Suleiman feared the grain and copper he had gifted the widow might be stolen, so he ordered Lucian and Lauslin to escort her home. He commanded them to spread his word to every tenant: from this day forth, anyone who dared harass a family that had bled for House Rotfort would face his wrath.
A wave of exhaustion washed over him, but it was accompanied by a newfound clarity. He knew he could no longer afford to lie idle; his physical frailty was a shackle on his ambition. In Westeros, martial prowess was not just a luxury—it was survival, especially in a world where monsters and shadows were more than just bedtime stories.
Returning to the tower, he found Old Nicken busy cataloging the house's meager supplies. Suleiman reached for a rusted longsword—one of the few weapons left that wasn't a total wreck. The blade was notched and stained with age, its hilt wrapped in tattered rags. It looked as though it might have belonged to his very first ancestor, the first Ser of Rotfort.
He stepped out into the open mud of the "courtyard." He couldn't help but curse the state of his home.
What kind of castle has no walls? When I rise, the first thing I'm doing is building a real fortification. This place isn't even as sturdy as a farmhouse back home.
He gave the sword a few experimental swings. It was heavy, but it didn't feel sluggish. Taking a deep breath of the thick river air, he began to move.
He knew no formal forms; he simply hacked and slashed. The original Suleiman had never been properly trained either. From his memories, the men of his family were all "brutes" when it came to steel. He could almost hear his father's voice roaring:
"Swing harder! Cleave! Use your strength! I didn't know I sired a house full of women!"
He remembered his brothers laughing as Beren tripped over his own feet. He remembered the rare, fleeting smile on his father's face, and his mother watching them from the second-floor window, her eyes full of warmth.
A sharp pang of grief pulled him back to the present. He realized the original Suleiman had clung to life after the battle solely for his mother—knowing that if he died, she would lose her last reason to live. When he learned she had jumped, the original soul had finally given up.
Suleiman sighed and resumed his practice.
Strange, though… as he moved, he realized his actions were exceptionally fluid. Every swing, every pivot, every step felt impossibly light, as if he had shed the weight of gravity. His senses were sharpening; he could hear the distinct croak of a frog in the distant reeds and feel the exact brush of the breeze against his skin.
He stopped, stunned.
This was a level of bodily control he had never known.
Is this the "transmigration bonus"? he wondered. Did the meteorite impact or the merging of two souls strengthen my spirit, and in turn, refine this body?
In a world of magic and gods, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility.
His new guards, Lucian and Lauslin, returned to the tower and stood watching him with looks of utter confusion. Suleiman beckoned them over.
"Tell me," Suleiman said, leaning on his rusted blade. "What do you think of my swordsmanship?"
The two men froze. A peasant judging a lord? They looked as if they'd rather be back in the mud.
"My Lord… we don't know about such things," Lauslin stammered.
"Speak truthfully," Suleiman commanded, his voice cold. "If you lie to me, you'll regret it."
Lucian gathered his courage. "My Lord… it was… very elegant."
By the Seven, if we tell him he looks pretty, he'll have our heads! Lucian thought.
"Elegant?" Suleiman raised an eyebrow.
"Yes! Like… like a dance," Lucian added quickly. "Very smooth. Very… graceful."
"Graceful?" Suleiman's expression turned strange.
"But," Lucian continued carefully, seeing Suleiman wasn't angry, "there was no… threat. It didn't look like it had any power behind it. It looked… like a woman dancing. It was beautiful, but it wasn't for war."
Suleiman didn't take offense. Instead, he fell into thought.
To these men, a warrior was measured by the sheer force of his blow. His movements were so refined and fluid that they appeared weightless—meaningless to a common brawler.
Perfect, he thought. I can play the pig to eat the tiger.
"Interesting," Suleiman muttered. "Lucian, draw your steel. Spar with me."
Lucian gasped. "Against you, my Lord? I couldn't! What if I hurt you?"
"I won't say it a second time. Attack!"
Lucian took a rusted blade from Lauslin, stood in a clumsy, awkward stance, and charged with a heavy overhead chop.
To Suleiman, the movement looked slow—as if he were watching a video at half speed.
Without thinking, his body reacted.
He stepped aside with the grace of a dancer, letting the heavy blade whistle past him. In a single fluid motion, he glided behind Lucian and gave him a gentle shove with his sword hilt.
Lucian, completely off balance, went flying face-first into the mud.
He scrambled up, eyes wide with shock. He had moved fast—or so he thought—yet the Lord had moved like a ghost.
"Lauslin! You too! Both of you, at once!"
"My Lord, please!" Lauslin wailed, but Suleiman's glare silenced him.
The two guards lunged together.
Suleiman didn't clash blades with them. He didn't need to.
He spun and ducked, weaving between them like a phantom. He was dancing in the center of the mud, a shadow they couldn't touch. Within thirty seconds, both men were sprawled in the dirt, gasping for air, their swords cast aside.
They looked at him with pure awe. They had never seen a fight like this. No clashing of steel—just a man moving like the wind until they simply fell.
By the Seven, the Lord is a master! Just like the legends the singers talk about!
Suleiman sheathed his sword, breathing slightly hard—not from the fight, but because the body was still out of shape. He looked at his hands, feeling the coordination hum through his nerves.
Gods be praised… this must be my Cheat.