Chapter 23 : PAUSE!
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From the shadows, a grim face slowly emerged. It was Walton.
His cold eyes shifted slightly before fixing on Ronin. "How did you know I would come?"
His voice was very casual. Even though Ronin held a sword in his hand, Walton felt no real sense of threat from him.
At the training grounds in Harrenhal, he had closely watched Ronin practice swordsmanship. Those stiff, awkward movements were still fresh in his memory.
To Walton, Ronin was nothing more than a novice—someone who had only just begun to learn how to wield a sword.
As for the Hound… that man certainly had a reputation, even having won a tourney. But now, he could barely remain standing, let alone fight.
Ronin shifted his wrist slightly, the tip of his sword tracing a cold arc beneath the moonlight. When he spoke, his tone was light, almost casual.
"I've been thinking about this the entire journey. What exactly was the 'reward' Lord Roose Bolton wanted you to retrieve from King's Landing?" he continued. "I thought of countless possibilities, but none of them seemed likely. It wasn't until yesterday, when I noticed the look in your eyes as you stared at Lady Stark, that I finally understood."
As he spoke, Ronin's lips curled into a faint smile.
"I heard that although Lord Bolton's only legitimate son is dead, he still has a bastard. If he wants to control the North, nothing is more convenient than marrying a Stark woman to him. Isn't that right? But unfortunately, he didn't know that Arya Stark had already escaped King's Landing—only to run straight into you."
Walton listened in silence, his gaze fixed on Ronin with open curiosity. After a long moment, he finally spoke, a trace of genuine admiration in his voice.
"You truly are clever, Ser Ronin. To be completely honest, I have never met anyone smarter than you." His expression darkened slightly. "But clever people often don't live very long. I must take her today—"
"You bastard… did you forget that someone else is standing here?!" The Hound suddenly roared, his voice raw with fury. He raised his sword with both hands and brought it down at Walton in a heavy chop.
Just as Walton had expected, Sandor couldn't even keep his footing, let alone land a proper strike.
Walton stepped aside effortlessly.
Bang!
His backhand struck the Hound squarely in the face, sending him crashing to the ground beside Arya. Sandor tried to push himself up, but his body refused to respond.
"Step aside."
There was no emotion in Walton's voice. Bringing down the tourney champion of King's Landing meant nothing to him—no more than brushing away a nuisance. He turned calmly and pointed his sword at Ronin.
"You're an interesting man, Healer," Walton said. "I have no desire to kill you."
Ronin didn't move. Instead, the corner of his mouth curved upward slightly. "To be honest, Captain Walton," he said evenly, "you're interesting too."
He paused for a moment before continuing, his tone unchanged.
"So let's make a wager. Today, either you die, or I do. Whoever falls bears no resentment toward the other. What do you say?"
As he spoke, Ronin adjusted his footing, planting his feet firmly and raising his sword into a standard combat stance.
"Ha." Walton let out a cold, dismissive laugh. "Don't be foolish, Ronin Graves. Your Dothraki guard and that big woman are still occupied with those Karstark men. It's impossible for you to stop me. You don't have that kind of strength."
"There is no such thing as 'impossible' in this world," Ronin replied calmly.
Walton studied him for a moment, then nodded slightly.
"Very well," he said. "I accept your wager. I hope you keep your word—and don't resent me or beg for mercy when I slit your throat."
With that, he stepped forward and swung, delivering a simple yet merciless diagonal chop aimed at Ronin's right shoulder.
"Ugh!"
The strike wasn't particularly fast, but it carried crushing weight and clear intent. It was a blow meant to end the fight in a single motion.
In Walton's mind, given Ronin's poor swordsmanship, there was no way he could block it.
However—
Clang!
A sharp, crisp sound rang out as steel met steel.
Walton's eyes widened. He stared in disbelief as his blade was knocked aside by Ronin.
Once could be coincidence. Twice could not.
Frowning, Walton reacted instantly. He twisted his wrist, retracting his blade before launching a rapid flurry of straight thrusts toward Ronin's chest and abdomen.
This was his specialty. Relying on overwhelming speed, almost no one at the Dreadfort could match him.
Yet Ronin's response shocked him once again.
Though his footwork still looked rough and unrefined, he was not falling behind. Even though he was slightly slower, he repeatedly forced distance through broad, sweeping movements of his sword.
There was no elegance to it, yet it reminded Walton strongly of Brienne.
That's right—this was that brutish woman's style. Clumsy, stubborn, and direct.
But why?
Walton was deeply shaken. He clearly remembered the Harrenhal training grounds, where Ronin couldn't even hold a basic stance without swaying. Back then, his swings had been uglier than chopping firewood.
How many days had passed since then?
Even if he trained day and night without rest, it should have been impossible to reach this level.
This kind of proficiency required years of bloody combat.
Had he been hiding his strength all along?
Or was it… that this guy was truly a genius?
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The clash of blades grew more frequent.
Fine beads of sweat formed on Walton's forehead. The unease growing in his chest had nothing to do with fatigue—it came from the realization that Ronin was adapting to his style, visibly and rapidly.
The messy footwork gradually stabilized. His parries became more consistent. Then he even began probing with simple counterattacks.
Although Walton deflected every one of them, the timing and angles were far beyond what a beginner should possess.
"This is impossible!"
Another heavy chop came down. Ronin braced his sword horizontally across his body, blocking it with both hands.
Under Walton's shocked and furious gaze, Ronin panted heavily—yet smiled faintly.
"It seems the word 'impossible' needs to be redefined, Captain Walton."
He shoved hard, forcing Walton's blade aside, then retreated several paces.
Ronin could feel the skin between his thumb and forefinger tearing. The muscles in his arms burned fiercely. Every sensation was sharp, vivid, and intoxicating.
It was thrilling. No wonder Jaime and Brienne were always so eager to draw their swords.
This feeling truly was addictive.
What a pity…
Ronin glanced at the Swordsmanship Lv2 displayed on his system panel and shook his head slightly.
He had awakened Swordsmanship Lv1 when he killed Bill, and later used the gold dragons taken from Harag to raise it to Lv2.
But it still wasn't enough.
Walton was one of the finest swordsmen at the Dreadfort. Although Ronin hadn't lost the exchange, his strength and speed were clearly inferior. He was holding on purely through the enhanced perception provided by Insight Lv1.
Fortunately, Walton was an excellent opponent. With each exchange, Ronin was already beginning to fuse his own understanding into the swordsmanship Brienne had taught him.
"Damn it…"
Seeing the excitement in Ronin's eyes, Walton cursed under his breath.
He didn't know that Ronin was already nearing his limit. What he saw instead was an opponent improving at a terrifying pace.
If this continued, would Steelshanks Walton truly be defeated by a beginner?
He wouldn't allow that!
Gritting his teeth, Walton roared as strength surged through his body. Gripping his sword with both hands, he unleashed a heavy, powerful horizontal sweep aimed straight at Ronin's waist.
This strike was reckless, abandoning nearly all defense and focusing entirely on offense.
Earlier, his disdain for Ronin's skill made him overlook an important detail. The healer wasn't wearing armor—while he was. He didn't need to defend.
Even if Ronin's blade struck him, the damage would be limited. On the other hand, if he landed even a single blow, Ronin would be finished.
It was a trade Walton had already accepted—one he fully intended to win.
This strike… could not be avoided. At least, that was how it appeared to him. Because Ronin did not move. He neither stepped back nor lifted his sword to defend.
He simply stood there, calm and unmoved, that faint, unsettling smile still resting on his lips.
"Captain Walton," Ronin said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "It seems I have won our wager."
For a brief moment, the certainty in his voice unsettled Walton. But only for a moment. His sword did not slow and continued downward, carrying all his weight and strength with it.
Then—
Something felt wrong. The blade, already halfway through its arc, refused to fall.
It did not slow gradually.
It simply stopped. As if it had struck something invisible.
The world lost its sound. The night wind, the lake, even Walton's heartbeat faded into unnatural stillness.
Time itself seemed to pause.
And then—
It resumed.
The sword completed its swing, cutting through empty air.
Ronin wasn't there.
Walton's pupils contracted sharply.
How…?
The thought barely formed before he tried to turn his head, searching for Ronin.
But he didn't get the chance.
Something drove into his chest.
At first, there was no pain—only an unnatural cold spreading outward from the point of impact.
Then the pain arrived. Violent. Suffocating. It tore the air from his lungs as his chest convulsed.
A pained sound escaped his throat.
Looking down, he saw a blade protruding from his chest.
For a moment, his mind refused to accept it. How could the healer disappear… and reappear behind him? It made no sense.
The pain surged upward, climbing into his throat and skull. His breathing turned ragged as strength drained from his limbs.
Clang.
His sword slipped from his grasp.
Thud.
His knees followed, crashing into the earth.
Only then did Ronin step closer. He grasped Walton by the hair and lifted his head, fully exposing his unprotected neck.
"Me… mercy…"
Defeated by something he could neither understand nor resist, Walton had no will left to fight. His body trembled faintly as he stared up at Ronin, vacant and helpless.
Like an animal awaiting slaughter, he whispered with what little strength remained. "Please… spare me. Give me another chance…"
Ronin looked down at him.
Listening to the pathetic begging, his expression remained calm, and beneath it, there was even a trace of pity.
"As I have always said, Captain Walton," Ronin said quietly.
There was regret in his voice as he continued. "In this world, women and children can make mistakes. But men must not. You made your choice. And that choice was betrayal. Therefore, you must bear the consequences."
Ronin raised his longsword.
"I, Ronin Graves," he whispered, his words carrying softly through the darkness, "in light of your crime of betrayal—"
"Sentence you to death."
Walton's vision blurred as he stared at Ronin's face, now stripped of all warmth.
"So… this is how it ends…"
Regret welled up inside him.
But there was no time left.
Pshhh—
The blade slid cleanly into the side of his neck and withdrew just as smoothly.
Walton's body swayed once. The light in his eyes faded, and he collapsed forward onto the ground.
When it was finished, Ronin stood quietly by the lakeside. He gave his sword a light flourish.
Swish.
With a precise flick of his wrist, he shook the warm blood from the blade as casually as brushing dust from cloth.
He turned and looked into the distance.
Sandor Clegane sat weakly on the ground, leaning against Arya to keep himself upright.
Both of them stared at Ronin in silence, too stunned to speak.
"What the hell are you—" the Hound muttered, as unpleasant memories surfaced. "You and Dondarrion's men—"
"I have nothing to do with them," Ronin replied calmly.
He walked to his horse, unfastened something from the saddle, and tossed it toward Arya.
"Needle."
She caught it on instinct. When she realized what it was, her face brightened, and she looked at Ronin with gratitude.
"I told you both that you owed me a favor," Ronin said, his lips curving slightly. "It seems now you'll remember it."
Then he inclined his head, restrained and deliberate, like an artist acknowledging the end of a performance.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is…"
"Ronin Graves."
His cold eyes shifted slightly before fixing on Ronin. "How did you know I would come?"
His voice was very casual. Even though Ronin held a sword in his hand, Walton felt no real sense of threat from him.
At the training grounds in Harrenhal, he had closely watched Ronin practice swordsmanship. Those stiff, awkward movements were still fresh in his memory.
To Walton, Ronin was nothing more than a novice—someone who had only just begun to learn how to wield a sword.
As for the Hound… that man certainly had a reputation, even having won a tourney. But now, he could barely remain standing, let alone fight.
Ronin shifted his wrist slightly, the tip of his sword tracing a cold arc beneath the moonlight. When he spoke, his tone was light, almost casual.
"I've been thinking about this the entire journey. What exactly was the 'reward' Lord Roose Bolton wanted you to retrieve from King's Landing?" he continued. "I thought of countless possibilities, but none of them seemed likely. It wasn't until yesterday, when I noticed the look in your eyes as you stared at Lady Stark, that I finally understood."
As he spoke, Ronin's lips curled into a faint smile.
"I heard that although Lord Bolton's only legitimate son is dead, he still has a bastard. If he wants to control the North, nothing is more convenient than marrying a Stark woman to him. Isn't that right? But unfortunately, he didn't know that Arya Stark had already escaped King's Landing—only to run straight into you."
Walton listened in silence, his gaze fixed on Ronin with open curiosity. After a long moment, he finally spoke, a trace of genuine admiration in his voice.
"You truly are clever, Ser Ronin. To be completely honest, I have never met anyone smarter than you." His expression darkened slightly. "But clever people often don't live very long. I must take her today—"
"You bastard… did you forget that someone else is standing here?!" The Hound suddenly roared, his voice raw with fury. He raised his sword with both hands and brought it down at Walton in a heavy chop.
Just as Walton had expected, Sandor couldn't even keep his footing, let alone land a proper strike.
Walton stepped aside effortlessly.
Bang!
His backhand struck the Hound squarely in the face, sending him crashing to the ground beside Arya. Sandor tried to push himself up, but his body refused to respond.
"Step aside."
There was no emotion in Walton's voice. Bringing down the tourney champion of King's Landing meant nothing to him—no more than brushing away a nuisance. He turned calmly and pointed his sword at Ronin.
"You're an interesting man, Healer," Walton said. "I have no desire to kill you."
Ronin didn't move. Instead, the corner of his mouth curved upward slightly. "To be honest, Captain Walton," he said evenly, "you're interesting too."
He paused for a moment before continuing, his tone unchanged.
"So let's make a wager. Today, either you die, or I do. Whoever falls bears no resentment toward the other. What do you say?"
As he spoke, Ronin adjusted his footing, planting his feet firmly and raising his sword into a standard combat stance.
"Ha." Walton let out a cold, dismissive laugh. "Don't be foolish, Ronin Graves. Your Dothraki guard and that big woman are still occupied with those Karstark men. It's impossible for you to stop me. You don't have that kind of strength."
"There is no such thing as 'impossible' in this world," Ronin replied calmly.
Walton studied him for a moment, then nodded slightly.
"Very well," he said. "I accept your wager. I hope you keep your word—and don't resent me or beg for mercy when I slit your throat."
With that, he stepped forward and swung, delivering a simple yet merciless diagonal chop aimed at Ronin's right shoulder.
"Ugh!"
The strike wasn't particularly fast, but it carried crushing weight and clear intent. It was a blow meant to end the fight in a single motion.
In Walton's mind, given Ronin's poor swordsmanship, there was no way he could block it.
However—
Clang!
A sharp, crisp sound rang out as steel met steel.
Walton's eyes widened. He stared in disbelief as his blade was knocked aside by Ronin.
Once could be coincidence. Twice could not.
Frowning, Walton reacted instantly. He twisted his wrist, retracting his blade before launching a rapid flurry of straight thrusts toward Ronin's chest and abdomen.
This was his specialty. Relying on overwhelming speed, almost no one at the Dreadfort could match him.
Yet Ronin's response shocked him once again.
Though his footwork still looked rough and unrefined, he was not falling behind. Even though he was slightly slower, he repeatedly forced distance through broad, sweeping movements of his sword.
There was no elegance to it, yet it reminded Walton strongly of Brienne.
That's right—this was that brutish woman's style. Clumsy, stubborn, and direct.
But why?
Walton was deeply shaken. He clearly remembered the Harrenhal training grounds, where Ronin couldn't even hold a basic stance without swaying. Back then, his swings had been uglier than chopping firewood.
How many days had passed since then?
Even if he trained day and night without rest, it should have been impossible to reach this level.
This kind of proficiency required years of bloody combat.
Had he been hiding his strength all along?
Or was it… that this guy was truly a genius?
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The clash of blades grew more frequent.
Fine beads of sweat formed on Walton's forehead. The unease growing in his chest had nothing to do with fatigue—it came from the realization that Ronin was adapting to his style, visibly and rapidly.
The messy footwork gradually stabilized. His parries became more consistent. Then he even began probing with simple counterattacks.
Although Walton deflected every one of them, the timing and angles were far beyond what a beginner should possess.
"This is impossible!"
Another heavy chop came down. Ronin braced his sword horizontally across his body, blocking it with both hands.
Under Walton's shocked and furious gaze, Ronin panted heavily—yet smiled faintly.
"It seems the word 'impossible' needs to be redefined, Captain Walton."
He shoved hard, forcing Walton's blade aside, then retreated several paces.
Ronin could feel the skin between his thumb and forefinger tearing. The muscles in his arms burned fiercely. Every sensation was sharp, vivid, and intoxicating.
It was thrilling. No wonder Jaime and Brienne were always so eager to draw their swords.
This feeling truly was addictive.
What a pity…
Ronin glanced at the Swordsmanship Lv2 displayed on his system panel and shook his head slightly.
He had awakened Swordsmanship Lv1 when he killed Bill, and later used the gold dragons taken from Harag to raise it to Lv2.
But it still wasn't enough.
Walton was one of the finest swordsmen at the Dreadfort. Although Ronin hadn't lost the exchange, his strength and speed were clearly inferior. He was holding on purely through the enhanced perception provided by Insight Lv1.
Fortunately, Walton was an excellent opponent. With each exchange, Ronin was already beginning to fuse his own understanding into the swordsmanship Brienne had taught him.
"Damn it…"
Seeing the excitement in Ronin's eyes, Walton cursed under his breath.
He didn't know that Ronin was already nearing his limit. What he saw instead was an opponent improving at a terrifying pace.
If this continued, would Steelshanks Walton truly be defeated by a beginner?
He wouldn't allow that!
Gritting his teeth, Walton roared as strength surged through his body. Gripping his sword with both hands, he unleashed a heavy, powerful horizontal sweep aimed straight at Ronin's waist.
This strike was reckless, abandoning nearly all defense and focusing entirely on offense.
Earlier, his disdain for Ronin's skill made him overlook an important detail. The healer wasn't wearing armor—while he was. He didn't need to defend.
Even if Ronin's blade struck him, the damage would be limited. On the other hand, if he landed even a single blow, Ronin would be finished.
It was a trade Walton had already accepted—one he fully intended to win.
This strike… could not be avoided. At least, that was how it appeared to him. Because Ronin did not move. He neither stepped back nor lifted his sword to defend.
He simply stood there, calm and unmoved, that faint, unsettling smile still resting on his lips.
"Captain Walton," Ronin said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "It seems I have won our wager."
For a brief moment, the certainty in his voice unsettled Walton. But only for a moment. His sword did not slow and continued downward, carrying all his weight and strength with it.
Then—
Something felt wrong. The blade, already halfway through its arc, refused to fall.
It did not slow gradually.
It simply stopped. As if it had struck something invisible.
The world lost its sound. The night wind, the lake, even Walton's heartbeat faded into unnatural stillness.
Time itself seemed to pause.
And then—
It resumed.
The sword completed its swing, cutting through empty air.
Ronin wasn't there.
Walton's pupils contracted sharply.
How…?
The thought barely formed before he tried to turn his head, searching for Ronin.
But he didn't get the chance.
Something drove into his chest.
At first, there was no pain—only an unnatural cold spreading outward from the point of impact.
Then the pain arrived. Violent. Suffocating. It tore the air from his lungs as his chest convulsed.
A pained sound escaped his throat.
Looking down, he saw a blade protruding from his chest.
For a moment, his mind refused to accept it. How could the healer disappear… and reappear behind him? It made no sense.
The pain surged upward, climbing into his throat and skull. His breathing turned ragged as strength drained from his limbs.
Clang.
His sword slipped from his grasp.
Thud.
His knees followed, crashing into the earth.
Only then did Ronin step closer. He grasped Walton by the hair and lifted his head, fully exposing his unprotected neck.
"Me… mercy…"
Defeated by something he could neither understand nor resist, Walton had no will left to fight. His body trembled faintly as he stared up at Ronin, vacant and helpless.
Like an animal awaiting slaughter, he whispered with what little strength remained. "Please… spare me. Give me another chance…"
Ronin looked down at him.
Listening to the pathetic begging, his expression remained calm, and beneath it, there was even a trace of pity.
"As I have always said, Captain Walton," Ronin said quietly.
There was regret in his voice as he continued. "In this world, women and children can make mistakes. But men must not. You made your choice. And that choice was betrayal. Therefore, you must bear the consequences."
Ronin raised his longsword.
"I, Ronin Graves," he whispered, his words carrying softly through the darkness, "in light of your crime of betrayal—"
"Sentence you to death."
Walton's vision blurred as he stared at Ronin's face, now stripped of all warmth.
"So… this is how it ends…"
Regret welled up inside him.
But there was no time left.
Pshhh—
The blade slid cleanly into the side of his neck and withdrew just as smoothly.
Walton's body swayed once. The light in his eyes faded, and he collapsed forward onto the ground.
When it was finished, Ronin stood quietly by the lakeside. He gave his sword a light flourish.
Swish.
With a precise flick of his wrist, he shook the warm blood from the blade as casually as brushing dust from cloth.
He turned and looked into the distance.
Sandor Clegane sat weakly on the ground, leaning against Arya to keep himself upright.
Both of them stared at Ronin in silence, too stunned to speak.
"What the hell are you—" the Hound muttered, as unpleasant memories surfaced. "You and Dondarrion's men—"
"I have nothing to do with them," Ronin replied calmly.
He walked to his horse, unfastened something from the saddle, and tossed it toward Arya.
"Needle."
She caught it on instinct. When she realized what it was, her face brightened, and she looked at Ronin with gratitude.
"I told you both that you owed me a favor," Ronin said, his lips curving slightly. "It seems now you'll remember it."
Then he inclined his head, restrained and deliberate, like an artist acknowledging the end of a performance.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is…"
"Ronin Graves."
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