Money is Power [ASOIAF SI, System]

[Fanfictionlord]

"You damned peasant! Daring to secretly count the apples on Lord Finn's tree—planning to steal them, are you?"

"I've been wronged, my lord! Everyone knows I can't count at all!"

"Nonsense! Talking back as well? Five lashes!"

Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!

"Ahhhh—! My lord, that was the sixth!"

"Oh? So you can count. You lying wretch."

Another storm of lashes followed.

The beating went on until the man finally slumped unconscious. Only then did the farm steward lower his whip, breathing hard with satisfaction.

"Hang him up. Let every ungrateful peasant see what awaits thieves."

"Yes, sir!"

...

"…Where… am I?"

Ronin woke up slowly, the world spinning in his eyes. The first thing that hit him was the intense pain. It was radiating from every inch of his body like he'd just been flattened by a truck—

"Isn't that what actually happened?" He remembered now.

He had finished an eight-year combined degree, finally gotten his medical license, opened his clinic… just when he though he was going to take off—on opening day, without warning, an out-of-control "Hundred-Ton King" truck plowed straight through his clinic wall and sent him to afterlife.

"Damn it!" Ronin raged inwardly. He wanted to shove the memory away, but before he could, entirely new memories flooded into his mind—memories that absolutely did not belong to him.

Riverlands, apple picking, copper wages, brothels, endless back-breaking work, routine whips, hunger.

Holy crap! He had transmigrated into a medieval world!

Ronin blinked his swollen eyelids open, panic surging in his heart. He scanned his surroundings. His arms were bound by a rope, and he was hanging from the branch of an apple tree.

With a surgeon's practiced eye, he could tell he had suffered dozens of varying injuries: bruising, swelling, broken skin, maybe deeper trauma. The sigh almost made him flinch.

Wonderful. He had transmigrated into a body that had already been beaten half to death.

Down below, a small crowd of peasants dressed in ragged, patched clothes was gathered, pointing at him and muttering.

"Serves him right. Lord Finn gives us work and he tries to steal apples."

"If the lord cuts our wages, we'll starve."

"Mother guide the harvest. May the Stranger take this fool."

"Last batch of apples was sour. Probably it was his fault too."

"And poor Young Master Derek grew thin from hunger! Let's work harder to repay Lord Finn's kindness!"

Their sycophantic cries rose together.

"Oh-ho-ho!!!"

Then they all returned to work, none of them sparing him a glance.

"You… motherf—" He couldn't finish. His throat was too dry, and only a hoarse wheeze came out.

These idiots! These brain-rotted, feudal-bootlicking idiots!

He remembered now: the original Ronin hadn't been stealing. He was simply counting apples out of boredom. And Lord Finn—far from kind—was a miser who paid a laborer ninety-one copper pennies a month. Not even two silver stags.

Fourteen hours a day, no rest, barely enough to survive on mold-speckled black bread and thin gruel.

Kindness? His arse!

He had to hand it to the original Ronin for surviving in such conditions. It required immense willpower. Moreover, he somehow even managed to save enough to visit a brothel every six months.

That was some admirable dedication.

Even though Ronin was furious, he knew that trying to educate these exploited laborers about the class struggle between lords and peasants would be completely pointless.

So he forced himself to breathe steadily, gathering what little strength he could to figure out how to survive in this overwhelmingly feudal world.

And just then, a translucent panel flickered before his eyes.

...

Name: Ronin Graves

Occupation: Doctor

Skills: Surgery Lv2, Manipulation Lv3

Current Available Skill Draws: 0

Draw prices:
Lv1 (Apprentice): 10 Gold Dragons
Lv2 (Veteran): 100 Gold Dragons
Lv3 (Expert): 1,000 Gold Dragons
Lv4 (Master): 10,000 Gold Dragons
Lv5 (Hall of Fame): 1,000,000 Gold Dragons

...

A system!

Ronin's eyes brightened—then dimmed immediately.

Ten gold dragons for one draw? He earned ninety-one copper a month. Even if he saved every coin and never ate, he'd still need more than a century to afford a single draw.

And the price multiplied tenfold with each rank. A million gold dragons for the highest tier?

Absolutely insane!

That meant he could work nonstop from the dawn of mankind until the twenty-first century and still not accumulate that much money.

Wasn't this just setting him up for failure?

He wanted to scream. He wanted to strangle whoever designed this broken cheat.

Ding… System activation detected. One free unranked draw granted.

"…My savior. My beloved system. I'm sorry for insulting you." Ronin's outrage evaporated instantly.

"Start the draw!" he said without hesitation.

The system panel shifted, a storm of colorful cards fluttering rapidly before his eyes.

After a long moment, a dazzling, multicolored black card emerged.

...

Skill: Pause (Unranked — Cannot be upgraded)

Effect: Upon activating this skill, time around the user will stop for one second.

Cooldown: 7 days

...

Ronin's eyes almost popped out of his sockets. Stopping time?

How was this a skill? This was clearly a magical ability!

Although it was just for a second, it still made his heart beat wildly. In a few moments, he had already thought of dozens of ways to utilize this.

He also wondered if the uses could be stacked and used all at once. If that was the case, this skill would be too overpowered.

He was still staring, pondering over his new cheat, when he heard the sharp clatter of hooves approaching rapidly.

A dozen armoured men on horses rode across the field, trampling the crops along their path.

"What are you staring at? Get back to work!"

Seeing all the laborers looking their way, the farm steward who had beaten Ronin earlier shouted loudly, then strode forward with two men to meet the newcomers.

"Halt! Knights, halt! This is Ser Finn's land. Please restrain your horses and don't ruin the crops in the field!"

"Whoa—"

The lead rider pulled his mount to a stop. He was a tall and lean man, with a trimmed goatee and a necklace made of coins hanging around his neck. One of his ear was wrapped with bloody gauze, giving him an oddly comical look.

What drew Ronin's attention the most was his mount.

It was a zebra!

From what he remembered, zebras were naturally fierce animals, virtually impossible to tame. Ronin didn't know how the man managed to make it docile enough to be his mount.

"Forgive my men," the man said lightly. "We are just thirsty from the journey and came to ask for a few apples."

After glancing around for a moment, he smiled faintly. "This is Ser Finn's land, yes? I recall the name. Who does he swear fealty to again?"

"To Lord Edmure Tully, good sir."

Noticing the man's relatively calm tone, the steward breathed a sigh of relief, but didn't completely let down his guard, adding, "And the apples aren't ripe yet."

His tone was very polite. After all, the group consisted of more than a dozen men, all looking fierce and intimidating, clearly not to be trifled with.

Hearing the steward's reply, the smile on the man's face grew wider, and he deliberately spoke loudly.

"Good. Then I remember correctly. We are sworn to Roose Bolton, under orders from His Grace, Robb Stark, King in the North, escorting the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, back to Riverrun."

Ronin, hanging nearby, heard every word clearly—and his heart almost stopped beating for a second.

Roose Bolton.
Robb Stark.
Jaime Lannister.

These names were… far too familiar!

He'd transmigrated only recently and hadn't fully processed the implications… but now it was obvious:

He was in the world of 'A Song of Ice and Fire'!

And given the circumstances, this was likely during the War of the Five Kings.

Sure enough, before Ronin could fully digest it, the tall rider waved his hand. His men moved aside, revealing two people bound together on the back of a horse.

One was armored, tall and stout, with a rough face and furious blue eyes—clearly a woman despite her build.

The other was a very thin man, slumped with his head bowed, looking utterly defeated. His dirty, long blonde hair made him look like a wounded lion.

Around his neck hung a rope. And attached to the rope was a severed hand.

Jaime Lannister.

The eldest son of Lord Tywin, a knight of the Kingsguard, the Kingslayer, and an expert at bedding his sister…

If that really was the one-handed Jaime Lannister, then the person tied up beside him could only be Brienne of Tarth.

And the leader of this company…

"My name is Walton Steelshanks, ser!"

The man grinned broadly. "Everyone loyal to the King in the North knows me. I am the captain of Lord Bolton's guard."

"Good day, Ser Walton."

Hearing they were allies of his own lord, the steward finally relaxed. The Kingslayer's unmistakable golden hair was far too conspicuous—even covered in grime—to be anyone else.

Still, he reminded them carefully, "I regret to say, ser, the apples aren't ripe yet, but we can provide you and your men with food and water. Shadowcats have been prowling around lately, so traveling at night might be dangerous. You should probably set off as soon as possible…"

He had managed Ser Finn's estate for over a decade and believed he could deal with these visitors. Northern soldiers marching south might take a little, but allies seldom pushed too far. And with Ser Finn summoned to Riverrun by Lord Edmure, the steward had no choice but to protect what remained of the estate.

Sure enough, when he heard they would be offered food and water, "Ser Walton" smiled in satisfaction.

"Excellent! I told you all earlier—Ser Finn is a generous man. We'll rest here tonight and set off tomorrow!"

He turned and shouted to the men behind him, earning a chorus of strange cheers.

The group pushed past the steward toward the center of the farm, completely ignoring the latter's darkening expression.

These ruffians…

The steward cursed inwardly. He had only meant to give them some hard bread and be done with it. He never expected they'd insist on staying the night.

He considered refusing them, but when he glanced at the over a dozen armed men—then at his two guards—he swallowed the urge. The farm was five miles from Ser Finn's castle. There was no time to call for help. So all he could do was watch them stride inside.

'Damn it… I shouldn't have brought the young master to the farm today.'

He leaned close to one of the guards. "Go, escort young Master Derek back to the castle immediately. Be stealthy. Make sure these Northmen don't spot you."

The guard nodded and hurried toward a wooden hut.

But just as the riders passed the three of them, Ronin—watching from above—noticed the leader suddenly raise a fist in a strange signal.

'Wait—something's wrong!'

Ronin's mind raced. He frantically tried to recall the plot he had read in his previous life. In a flash, recognition struck him.

'This man isn't Walton.' His eyes widened. 'He is—'

Before he could finish the thought, the leader dropped his hand.

The riders, silent and disciplined only moments ago, suddenly drew their weapons and slashed at the steward and the nearest guard!

It happened too fast. The steward's irritated expression didn't even have time to fade before he and his guard were cut down, their throats opened in a single swift strike.

At the same moment, the rest of the men scattered throughout the farm with frightening precision.

The guard who had slipped away heard the commotion—turned—and had his skull crushed by a morningstar.

Others spurred their horses, ruthlessly hunting down the laborers.

"What are you doing, Vargo Hoat!"

Brienne's furious shout rang across the farm. Justice-driven as always, she couldn't believe what she was witnessing.

"He agreed to give you food and water! You swear allegiance to the King in the North—why are you slaughtering innocent people—"

"Shut up, bitch!"

The reply was a brutal punch. Brienne toppled from her horse, dragging the bound Jaime down into the mud with her. Her already-filthy armor grew even dirtier as she hit the ground.

The man called Walton—no, Vargo Hoat—dismounted and began kicking both of them mercilessly.

"Damn you, bitch! If your earl father doesn't send a mountain of sapphires for your ransom, I'll have every man in Harrenhal line up and have a go at you!"

Only after several vicious kicks did he stop. He climbed back onto his horse and rode toward the orchard, hooves grinding the steward's corpse beneath iron-shod weight as he laughed wildly.

"I am the lord of Harrenhal! The lord wanted apples, and by the gods, he's getting those damned apples today!"

Ronin, hanging from the tree, watched the chaos unfold helplessly. Shouts and screams echoed across the farm, tightening his chest with dread.

The man was none other than Vargo Hoat—the infamous leader of the Brave Companions.

Though Tywin Lannister had once accepted his service, Hoat eventually defected to Robb Stark and was granted Harrenhal. But a leopard never changes its spots. Title or not, he remained a savage bandit at heart.

It was over. With men like these, no one on the farm would survive. Not even him.

Although his skill "Pause" was powerful, it lasted barely a second. With a seven-day cooldown and more than a dozen enemies around him, it simply wasn't enough.

Just as panic set in, Vargo bent from his saddle, plucked an apple, spotted him, and rode straight toward the tree.

Damn it…

Ronin struggled helplessly. The ropes were far too tight. All he could do was watch.

"Look what I found!"

Vargo's tone was tinged with mockery. He stared up at Ronin as though discovering an interesting toy.

"A roasted suckling pig!"

Two other Brave Companions rode over, circling Ronin with predatory amusement.

"Looks like a fellow who messed up," one snorted. "Skin's fair enough—bit old, though. Otherwise Urswyck would be interested."

"Save it," the other replied. "That freak only likes children. I haven't seen him look at anyone over twelve. Picked that habit up when he was a septon, they say."

The first man nodded and casually drew a dagger. "Looks like the boy's useless then. Let's just kill him."

He stepped forward. Neither Vargo nor the other man bothered stopping him. They had planned to kill all witnesses from the start.

Ronin's heart pounded. He prepared to activate his skill—to take down at least one of them—when Vargo turned his head slightly, revealing the gauze-wrapped ear.

Ronin seized the moment. "Wait—wait! I'm a healer, my lord! I can treat your ear!"

Vargo did not react. He had heard every lie imaginable from men on the brink of death. The dagger advanced without halting.

Ronin shouted louder, voice cracking, "Your ear is festering! If you don't disinfect it soon, you'll get a high fever and die within two days!"

The dagger drew closer. Inches away.

Ronin braced to activate his skill to attempt one last desperate struggle. But just then, a white light flashed in his eyes and the dagger clattered to the ground.

Vargo leaned closer from his saddle, sneering. "You'd better not be lying, boy."

He didn't sheathe his sword. Instead, he pressed the point against Ronin's stomach.

"Or I'll have Urswyck make an exception. For once."

"Of course, my lord!" Ronin exhaled in relief and swore quickly, "I swear by the Seven Gods, if I cannot cure your ear, may I be cast into the Seven Hells!"

"You don't need to swear." Vargo slid his sword into its sheath and took a bite of the apple.

"If you fail, I'll personally send you to hell. Hahaha!"

He chewed twice, juice dripping down his beard—then his expression twisted. He spat violently onto the ground.

"Pah!"

"Bloody unripe!"

 

[Fanfictionlord]

Ronin's confidence, as it turned out, had been premature.

The moment he peeled off the gauze covering Vargo Hoat's ear, the sight nearly made his head spin.

It was… outrageous.

How outrageous?

To put it simply: the ear looked as if some beast had torn it off entirely. And Vargo, this brute, had simply slapped it back on and wrapped it tightly with gauze as if that solved anything.

Staring at the festering, blackened mess that used to be an ear, Ronin felt his stomach twist. Still, he forced himself to steady his mind, relying on his training.

The blood supply to the torn auricular cartilage had been almost completely severed. Reattaching it by force had turned it into nothing more than necrotic tissue pressed against the wound, trapping the pus beneath and creating a perfect, sealed incubator for infection.

This was textbook post-traumatic necrosis with severe secondary infection.

It was the kind of mistake only someone trying to die could make.

And though Ronin would have loved to see this brute drop dead, he was well aware that if Vargo died here, he likely wouldn't live another hour either. The men surrounding him had their swords practically at his throat.

"What are you staring at? Get on with it, boy!"

The skinny man beside him—Urswyck, the second-in-command—snapped impatiently.

"My lord," Ronin said, steadying his voice. "The situation is extremely serious. The ear is completely necrotic. It must be removed, along with all decayed tissue. Otherwise the pus will spread into the bloodstream and cause a deadly fever—"

"Bi*ch!"

Before he could finish, Vargo jabbed a finger at Brienne and roared, "You bit off my ear! I'll cut off your ears and shove them into your ugly cu*t."

Brienne met his gaze without flinching. "That is what a maiden does to a man who tries to violate her honor."

Her calm mockery only fueled Vargo's rage. He stormed over, raining punches and kicks on her.

Nearby, Jaime didn't move. He just sat with his head lowered, lost in his own thoughts.

Watching all this, Ronin pieced together what must have happened and silently sighed.

He was too familiar with Vargo Hoat. This man would take anything walking. Fortunately, he hadn't succeeded—otherwise Brienne wouldn't be wearing armor right now.

When Vargo finally tired himself out, he stomped back and sat heavily in front of Ronin. "You'd better know what you're doing, boy."

"Don't worry, my lord," Ronin assured him with as much confidence as he could fake. "I'm certain."

In truth, he was anything but that.

Eight years of medical school, clinical rotations, debridements, suturing—he'd done all of that. But performing a full necrotic-tissue removal under barbaric conditions like these…

Even senior surgeons would only be able to apologize to the family of the patient.

But for Ronin right now, whether he could successfully treat Vargo was irrelevant; the important thing was to bluff his way through and ensure his own survival first.

Without hesitation, he turned and loudly commanded the Brave Companions members, "I need hot water! Cloth boiled in it! Salt, honey, an oil lamp, a sharp knife—clean if possible! And bring me spiderwebs or clean moss!"

The mercenaries exchanged confused looks, wanting to protest, but Vargo's glare made them shut up. "Do what he says."

"The way this boy talks reminds me of Qyburn."

...

Half an hour later, the only sounds inside the hut were the hiss of the red-hot blade and the steady snipping of tissue.

Ronin worked with total focus, cutting away the necrotic flesh with the heated knife. It wasn't ideal, but at least it sterilized and cauterized at the same time. He moved carefully, avoiding the highly vascular region near the base of the ear—one slip and blood loss would kill Vargo, and Ronin along with him.

Vargo himself lay motionless, not because he was tough but from guzzling wine nonstop until he passed out.

A patient drinking heavily during surgery? Ronin had already declared the man dead in his heart. There was no surviving from this.

Minute by minute, he carved away the dead tissue. Finally, the necrotic ear and all the rotted flesh came off, revealing cleaner, viable skin beneath.

He didn't pause. He washed the wound with hot saline, applied honey, and bandaged it tightly.

There was no distilled alcohol here, but honey would do—its high sugar content drew water from bacteria, inhibiting their growth. Ronin had done something similar once in his past life.

When he finished, exhaustion hit him like a wave. His legs gave out and he slumped onto the floor. But he didn't feel any joy. After all, debridement was only the first step.

Would the wound heal smoothly? Would there be a Pseudomonas aeruginosa infection afterward? Would he contract tetanus?

In a world without antibiotics, Ronin couldn't promise anything.

But at least, for now, the operation was a success—and his head would remain attached to his shoulders.

As for whether Vargo Hoat would spike a fever in a few days and furiously hack him, the doctor, to death in rage… Ronin couldn't worry about that, as he certainly didn't intend to stay with these vicious criminals for that long.

"That was quick work, boy!"

A heavy hand clapped his shoulder. Urswyck approached, grinning. Ronin could see the strange dark veins bulging on the man's hands.

"Looks like the surgery worked, eh?"

Ronin forced a smile. "It seems so, my lord."

Immediately, Urswyck's smile vanished. His hand shot to Ronin's throat, squeezing hard. His grip was monstrously strong, and Ronin could see black spots swimming in his vision.

Ronin instinctively wanted to activate his Time Stop skill!

"Let him go, Urswyck! The boss still needs him!"

A burly, scarred man with bells in his hair saw Urswyck's actions and drew his scimitar, glaring at him.

Urswyck sneered but released him. "What a loyal mutt you are, Iggo. If you were half as loyal to your khalasar back in the Dothraki Sea, you wouldn't have had to run all the way to Westeros."

The man named Iggo did not respond to Urswyck's mockery, merely raising his head to stare at him solemnly.

The two stared at each other for a while. Eventually, Urswyck spat, "Go lick your master's boots then. I'm off to find some fun."

With that, he turned and left the wooden hut.

Ronin coughed, clutching his throat. He almost thought he was going to die!

From the corner of his eyes, he saw a large hand extended toward him. He grasped it and was pulled up by Iggo.

"You saved Vargo. Urswyck is unhappy. He wanted you to kill the leader."

Ronin blinked. "I see."

"He wants command for himself," Iggo explained simply.

Hearing this, Ronin nodded without saying much more, but something flickered in his eyes.

It seemed the Brave Companions were not a unified front. Perhaps he could exploit their internal conflict.

"Thank you."

"Dothraki do not say thank you," Iggo replied stiffly. "Until we reach Harrenhal and Qyburn takes over, you must keep Vargo alive. If he dies, I kill you."

"Don't worry," Ronin said with a tired smile. "You saved my life. I think we can be friends. And I always honor a friend's terms."

Iggo looked genuinely surprised. He had been roaming Westeros for over a decade, and flowery words like these were usually only heard from the mouths of noble lords, not scrawny farmers.

After thinking a moment, he picked up a piece of hard bread and handed it over to Ronin.

"Eat, Westerosi."

Then he pointed toward Jaime and Brienne. "If you have strength after eating, look at that man's wounds. Vargo won't let us treat him. But his father is Tywin Lannister. They say his shit is gold. Gold is worth keeping alive. So he must not die."

"In the Dothraki Sea, a man without a hand usually dies. Can you keep him alive until we reach Harrenhal?"

Ronin took a bite of the bread and smiled.

"I told you—I never refuse a request from a friend. And when the day comes I ask for your help, I expect you to do the same."

"Your name is Iggo, right?"

He touched his chest lightly.

"Remember mine. My name is Ronin.
Ronin Graves."

...

After finishing the oatcake and drinking a small pouch of water, Ronin felt most of his strength return.

Even so, he lingered a little longer, not wanting to look overly eager. Only after a deliberate pause did he rise, walk over to Jaime, and crouch down to examine his injuries.

"Criminal! Abettor of evil!"

"That man should've died from infection—but you healed him! Do you know how many more innocent people will die because of you?"

Before Ronin could even touch Jaime's severed wrist, a torrent of abuse reached his ears.

"Save it, lady."

He didn't get angry. Instead, he calmly lifted the severed hand and said, "Don't try lecturing me from a moral high ground. I don't have enough morality for that to work."

"You… shameless!"

Brienne froze, unable to find a sharper insult. Her face flushed red.

"Shameless?" Ronin chuckled. "That doesn't matter, Miss Brienne of Tarth."

He looked up at her as he spoke. She was half a head taller than Jaime even while kneeling.

"Everything I do is for survival. Innocence doesn't exist here. Can you honestly claim you've never lied or done anything wrong?"

"And if I remember correctly, you swore to protect Renly Baratheon. Yet he died right in front of you."

Brienne stiffened at this. Her fury faltered, then surged again, but she still found no words to refute him.

However, Ronin continued relentlessly, not intending to let her off.

"I'm alive because I have a skill. That alone makes me fortunate compared to those who were killed."

"And by the same measure, both of you are fortunate as well. Even without a claw, a lion is better off than a corpse."

"At the very least, you have me—this 'abettor of evil'—tending to your wounds so the two of you can safely wait for your families to pay the ransom. Isn't that right?"

Though his words were directed at Brienne, his real target was Jaime.

Ronin had already noticed the way the proud Kingsguard had withdrawn into silence since losing his hand. If his plan was going to work, he needed Jaime to be cheerful and lively again.

Sure enough, Jaime, who had been unresponsive, suddenly stirred and raised his head. Under the shadow, his emerald eyes looked dull and clouded.

He watched Ronin clean his stump with a heated cloth and muttered:

"What difference is there between a lion without claws and a lion already dead?"

Ronin's lips curled up.

A reaction was exactly what he needed.

Given Jaime Lannister's mental fortitude, how could the mere loss of a right hand crush him? He was simply stuck and just needed a direction.

But Ronin didn't launch into a speech. Instead, he lifted the recently cleaned severed hand and studied it.

"Let's see… uneven cut, the kind you get from hacking. Not a good sword—more like an axe."

"Bone and cartilage mixed, heavy festering. The fact you're not burning with fever shows just how strong your constitution is, Ser Jaime."

Hearing Ser instead of Kingslayer made Jaime's eyes flicker. He lowered his head, tapping the stump lightly with his left hand.

"If you can reattach it… I promise my father will make you Grand Maester…"

"One million gold dragons."

"…What?"

Jaime stared at him, startled.

"One million gold dragons, and I'll give it a try," Ronin repeated, his tone perfectly sincere.

He wasn't exaggerating. If he could acquire enough gold dragons to upgrade his Surgery to Lv5, the procedure might actually succeed.

However, this infuriated Jaime.

"Get away from me! I don't need your treatment!"

He felt like Ronin was mocking him and tried to yank his arm back but Ronin suddenly pressed his thumb into the wound!

"Agh!!"

Jaime cried out in pain and his body began to convulse.

"What are you—"

"The nerves still respond. Good. That means the system is still intact."

Brienne's reprimand died as she realized Ronin wasn't acting out of cruelty but assessing the wound.

"Congratulations, Ser. You're not in immediate danger."

When Ronin finally eased off, Jaime panted heavily and glared daggers at him.

Ronin ignored the glare and continued working.

"There's a ranger in the Night's Watch—one of their best. Qhorin Halfhand."

"As his name suggests, half his sword hand is gone."

"But the will of a ranger is stronger than that of a certain Kingsguard. He trained his left hand until it surpassed his right."

"That's impossible," Jaime snapped. "No one becomes stronger with their off-hand unless they were born left-handed."

Ronin simply shook his head.

"Don't say impossible. Nothing is impossible. Qhorin Halfhand's reputation is well-known. You can ask anyone in the North about him."

Hearing this, Jaime's gaze flickered, and a flame of hope seemed to ignite in his emerald pupils.

He was not the type to wallow in self-pity after a setback as long as he had a way out. Otherwise, he wouldn't have served as a Kingsguard for over a decade while bearing the moniker 'Kingslayer.'

Now, hearing of such a precedent, he didn't believe he couldn't accomplish what a mere Night's Watch ranger could as well.

He looked at Ronin, whose eyes seemed full of wisdom, and asked skeptically, "Why do you know so much?"

"Unlike you great lords, Ser Jaime," Ronin answered patiently, "humble men like me must always keep their eyes wide open."

"I study my enemies instead of hating them. I keep them close so I can learn."

"You're planning to resist," Jaime murmured, lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile. "With you? A… peasant who knows a bit of medicine?"

"Not me."

Ronin finished wrapping the stump, patting Jaime's arm lightly.

"Us."

"Us?" Jaime scoffed. "Look at us. A peasant. A Kingsguard who's lost his sword hand. And a woman who was nearly—"

Brienne stiffened.

"I bet as soon as we reach Harrenhal, they will chop off your head."

"Of course. I know that," Ronin said with a shrug.

Expecting gratitude from Vargo Hoat and his men was more foolish than expecting Brienne to turn into a court lady.

However, under Jaime's gaze, Ronin subtly leaned closer and whispered into his ear, his voice tinged with seriousness unlike a moment ago.

"But there's a rule I live by: women and children can afford to make mistakes. Men can't. So, Ser Jaime Lannister—let's talk business."

"I'll deal with the trouble ahead, and get the two of you back to King's Landing."

"And after that, I expect my payment."

Jaime flexed his stump, then exchanged a glance with Brienne.

In her eyes, he saw only one word.

Do it.

Their situation couldn't get any worse anyway.

"A Lannister always pays his debts," Jaime said at last, confidence returning to his voice. "Help us return to King's Landing, and you'll have enough gold to fill a bathtub."

"But first—I need to know your plan."

"I can't tell you everything," Ronin said, nodding. The candlelight split his face between shadow and flame. "But I can tell you the first step."

"That second-in-command, Urswyck."

"He'll be our opening."

"Are you thinking of helping him seize power?" Brienne asked, her disapproval evident from her tone. "Jaime tried bribing them earlier. These sellswords have no honor—"

"No," Ronin cut in, shaking his head. His lips curved into a meaningful smile. His gaze flickered to his magical skill 'Pause' at the corner of his consciousness.

"Urswyck will help us—not because he wants to, but because he'll have no choice."

"I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse."

 

[ahmed920]

Great so far cant wait to see where you take this

 

[Pilesofbooks]

Certainly an interesting idea. Looking forward to more.