Game of Thrones: The Witcher System

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As Clay sailed southward through the biting winds and churning waves aboard the Old Man of the Sea from White Harbor, he entered the mouth of the White Knife, making his way into the vast, tumultuous waters of the Bite.

Far to the south, in the heart of King's Landing, Eddard Stark, the newly appointed Hand of the King and Lord of the North, found himself entangled in a dire predicament—one that gnawed at his very core.

Seated on a wooden platform within the largest tent of the royal encampment, he observed the chaos unfolding around him. King Robert Baratheon was bellowing orders, his voice booming over the din of armored men and bustling attendants. Yet, amidst the deafening clamor, Eddard's expression remained cold and impassive, as if he could freeze the very air around him.

This tournament, held in his name, had drained nearly a hundred thousand gold dragons—a staggering sum, even for a realm as vast as the Seven Kingdoms. Though not enough to break the monarchy under normal circumstances, the true crisis lay elsewhere: the royal treasury was empty.

Not only had the treasury been depleted, but the crown also owed over two million gold dragons in external debts. These included the money borrowed from Braavos' Iron Bank and the substantial sum owed to Tywin Lannister, the Lord of the Westerlands, amounting to hundreds of thousands of gold dragons.

Even the funds for this very tournament, including the prizes, had been borrowed from Tywin Lannister, Robert's father-in-law. Upon hearing this, Eddard Stark had nearly wished he could halt the tournament on the spot.

But there was nothing he could do. This was a tournament held in his honor by Robert himself—his former brother-in-arms, his king. Even if he wished to stop it, he could not.

Beyond the tent, within the arena, two knights clad in heavy armor thundered toward each other on horseback. Their lances met with a loud crack, splintering on impact—the specially treated lances designed to break easily under force. They shattered spectacularly, sending shards flying into the air. These lances were not only prone to breaking but were also costly to produce.

Watching as two attendants hurried to replace the shattered lances, Eddard's heart seemed to bleed with each passing moment.

With no money in the treasury, how was he, the Hand of the King, supposed to govern the realm? The daily expenses of the royal household, the salaries of knights and officials, the maintenance of the royal fleet—everything demanded a steady flow of gold dragons. But where was he supposed to find the funds? He had no intention of stooping to beg the old lion, Tywin Lannister, for more.

At times, Eddard found himself admiring the current Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish. To have kept the realm running for so many years, despite the mounting deficits, was no small feat. Perhaps Baelish was more capable than he had initially thought.

Yet, Eddard was no fool. He knew that Tywin Lannister's generosity came at a price. The Iron Throne was deeply in debt to House Lannister, and while Tywin had made no immediate demands for repayment, he had, in exchange, allowed his influence to seep into the heart of the Red Keep, securing powerful positions for his family within the court.

And Robert, even after being repeatedly reminded of this by the late Jon Arryn, Eddard's predecessor as Hand, still refused to heed the warnings.

From the moment Eddard arrived in King's Landing, it did not take him long to realize that the scent of lions within the Red Keep far outweighed that of stags.

Initially, he had no intention of participating in this pointless spectacle of jousting. To him, true martial prowess was honed on the battlefield, not in staged tournaments designed for the amusement of the nobility. What purpose did this mock combat serve, other than to draw shrill screams from the ladies in the audience and line the pockets of armorers and bookkeepers?

Yet, his daughter was among the spectators. And as he thought of his late sister, Lyanna, Eddard's disdain for the tournament deepened. Even so, it was enough to make him set aside his work and attend the event in person.

Robert had informed him that his son, Prince Joffrey, was betrothed to Sansa.

But as Eddard watched the matches unfold, something unexpected occurred. When Loras Tyrell, the so-called "Knight of Flowers," presented a single red rose to Sansa, Eddard's breath caught in his throat for a moment.

His expression darkened, but then he hesitated. He recalled that Loras had no betrothal of his own, nor were the Tyrells particularly close to his family. It was merely a gesture. Even so, he remained wary.

Eddard studied the young knight carefully. His armor gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight, and his movements carried an easy confidence. But Eddard, a seasoned warrior, could see past the polished exterior. Loras was an image carefully cultivated—a knight in name, but perhaps lacking true substance.

Then, the announcer declared Loras's next opponent, and Eddard's lips pressed into a thin line. Gregor Clegane. "The Mountain."

He mused silently to himself: This arrogant Tyrell will soon get a taste of the Lannister hound's bite.

Straightening in his seat, Eddard turned his full attention to the arena below.

The two combatants positioned themselves at opposite ends of the list, a mere two hundred paces apart. It was a safe distance—too short for either knight to build enough momentum to cause truly devastating injury.

Eddard's gaze shifted to Gregor Clegane, an imposing figure astride his massive warhorse. The sheer weight of his presence made the ground seem heavier beneath him. By comparison, Loras looked almost fragile.

Eddard could already foresee the outcome. After the first charge, the "Knight of Flowers" would be unhorsed.

As the knights prepared to charge, their steeds picked up speed, but the distance was too short for them to reach a full gallop, no matter their riders' skill.

The two knights closed the gap swiftly, but to Eddard's surprise, something went wrong with the Mountain's horse. It seemed to disregard Gregor's commands entirely.

The collision was imminent. Loras, his lance poised, aimed for a precise strike. Gregor adjusted his stance, ready to absorb the blow—but at the last moment, his horse veered wildly, throwing off his balance.

A split second later, the Mountain crashed to the ground with a thunderous impact, his steed collapsing beneath him. A heavy silence followed—then gasps of shock rippled through the audience.

Eddard frowned. Though he had little love for Gregor Clegane—the Lannister dog whose atrocities were infamous—he could not help but feel a flicker of disappointment.

Gregor was infamous for his brutality. It was whispered that he had raped and murdered Elia Martell and butchered her children during the sack of King's Landing. He was a man without honor, a beast in human form.

Yet the Mountain had the unwavering support of Tywin Lannister. And despite being Hand of the King, Eddard knew he wielded little power against the Warden of the West. Still, he took quiet satisfaction in seeing Gregor humbled.

Loras basked in the attention, raising his decorated sword to the crowd as noblewomen cheered his victory.

But the celebration did not last long.

The Mountain rose to his feet, his breaths heavy, his entire body radiating fury. Without a word, he stormed toward an attendant and ripped a sword from the man's grasp.

Then, with a blood-curdling roar, Gregor swung his blade down onto the neck of his own warhorse—the very beast that had failed him.

The sound of steel biting into flesh rang across the field.

With a sickening crack, the blade cleaved through muscle and bone. Blood spurted from severed arteries, darkening the dirt beneath. The horse gave a final shudder before collapsing lifelessly.

A stunned silence fell over the audience. The once-celebratory mood had vanished, replaced by unease as crimson splattered across the arena floor.

Eddard grimaced—not at the blood. That did not disturb him. But since his arrival in King's Landing, the city had done nothing but reveal its cruelty and chaos in ever more grotesque ways.

His thoughts turned, unbidden, to Jon Arryn. The man had died whispering a single phrase, over and over—a phrase that now echoed in Eddard's mind:

"The seed is strong."

He did not yet understand its meaning, but he knew it had mattered to Jon. Perhaps more than anything else in his final days.

The pungent stench of blood filled his nostrils, unsettling him in a way few things did.

King's Landing is full of surprises, he thought. And none of them are pleasant.

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