Garon's words immediately stirred the crowd.
All eyes turned toward him—surprised, uncertain, and incredulous.
Then the Maiden of Justice slid free from its sheath.
A faint green glow spread across the blade, while a thin band of orange light shimmered along its edge like the first line of dawn. The sword's presence alone silenced doubt.
With the holy sword in hand, Garon's proposal no longer seemed reckless.
"You wish to do it yourself? "
Lord Selwyn was startled.
He did not understand why his son had stepped forward—but when he saw Garon approaching with calm determination, he hesitated only briefly before lowering his own sword.
If Garon wished to try, then he would allow it.
Lord Selwyn had brought his son to watch executions precisely so he would grow accustomed to responsibility. This was earlier than expected, but not unacceptable.
He stepped aside and gave a short nod.
Any other lord might have rebuked such presumption. Executions were the lord's right alone.
But Garon was his only son.
And Garon now wielded the Maiden of Justice.
That changed everything.
A flash of anticipation crossed Garon's eyes.
Judgment points.
Why had he not thought of it sooner?
If judgment existed… then surely executing criminals would yield it.
With that thought, Garon stepped forward and placed the flat of the glowing blade against the condemned man's neck.
The crowd leaned in.
An eight-year-old heir.A legendary holy sword.A screaming death-row criminal.
The scene was unsettling—and electrifying.
Garon forced himself to remain composed.
"Sageri, son of Mudin, " he said clearly, "your crimes violate the laws of Tarth and the Seven Kingdoms. In the name of the Morning Light, I sentence you to death."
No hesitation followed.
Garon raised the Maiden of Justice and brought it down in a single motion.
A sharp, crystalline sound rang out.
Green and orange light flashed—
—and the man's head fell cleanly to the ground.
There was no spray of blood.
The severed neck looked scorched, faint smoke rising with a quiet hiss.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Garon felt only slight resistance, like cutting through rope. The blade was impossibly smooth.
He felt no nausea.
No revulsion.
Only clarity.
The panel appeared.
Name: Garon Tarth
Title: None
Strength: 3.12
Agility: 4.01
Spirit: 12.8
Magic: 0
Skills: Swordsmanship: 3% Archery: 7% Horsemanship: 4% Common Tongue: 27% Swimming: 29%
Legendary Bloodlines: Duskstar Bloodline: 3% Targaryen Bloodline: 0% Storm King Bloodline: 1%
Legendary Weapon: Maiden of Justice
Quality: Maximum
Judgment Points: 2
Garon's heart thudded.
Two points.
So it worked.
He dismissed the panel before anyone could notice his expression.
Around him, the crowd erupted.
No one vomited.
No one recoiled.
Instead, faces were flushed with excitement.
"You did well" Lord Selwyn said, resting a hand on Garon's shoulder.
Pride filled his voice.
"Garon!"
"Morning Light Garon!"
The chant began softly—then spread.
Lord Selwyn intended to disperse the crowd, but the people did not move. They stared at Garon with fervor, awe, and something dangerously close to worship.
Garon gave a small, restrained smile and sheathed the sword.
"Let's go, Father."
Lord Selwyn nodded, admiration plain in his eyes.
They returned to Evenfall Hall at once.
Later, in his chambers, Garon summoned the panel again.
Judgment Points: 2.
He studied the options carefully.
Magic remained locked.
The Maiden of Justice could not be upgraded.
Bloodlines tempted him—but he wanted certainty.
Strength was the most direct choice.
He tapped the plus sign twice.
Judgment Points dropped to zero.
Strength increased to 3.14.
Heat surged through his body—far stronger than any training session. It seeped into muscle, bone, and blood, leaving behind strength without pain.
When it faded, Garon flexed his fingers.
It worked.
The improvement was subtle—but real.
Equivalent to days of growth achieved in seconds.
He exhaled slowly.
This power was dangerous.
And it demanded discipline.
That evening, Garon joined his family for dinner.
Brienne ran into his arms at once, laughing.
Lord Selwyn watched them with quiet satisfaction.
The future of House Tarth sat before him—no longer fragile.
No longer uncertain.
Dusk was ending.
And dawn was coming.