiming instead to exploit any gaps in Samwell's defenses.

For Samwell, the fight quickly became uncomfortable. The opponent before him felt like a flowing stream of water, evading every one of his attacks while constantly pressing him with small, precise strikes. It was almost suffocating.

If they had been using real swords, he would have been dead several times over by now.

"Come on, Lord Caesar!" Arya cheered from the sidelines.

But Samwell barely registered her voice, fully focused on Syrio, who kept up relentless pressure. No matter what he tried, he couldn't make contact with the Bravosi. He knew that if he managed just one hit, Syrio would surely fall under his strength, but every effort failed.

Sweat began to drip from his brow, blurring his vision. His body was aching from the increasing number of strikes he was taking, and the feeling of being purely defensive was growing harder to bear. Just as he was about to admit defeat, Syrio's voice cut through the fog of his frustration.

"Stop thinking."

It was unclear if Syrio was teaching Arya or offering Samwell advice.

"Feel. Use your eyes, your nose, your skin, your ears… Use every part of your body to sense. But don't think—thinking is too slow."

Samwell frowned, thinking it sounded mystical. But as he hesitated, Syrio's wooden sword smacked him painfully on his left arm, fueling his frustration. With a growl, he surged forward, swinging several heavy strikes that all missed, only to be countered by more stinging hits from Syrio's wooden sword.

He suspected his body was already covered in bruises. Yet just as he was about to succumb to his irritation, a moment of clarity struck him, and he raised his wooden sword instinctively to block his chest.

Clack! Their swords clashed.

For the first time, he'd blocked Syrio's strike.

"Good! The mind may deceive, but the body doesn't," Syrio said approvingly.

Encouraged, Samwell concentrated, trying to recapture that flash of instinct. He knew he was slower by nature, his agility attribute being low. But that fleeting sensation…

Whack! He was struck again as Syrio's sword clipped his back, causing a fresh wave of pain. Yet the pain seemed to help him regain that elusive feeling.

He let his mind go blank.

Suddenly, his body felt quick, nimble even.

Clack! Clack! Samwell blocked two more of Syrio's strikes, and for the first time, Syrio's speed seemed slower to him.

No, it wasn't Syrio who had slowed down—it was Samwell who had somehow sped up.

He felt as if he'd broken free from the weights holding him down, his movements sharp and fast.

In a brief flash of curiosity, he glanced at his attribute panel, and what he saw startled him.

---

Samwell Caesar

Title: Baron

Domain: Eagle's Nest

Vassals: Ser Lucas Dayne (knight)

Strength: 6.74

Agility: 2.85 (+3.97)

Spirit: 3.97 (-3.97)

---

His spirit and agility values had shifted in a way that stunned him. But he had no time to process this—the world around him felt strangely slowed, and his body was as fluid as a river.

Without thinking, he parried each of Syrio's moves, his wooden sword blocking each strike effortlessly.

Clack, clack, clack, clack—

The sound of their wooden swords striking grew faster, the tempo building. Arya watched, wide-eyed, unable to follow their movements. It seemed as though each fighter had grown a hundred arms, each wielding a wooden sword, filling the air with swift blurs and a rain of blows.

Finally, with one final crack, both their wooden swords splintered.

Samwell had overextended slightly, shattering the swords in his hands.

As the wooden fragments scattered, both men stepped back, laughing.

"Young knight, you are very gifted! You will surely become a great swordsman," Syrio praised, clearly impressed.

Samwell shook his head, trying to shake off a heavy, foggy feeling as his mind began to clear. He glanced back at his attribute panel, only to see the values had returned to normal.

But a hazy fatigue remained, as if he hadn't slept in days.

"Thank you for the compliment," Samwell said, bowing deeply. "And thank you for your instruction. But I am a knight, not a swordsman."

"Then you will make a great knight," Syrio said, eyes shining with admiration. "I have never seen someone with such potential."

"Wonderful! That was amazing!" Arya clapped enthusiastically. "What a duel!"

"Indeed, remarkable!" came a voice from above.

They looked up to see Lord Eddard Stark at the window, having witnessed the entire exchange.

After thanking Syrio and bidding farewell to Arya, Samwell climbed the stairs to meet with the Hand of the King. But he kept mulling over what he'd just experienced with his attributes.

When he finally met Lord Stark, Samwell quickly explained that he'd be leaving King's Landing soon, apologizing for the lack of progress on the investigation.

Lord Stark, who had not expected any swift results, showed no disappointment and merely advised him to keep an eye on Dorne's movements. His words hinted at worry over the rising threat of war.

In truth, by now, anyone could see that a clash between the Iron Throne and Dorne was almost inevitable.

After leaving the Tower of the Hand, Samwell continued to ponder the strange attribute shift he had experienced. Syrio's intense pressure and cryptic guidance had somehow temporarily transformed his spirit attribute into agility, granting him the speed he lacked.

The revelation delighted him. His low agility had been a source of frustration for some time, and he had found no food to enhance it. But if his spirit could temporarily convert into agility, it could save him much grief.

The idea sparked another thought: if spirit could be converted to agility, could it also transform into strength?

Focusing intently on his spirit and strength, Samwell attempted to recreate the shift. But nothing happened.

It seemed there was a method to it that eluded him. Resolving to explore it later, Samwell massaged his aching temples and decided to sleep on it.

After a refreshing nap, he woke up at dusk, had a light meal, drank a large pot of dragon bone soup, then gathered his belongings and made his way to the port.

While he waited for his ship to set sail, he noticed a familiar figure arriving to see him off.

"Lord Varys," Samwell greeted with a grin, stepping off the boat. "Your little birds told you I was leaving?"

"Indeed," Varys replied, feigning sadness. "Lord Caesar, you're leaving without a word to me? Do you not consider me a friend?"

Samwell laughed heartily. "Of course, I consider you a friend—the best of friends."

Varys smiled back, though he clearly didn't believe it. With a sigh, the Spider adopted a wistful look.

"Lord Caesar, before you go, there's something I've wanted to ask."

"Ask away."

Varys leaned closer and spoke softly. "Lord Caesar, you once said the stag was unfit for the Iron Throne. Who do you believe is worthy?"

Samwell raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

Varys's eyes darkened thoughtfully. "The Targaryens."

Samwell had expected this response but still asked, "Why?"

Varys's expression turned strangely intense. "Lord Caesar, do you know how I was… mutilated?"

"I've heard it was a sorcerer's doing."

"Yes. A man from Qarth, a warlock who called himself one of the Undying. His skin was a strange shade of blue and purple, and one look into his eyes was enough to feel your soul drawn into darkness. That man cut off my… well, parts of me… and tossed them into the flames. The fire turned a deep blue, and in those flames, I saw visions…"

"What did you see?" Samwell asked, curiosity overriding his usual reserve.

Varys's voice grew somber as he recounted, "I saw a night that stretched on endlessly, without a glimpse of daylight. I saw an icy wind howling down from the North, blanketing the land under a hundred feet of snow, killing crops and freezing entire kingdoms. I saw white demons moving through the shadows, bringing destruction, horror, and despair. I saw kings in castles and peasants in huts alike, dying in terror. I saw people weep, only for their tears to freeze on their faces. I saw… so many dreadful things. But I also saw a glimmer of hope."

Samwell's interest deepened. "And this hope… you believe it lies with the Targaryens?"

Varys nodded solemnly. "Yes. The gods have warned us that the end times approach. We must prepare. And to protect even the faintest chance of survival, we cannot allow the realm to fall into chaos. The Seven Kingdoms need unity under a single, unbreakable order. But the Baratheons cannot provide this. The Lannisters cannot provide this. Nor can the Starks, Tyrells, Arryns, Tullys, or Martells. Only the dragons."

"Dragons are extinct," Samwell reminded him.

"They will return!" Varys's eyes blazed with fervor. "I saw it in the blue flames, Lord Caesar. The dragons will come again."

Samwell was silent, letting Varys's intensity settle.

Varys reached out and clasped Samwell's wrist, his tone sincere. "Lord Caesar, do you know why I never exposed you to Littlefinger? Because I knew that Littlefinger was a selfish schemer, driven by his own ambition. He would climb any ladder, leaving ruin in his wake, and never once care for the people he trampled. Chaos may be a ladder to him, but it's a pit that swallows everything. Only order will allow us to survive what lies ahead. And only a Targaryen with the power of dragons can bring that order."

Samwell withdrew his hand, offering a faint smile. "Lord Varys, you're wasted as Master of Whisperers. With speeches like that, you should be an envoy. No enemy could stand against a diplomat of your caliber—they'd all surrender on the spot."

Varys chuckled softly but persisted, "We are not enemies, Lord Caesar."

"I know." Samwell laughed as well, but with a glint of respect in his eyes. "And I don't disagree. From the moment Aegon the Conqueror landed on these shores, the Seven Kingdoms as separate entities became an obsolete idea. The Iron Throne needs a strong, wise ruler to sit upon it. Let us both watch and see who that ruler will be, Lord Varys."

With that, he turned and boarded his ship.

The golden light of the setting sun cast its glow over Blackwater Bay, as if paving a bright path across the sea for his vessel to follow.

(End of Chapter)