Chapter 12 – Preparing for War
And speaking of "not being human"—
Podrick's gaze drifted back to the Level line on his panel.
The bright Lv12 gleamed back at him, and the corner of his mouth curved into a grin that was beginning to look… a little unhinged.
"If I ever reached Level 100, I could call myself a god in this world and no one would be able to refute it, right?"
"After all, the Targaryens sat on dragons and dared call themselves the blood of the dragon—closest to the divine."
If he actually reached Level 100…
Forget anything else—just the 100 free attribute points alone would make him terrifying.
He could punch through armies. Crush knights.
Break the game.
He would show this world the beauty of raw numbers—what it meant to be statistically unstoppable.
"I just wonder… if I reached that point, could I beat a dragon? If I can, I'll use Daenerys Targaryen as a personal mount and ride her every day."
"Heh… heh—"
Neigh—!
The horse under him snorted sharply, jolting him out of his spiraling power fantasy.
Reality rushed back in like cold water.
"Reality is always cruel," Podrick sighed, the smile on his face twisting into something bitter.
Surviving the upcoming Battle of the Green Fork was still uncertain.
For now, he wasn't a Level 100 god…
but a scrawny squire of a dwarf.
He shook his head hard, casting away the ridiculous fantasies—and the rising drowsiness from the rocking saddle. His vision refocused on the system panel.
"Nine days… and aside from daily training to grind stats, I think I've finally figured out the best way to use the Life Online System—plus a few details I missed before."
"First, the way Life EXP is gained: aside from the fixed 200 EXP awarded every time I unlock a new skill, it turns out that each time a skill levels up, I also receive a fixed 100 EXP reward."
"In other words, if I want to level up quickly and gain more free attribute points, I can't just unlock new skills through training—I also need to level those skills up."
"Compared to that unreliable 'life insight' EXP, skill-based EXP is stable and controllable."
"I just don't know yet if there's a cap to skill levels…"
Podrick rubbed his chin, thoughtful.
"But there's a problem here—maybe even a trap."
"Learning new skills costs time and effort, and leveling those skills demands even more time."
"If I spend all my time acquiring skills just to farm that 200 EXP per skill… then I'll end up good at nothing."
"The only reasonable path is specialization. Focus on the skills that matter. Train the ones that actually help me survive. That's the most efficient way to grow."
"The higher my level gets, the bigger the EXP gap becomes. Diminishing returns."
"If I chase leveling alone for the sake of stats, I'll become a hollow 'super-soldier' with lopsided growth—a body of numbers with no substance."
"So from now on, whether it's levels or skills, I need to treat them as equal. They complement each other. Neglect one, and I'll turn into a cripple with one long leg and one short one."
The rapid gains of the past days hadn't blinded him.
The moment he understood how the Life Online System worked, he saw the underlying truth.
No matter how high his Strength or Agility got, without skills, he wouldn't last more than a few exchanges against real warriors—men who had survived war after war.
Unless he reached a point where brute force alone overturned all technique, which was far beyond his current reach.
Shouts interrupted his thoughts.
"You'll be making camp here for the night!"
A mounted Lannister guard in a red-plumed lion helm rode up alongside the marching column to deliver orders. Then he turned to the small figure at the front.
"Lord Tyrion Lannister, His Grace Lord Tywin commands you to join him for supper in the command tent. War council."
"Tell my father I'll be there shortly."
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Lord Tywin Lannister's command tent had been raised atop a hill overlooking the Kingsroad.
In front of it, a long folding table of raw pine stood draped with a golden cloth.
A great red-and-gold banner snapped in the wind.
Lord Tywin sat at the table, dining with his leading knights and bannermen.
Tyrion stared up at the not-very-high hill with dread. After a full day on horseback, his legs were jelly, his body sore, his stomach empty, and his spirit drained.
But he had no choice. So he staggered up the gentle slope toward his father.
He knew exactly how ridiculous he must look.
Dusk had fallen. Fireflies drifted in the wind like floating sparks, and the last streaks of sunset painted the hill in living gold.
Tyrion was already late. Cooks were setting down the evening's main dish: five roast suckling pigs, golden-crisp, each stuffed with different fruits.
The moment the aroma hit him, Tyrion felt his mouth flood with saliva.
"My apologies for the delay," he said quickly, finding a seat near his uncle, Kevan Lannister.
"Perhaps you should be tending graves instead," Tywin said without looking up. "If you arrive on a battlefield as slowly as you join us at table, the fighting will be over before you appear."
Tyrion ignored the barb—his eyes were glued to the servant slicing into the pork. The crackling skin split under the knife with a crisp snap, hot juices dripping down in glistening streams.
His stomach sang. It had been far too long since he'd seen something so beautiful.
He poured himself a full cup of wine.
"Come now, Father. Surely you'll leave me a peasant or two to play with?" Tyrion said lightly. "I promise, I'm not greedy."
"According to Ser Addam's scouts, the Stark forces have marched south from the Twins," Tywin said, still watching the servant plate his meat.
"The Freys have joined them. The enemy is just north of us—no more than a day's march."
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