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.

 

[Jack-21]

A million gold is too much, Tywin would certainly offer an incredible reward if MC saves his son but if MC starts asking for a million, he will just get a knife in the back.

Its simply too much wealth, the iron throne is like 7-8 million gold dragon in debt in comparison.

 

[Ahtu]

The take on Medieval Europe, and how its feudal system works is HILARIOUSLY inaccurate. Like a bad caricature (but tbf GOT/ASOIAF shares some guilt in that take). Also loaded with some heavy handed political peddling for the rich vs poor narrative. But past that point, the characters are faithful to the original story, the system is interesting, and the intrigue is fairly gripping.

Reminds me of some of the better fanfics, and original works I've come across in my many years of reading novels online. It shows great potential. Time will tell if you can live up to it.

 

[Fanfictionlord]

Walking on the soft soil of the farm, every step met Ronin with an uncomfortable, gooey stickiness. Whenever he lifted his foot, he could hear a faint, wet squelch.

He couldn't tell whether what clung to his boot was damp mud or plasma that had long since cooled, solidified, and seeped into the soil.

The fruit trees surrounding them were laden with the bodies of the hired laborers who had once toiled alongside him in Sir Finn's orchard.

Those dark shapes hanging from the branches swayed slightly in the night breeze, resembling ripe fruit clustered on the trees.

Ronin didn't dare glance around. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, acting like a complete stranger whose heart was utterly unmoved by the tragic fate of his kind.

His status within the Brave Companions hadn't changed much just because he treated Vergo; he was still a prisoner who could be executed at any moment, spared only because he was temporarily useful.

But even this minor usefulness was nowhere near enough to grant him any freedom of movement.

Perhaps once Vergo—currently lying drunk and fast asleep in the wooden cabin—woke up, Ronin would be inexplicably hanged on an apple tree like the rest.

Ronin halted at the edge of the woods, and the man escorting him jutted out his chin.

"Go on in, healer."

Rorge the Noseless was slightly hunched, bulky, and covered in black hair, appearing more menacing than anyone else in the Brave Companions.

But appearances could sometimes be deceiving; this fellow happened to be the most polite among this entire party of sellswords.

When Ronin made a request to meet Urswyck, the man agreed immediately without asking a single question, saving him a significant amount of trouble.

"Thank you very much for bringing me here, my lord."

Ronin bowed sincerely.

"Don't mention it."

Rolger grinned and placed a large, hairy hand on his shoulder. "I never refuse a healer's request. After all, no one can guarantee they won't ever get injured, can they?"

"Go on, Urswyck is in there. But I suggest you wait until he's finished before speaking. That fellow never likes to be disturbed when he's enjoying himself."

As he spoke, his smile grew wider, and his vicious face even showed a hint of goodwill.

"I will remember your kindness, Lord Rorge."

Ronin's lips curved upward slightly, and he returned the smile with a small nod.

He didn't waste another word. Taking a deep breath, he walked alone into the dim woods, trying his best to tread lightly.

Although he had rehearsed his arguments countless times in preparation for this meeting, he still couldn't help but feel a bit nervous inside.

After rounding a few apple trees, a small, relatively open clearing appeared ahead.

In the center of the clearing, a lump of pale, fleshy fat was tied to a thick tree trunk.

The boy looked to be between ten and thirteen years old, but his enormous physique made him resemble a deformed adult.

Ronin recognized him instantly: Sir Finn's only son, Derek.

Not far in front of him, Urswyck was completely absorbed in his little "game."

Young Master Derek—fatter than a pig—had been stripped naked from the waist up and tied to the tree, resembling a hog awaiting slaughter.

Urswyck wasn't using a blade, but a sharpened wooden stick, methodically poking and stabbing the boy's greasy flesh, causing blood mixed with fat to ooze out.

Listening to the muffled screams and pleas for mercy, a hint of morbid satisfaction spread across the man's face.

"As a healer, Lord Urswyck, please allow me to offer you a professional suggestion."

Ignoring Rolger's furious gaze at being disturbed, Ronin boldly stepped forward and spoke: "Your efficiency is too low this way, and he could easily go into shock from blood loss or pain, losing consciousness too early. That would ruin the fun."

Urswyck froze, not even having time to feel offended. He had tortured many people, but this was the first time someone had offered him professional advice on how to torment a victim.

"…What was that?"

He almost thought he'd misheard, frowning as he sized up Ronin.

Ronin shrugged, pointed to the scattered wounds on Derek's body, and stated calmly: "While shallow cuts are painful, heavy bleeding dilutes the sensation of pain and easily triggers shock."

"Destroying areas with dense nerve endings, such as the fingertips or armpits, certainly generates intense pain, but the effect isn't long-lasting."

As he spoke, he seemed to gradually step closer. "If you want a more sustained and profound reaction…"

"I suggest you avoid major blood vessels and organs, and try piercing muscle groups in non-load-bearing areas, such as the front of the thigh or the upper arm. Control the depth to half an inch to an inch, making sure to avoid the femoral and brachial arteries."

"This will cause continuous, searing pain and functional impairment, without being immediately fatal."

His calm, detailed explanation made Urswyck—an experienced torturer—feel a strange chill.

But this chill quickly gave way to excitement and curiosity, as if he had found a "kindred spirit," or even a true "expert."

"Damn it… healer, you're truly a monster!"

He withdrew the wooden stick, staring intently at Ronin, his eyes filled with surprise, admiration, and eagerness. "I love it! Keep going!"

"Please hand me a dagger."

Ronin stepped up to Urswyck, holding out a steady hand, speaking as calmly as if discussing a surgery.

Raising an eyebrow, Urswyck quickly pulled a small knife from his clothes and handed it over.

Taking the knife, Ronin approached the plump boy tied to the tree, looked into his eyes—filled with despair and hatred—and spoke softly.

"I don't hate you, lord Derek."

"Though you always enjoyed whipping us alongside the steward, using your weight of over three hundred pounds to press down on the hired laborers and ride us like horses."

"Do you remember how you once crushed two people to death, and three others were also crippled because of it?"

Seeing Derek's eyes grow confused and frightened, Ronin shook his head, almost regretful.

It appeared the boy didn't remember.

But that was normal; his intelligence was clearly lower than average—probably a result of inbreeding. It was rumored that Sir Finn's first wife was his cousin.

"I don't hate you," Ronin repeated. "Everything I'm about to do has nothing to do with revenge. This is merely a necessary business transaction."

"Of course, not every business deal can benefit everyone; someone must make a sacrifice."

"Like you."

Splat~~~~

The dagger plunged into Derek's thigh, twisted, and pulled out cleanly, carefully avoiding all major blood vessels.

Derek let out a sharp, agonizing howl. His body convulsed violently, but his consciousness remained painfully clear as he endured the continuous, searing torture.

"See?"

"This way, he can suffer for a long time, but he won't die instantly."

Turning around, Ronin handed the bloody knife back to the stunned Urswyck, his tone instructional—like a medical demonstration.

"This is the control and efficiency I was just describing."

Urswyck was completely stunned.

The bloody dagger was right there in Ronin's hand, and the fat boy was still convulsing and screaming; the pain on his face was unmistakable.

Professional.

Utterly professional.

"Teach me!"

Urswyck licked his lips, eyes alight with hunger for knowledge and the thrill of violence. "Healer, I must learn this!"

Ronin's lips curved upward.

Step one—establishing a sense of kinship—was complete.

"You may call me Ronin, Lord Urswyck. Rest assured, I will teach you everything."

He smiled as he placed the bloody dagger back into the man's hand, then shifted the topic, his calm smile carrying a strange, compelling persuasion:

"However, torturing an insignificant fat kid is a minor skill."

"Don't you want to apply this kind of 'precision' and 'control' to a grander objective?"

"Such as… deciding who is truly qualified to sit forever on the seat of the lord of Harrenhal?"

Uswyck's pupils constricted.

He gripped the dagger, vigilantly swept his gaze around the area, then lowered his voice.

"What exactly are you trying to say, healer?"

Facing that unfriendly stare, Ronin didn't hide anything. He replied calmly, his tone very direct, "I feel it isn't worth it for you, my lord."

"Not worth it?" Urswyck narrowed his eyes with interest.

"Yes. Not worth it."

Ronin stepped forward. "I've heard the Brave Companions, under the leadership of Lord Vargo Hoat, came all the way from the Free Cities to Westeros and helped seize Harrenhal for Tywin Lannister."

"But Lord Vargo betrayed the Lannister garrison for the title of Lord of Harrenhal, and opened the gates to the northern army."

Urswyck snorted. No surprise—those events had spread across the Riverlands. And as a member of the Brave Companions, he didn't mind betrayal. In truth, many of the old hands had pushed Vargo toward it. They were sellswords, not knights. Honor didn't feed anyone; profit did.

"With all due respect, my lord," Ronin went on, his voice steady, almost persuasive. "The dirty work, the risky work—you all did that together as brothers, didn't you?"

"But when Lord Bolton handed out rewards, everything went to Lord Vargo alone."

He shifted his tone—sharper now.

"'Lord of Harrenhal.' Quite the title, isn't it? The largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms. A sprawling, fertile domain."

"And you? The deputy leader of the group? And all the men who shed blood at his side?"

"Just a few empty praises? And now here you are, amusing yourself by tormenting a child on some run-down farm?"

"Is that fair?"

The words hit their mark. Urswyck's expression darkened, his fingers tightening around the dagger, but he didn't refute a word.

Seeing him waver, Ronin pressed on. "To be frank, my lord, our illustrious Lord of Harrenhal… his good days are numbered."

"What do you mean?" Urswyck's eyelid twitched, but he forced himself to stay calm. "Wasn't the surgery successful?"

"Oh, it was." Ronin met his sharp gaze without flinching. "My skill is impeccable."

"Then why—"

"He already had a fever before the surgery even began."

Ronin shrugged, explaining plainly. "I removed most of the necrotic flesh. It bought him time. But it's like smothering a fire while the embers are still glowing."

"His medical knowledge is nonexistent. He tried to reattach his own ear and caused a severe infection. Then he drank heavily while feverish. He may as well have stabbed himself."

Ronin stepped closer and whispered in a low voice. "By tomorrow, the fever will flare again. It would be even worse than earlier. He'll burn, ramble, weaken with every hour."

"But with his stubborn constitution, he might last until Harrenhal, where there are Lord Bolton's maesters and that Qyburn. If they take over, they might just drag him back from death."

"He must not reach Harrenhal!" The words burst out of Urswyck before he could stop them.

"Exactly." Ronin nodded. Then, smoothly, he laid out the solution. "We can let it end 'naturally' on the road. I can guide the process. For example, applying something… unclean to the wound. Discreetly."

"He'll develop a steady, deteriorating fever like any fatally wounded man… and one night, he'll peacefully pass away in his sleep. Everyone will believe he died from his injuries. No one will suspect us."

"It's just that... there is one problem."

"What problem?" Urswyck's breathing quickened. He leaned in, eager for the answer.

"Fever," Ronin said again.

"When Lord Vargo realizes his fever is returning and his mind is fogging, even if he doesn't suspect me of foul play, he'll still think the surgery failed."

"And the first thing he'll do is have someone cut off my head."

Saying this, he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I don't want to die."

"And once I die, no one will be able to precisely control his dying process, and all our plans will fall apart."

Urswyck frowned deeply. To be honest, he didn't care whether Ronin lived or died—but he also understood that if this plan was to succeed, the healer was crucial.

It had to be admitted—Ronin's move was very clever. By openly showing his weakness, he tied their interests together. Ronin's survival now directly affected whether Urswyck's ambitions could be realised.

"I understand," Urswyck finally said after a long pause. A sinister grin formed on his face. "I'll make sure no one touches you until that guy is completely dead."

"A company can't do without a healer, after all."

Having received the assurance, Ronin nodded with satisfaction. As he had said before, he would offer Urswyck a condition he couldn't refuse.

For an ambitious deputy leader, what kind of condition could he not refuse?

Of course—getting rid of the old leader and taking his place.

"Leader Vargo will die of a high fever within three days. As for you, my lord—"

Seeing the iron was hot, Ronin struck again. He gave a faint smile. "Compared to returning his corpse to Harrenhal, you have a better choice. A shortcut to the pinnacle of power."

"The Kingslayer."

Uswyck's eyes flew open. He stared at Ronin in disbelief.

But Ronin didn't pause. He continued, patiently laying out the vision.

"Remember—Lord Vargo took Jaime Lannister's hand. Not you, my lord. You can take that 'goodwill' and go directly to Tywin Lannister."

"Think about it. For Lord Tywin, who just lost his son's sword hand, this would be a huge favor. Once his army retakes Harrenhal, who do you think he'll reward with the title of the lord of Harrenhal?"

As Ronin finished, the idea detonated in Urswyck's mind.

The risk was immense. But so was the reward.

A direct alliance with the Lannisters and a secure claim to Harrenhal!

He looked at Ronin as if seeing him for the first time. After a long silence, he said, almost to himself, "You really are a madman, healer."

"It's Ronin, my lord. Ronin Graves." Ronin smiled faintly.

"Ronin it is." Urswyck nodded thoughtfully. "But we only just betrayed Lord Tywin and defected to the North. Would he believe our loyalty?"

"I need some time to think about it carefully."

"Of course, my lord. Caution is a virtue. A decision like this deserves careful thought."

Ronin shifted back to a restrained posture. He didn't push. Being overly aggressive here would only raise suspicion.

He had already planted the seed. No further force was needed.

The two were silent for a long time, each turning possibilities over in their heads. Eventually, Urswyck spoke again.

"Ronin Graves."

His voice was cold, though laced with excitement.

He lifted the dagger and lazily pointed the tip at the tied-up Derek. "You've said a lot. But I've received no guarantee."

"So…"

"Prove your resolve. Right now."

"Use that 'control' and 'efficiency' you preached. Send this fat pig on his way. Let me see your hand."

Ronin didn't blink. No ripple of emotion crossed his face. He had expected this.

In this world where the strong prey on the weak—especially among men like these—nothing cemented trust like shared bloodshed.

"Learning is everywhere, my lord."

He took the dagger and walked toward Derek. The firelight wavered over his features, leaving half his face in soft shadow. His eyes were steady and cold.

Strangely, even though this was the first time he was killing a man, he felt no weight. It was no different from the first time he held a scalpel. He had been praised then for his nerves.

"This is just business, Lord Derek," he murmured.

He repeated once more: "In a transaction, someone always has to pay the price."

The moment his words fell, Ronin moved.

He didn't aim for the heart or throat. Instead, with a small flick of his wrist, the dagger slipped precisely into the narrow space between Derek's left carotid artery and trachea.

Pfft!

Derek's heavy body seized. His mouth opened soundlessly; blood poured down his neck in a hot sheet.

His pupils dilated. His limbs twitched. Then his head sagged. It was over in seconds—clean, efficient, clinical.

Ronin turned and handed the dagger back to Urswyck.

Urswyck accepted the warm blade, studying the healer's calm, indifferent eyes in the firelight. Slowly, a wicked yet approving smile spread across his face.

"Very good, Ronin Graves."

"Welcome to the game of power."

 

[TRm]

Brilliant job on that chapter

 

[Yeetboi]

This was really good. Loved the last scene as he deftly positioned himself as a true connoisseur of inflicting pain, right in front of a sadist like Urswyck. Made the bastard feel like he was with a kindred spirit, a perfect position for Ronin to begin manipulating him.