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Money is Power [ASOIAF SI, System]
- Thread starter Fanfictionlord
- Start date
Simplexity
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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I really hope he doesn't stay with the Lannisters long term...
Slipstream02
Know what you're doing yet?
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- Apr 20, 2025
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- 680
Very nice story so far i wonder in what direction you plan on taking it
Chapter 8 : A dept to be repaid
New
Fanfictionlord
Making the rounds.
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On the edge of the battlefield, Jaime Lannister and Brienne sat, tied back to back against a tree.
Hearing the cries from the camp in the distance, Jaime's left hand tightened around the dagger. With a hard pull, the thick ropes finally snapped, freeing him. Brienne gave one sharp tug, freeing herself as well.
They stood up, rubbing the red welts on their wrists, breathing heavily. But as they looked ahead, the scene that greeted them made them freeze in place.
It was pure carnage. The camp had become a complete slaughterhouse. The Brave Companions had turned on each other. Men who had shared wine an hour ago now hacked each other down with crazed glints in their eyes.
Firelight flickered across distorted, blood-streaked faces. Severed limbs and lifeless bodies lay scattered in the mud that had already been dyed crimson.
Brienne asked in a low voice, "Which side are we on?"
Jaime rolled his shoulder, working feeling back into his arm, eyes moving across the chaos.
"Does it matter?" he said calmly. "Cut down anyone who stands in your way. They're nothing but rabid dogs anyway. They should all rot in Seven hells. The Riverlands will only thank us for killing them."
Brienne nodded in agreement for once. She couldn't be blamed, to be honest. Ever since she started wielding a sword, she had fought a lot of criminals and lowlifes, but no one had managed to incite as much disgust in her as this bunch.
The Brave Companions seemed to embody every sickening aspect of mankind.
Just as she stepped forward, a robust man stumbled through the melee and collapsed at her feet.
Brienne looked down, and their eyes met for a brief moment.
"Waaagh!" the man roared.
"Waaagh!" Brienne roared back, louder than him.
Before he could scramble to his feet, she grabbed him around the neck from behind and squeezed with all her might, locking him in a crushing chokehold.
He bucked against her, meaty hands scrabbling at her bracers, legs kicking up clods of dirt, but Brienne's grip seemed like a mountain, refusing to budge. The man's face flushed, veins bulging out on his neck.
Just then, a dagger slid cleanly into the gap in his leather armor.
The man's eyes went wide, his struggle intensifying!
In just a few moments, his body went completely limp.
"Steel ends it way quicker than hands," Jaime said as he pulled the dagger free from the man's chest, then cleaned the blade against his tunic.
Brienne unwound her arms, letting the now-lifeless body drop fully, then shot Jaime a look. "I know that, Kingslayer. But attacking an unarmed opponent with a weapon is not an honorable act."
With that, she crouched down and lifted the dead man's longsword from the muck.
Before Jaime could respond, she let out another fierce roar and charged into the fray. Clearly, days of captivity had left her more than eager for a fight.
Jaime clicked his tongue, annoyed at the title "Kingslayer," as he watched her wide back disappear into the chaos.
Honor, here, in this pit of filth?
Nonsense.
"Don't try to play the hero while you still draw breath. Just stay alive, Ser Jaime Lannister." A calm voice drifted down from the darkness above.
Jaime's head jerked up. High in the branches behind him sat Ronin Graves, legs dangling, face half-lit by distant fire. His eyes never left the slaughter below.
"Over time," Ronin said softly, "heroes begin to look foolish, don't they?"
Jaime stared a moment longer, then huffed. "I don't agree, Ronin Graves." His voice was low, tinged with a hint of stubbornness.
"Some things must be done, even when they're foolish, impossible, or certain to kill you."
Ronin smiled in response and said nothing more.
...
Vargo Hoat knelt in the mud, panting like a dog. He spat out a mouthful of torn flesh and wiped his chin.
He had won. Urswyck lay dead beneath him, throat torn open to the spine. Ofcourse, he had also payed a heavy price. His left eye was gone—just a wet red socket now. Blood ran down his cheek in a steady stream.
He pushed himself up, immediately becoming aware of the sluggishness in his limbs, likely from the blood loss.
He looked toward the camp—his camp—and saw his men still hacking at each other like rabid dogs.
The company he had built with his own hands was tearing itself apart right in front of his eyes, but Vargo didn't call out to stop it. He barely had the strength to stand himself.
Instead, he staggered toward the edge of the woods. There—half-buried in mud—lay his broadsword. Instinctively, he bent down to pick it up.
But before his fingers could close around the hilt, a boot slammed onto the flat of the blade. At the same time, cold steel kissed the side of his neck and forced his head back.
Vargo's remaining eye traveled up the length of the sword… and met Jaime Lannister's.
The Kingslayer stood over him, filthy golden hair hanging in his face, his emerald eyes emitting bone chilling sharpness. He held a longsword steady in his left hand, its edge digging into Vargo's throat.
Vargo couldn't help but paused for moment, then he flashed a grin—a cracked, bloody grin.
"Well, well… Isn't it Ser Jaime Lannister?" He forced out a strained laugh. "Come to finish the job? Be careful, you might lose your other hand too."
His gaze drifted toward Jaime's empty sleeve as he tried to stand straight, to maintain a shred of dignity, but his swaying betrayed him. It was keenly noticed by Jaime's sharp eyes.
"I have never met a creature as shameless as you, Vargo Hoat," he said coldly. "Men curse each other to the Seven Hells. I think that place was practically built to house filths like you."
Vargo sneered at his words, spitting blood at Jaime's boots. "You're no better, Kingslayer! You murdered your own king! Kill me—go on! But I'll be waiting for you down there. They've probably built a throne of fire just for you!"
He shouted it, as if noise could hide the shaking in his arms. But Jaime saw straight through it.
"A pity."
Jaime Lannister shook his head. His voice was grim, almost sorrowful.
"I am not as dishonorable as you, Vargo Hoat. Even for a wretch like you… I will allow a fair fight."
Under Vargo's stunned eyes, Jaime stepped back—removing his foot from the broadsword.
"Pick it up."
Jaime's voice sharpened.
"I said pick up your sword."
Hearing his words, Vargo, who was always used to being in a superior position, couldn't help but feel humiliated.
He let out a raw, angry roar and threw himself forward, grabbing the heavy broadsword out of the mud with both hands.
Unlike Jaime, he had no knightly honor at all; the second his fingers closed around the hilt, he attacked first.
He yelled again and swung the broadsword in a brutal chop, putting all his weight behind it.
It was a crude yet powerful strike!
Under normal circumstances, if it had landed, Jaime—fighting only with his left hand—would never have been able to hold it off.
But Vargo had lost an eye, and coupled with the dizziness from his fever, his strike was crooked, missing Jaime by half a foot.
Jaime reacted quickly, slipping aside with practiced ease, his movements swift and precise. Instinct made him almost try to counter with his right hand, but he immediately caught himself, awkwardly thrusting his sword sideways with his left at Vargo's face.
But... his aim missed!
His blade instead struck Vargo's thick breastplate!
Clang!
The sword rang sharply against the metal, sending a jolt through Jaime's wrist. His left hand shook so badly he almost lost his grip.
Vargo saw the tremble and hacked sideways, aiming to take Jaime across the ribs.
Jaime jumped back. His boots slipped in the wet mud and he almost stumbled, but he caught his balance just in time. The broadsword whistled past his stomach and tore a long rip in his shirt.
Jaime's heart skipped a beat for a second. This was a close call!
They kept at it, exchanging blow after blow for a while. Most of Vargo's swings missed completely or were clumsily parried by Jaime.
Jaime's own counterattacks were weak and lacked power. He could see openings in Vargo's defense several times, but his left hand just couldn't deliver the right force.
Two men who had once been feared for their skill now looked like tired, broken things swinging at shadows. Just two cripples flailing in the mud.
Jaime found it quite ironic. But it also strengthened his resolve, as he felt his movements slowly getting smoother.
Vargo, however, was gradually running out of steam. Blood loss, fever, and the imbalance from his missing eye—he had too many debuffs to begin with.
He swung again, overextended, and staggered forward.
Jaime seized the opening and slashed down at his sword-wielding hand.
The edge dug deep into his flesh and blood spurted out like a fountain. It wasn't a clean cut, lacking the strength to fully sever the wrist, but it was enough.
"Ahhh!"
Vargo screamed in agony. The broadsword dropped from lifeless fingers and his right hand hung to his shoulder solely by tendons.
He collapsed backward into the mud with a heavy splash and lay there gasping.
Jaime glanced at the half-severed hand, a flicker of regret passing through him. With his right hand, that would have been a clean cut.
Shaking his head, he stepped forward, raising his sword toward Vargo's throat to deliver a finishing blow.
Vengeance for all the humiliation he had suffered during this time was finally within reach. But strangely, Jaime didn't feel any joy—only calmness.
Suddenly, Vargo shrieked, pointing behind him: "That woman—she's dying!"
Jaime's heart skipped a beat.
Who? Brienne?
Some part of his mind shouted that it was the oldest trick in the book. But the rest of him turned anyway—just a quick glance over his shoulder.
There was nothing there.
'I fell for it—'
The instant he turned, Vargo lunged out from the mud like a dying beast, slamming his whole body into Jaime's sword arm.
Bang!
His unstable left hand buckled, and the sword flew from his grip, landing a few paces away.
"Hahaha! What a fool!" Vargo spat, blood foaming at his lips.
He yanked a dagger from his boot and lunged again and again. Jaime, unarmed, could only dodge and deflect with desperate footwork.
But Vargo's left hand was nimble, and the dagger soon left bloody marks across Jaime's body.
Just then, a calm, faintly teasing voice drifted from nearby.
"I told you not to play the hero, Ser Jaime Lannister."
Both men froze.
A few paces away from them, Ronin Graves stood with hands in the pockets. Beside him stood Iggo, the silent Dothraki who had once been on Vargo's side.
Vargo's face lit up with hope. He shrieked desperately toward the Dothraki, "Iggo! My bloodrider! Kill the Kingslayer! I'll give you half of Harrenhal—no, all of it! Everything!"
Met with his temptations, Iggo didn't even blink. He just stood there behind Ronin like a statue carved from bronze.
In the distance, the last noises of fighting were dying out. Only a few blade clashes still rang, accompanied by a woman's loud battle cries.
Seeing Iggo unresponsive, the hope in Vargo's eye went out like a snuffed candle. His face twisted with rage and he bared his broken teeth at him.
"Iggo, you treacherous dog—You dare betray me? I armed you! I called you my brother, and this is how you repay me!"
Iggo still said nothing.
Instead, he took out a steel longsword he had seized from one of the men he had slain earlier and tossed it forward. It landed point-down in the mud right in front of Jaime.
Jaime quickly grabbed it and then rose unsteadily.
Shock and despair flooded Vargo's face. Then his legs gave out. The fever and the blood loss finally dragged him down into the muck.
Jaime walked over. There was no flourish, no speech. Without hesitation, he drove the blade straight through Vargo Hoat's throat.
The man's remaining eye stayed fixed on Jaime's face until the light behind it went dark. He fell back into the mud once more, for the last time.
Jaime let go of the hilt. The sword stayed where it was, standing upright in the corpse.
Jaime felt the strength run out of his legs. He reached up with his good hand, grabbed the rotten, severed hand that had hung around his neck for weeks, then tore the cord free.
"I don't need this anymore," he said, tossing it onto Vargo's corpse. "Take it with you and rot together in Seven Hells."
He turned his back on the body and didn't look again.
Ronin was still leaning against a tree, watching the whole thing like a detached spectator, his expression unreadable, only his dark eyes glinting in the firelight.
"That wasn't wise, Ser Jaime," he said calmly. "You could have ended it the moment he dropped his guard. Instead you gave him a fight. You risked your life for nothing."
Jaime wiped blood and rain from his face with his sleeve. Some of the old fire came back into his eyes. He smiled—the genuine smile, the one he'd worn when he was young and whole. When he was called the best sword in the Seven Kingdoms.
"I wasn't planning to lose, Ronin Graves."
His smile widened as he continued, the words carrying through the dying rain, "And don't forget—I still owe you a bathtub full of gold dragons."
"After all, a Lannister always pays his debts."
...
Read Chapter 10 on my Patreon for free.
Hearing the cries from the camp in the distance, Jaime's left hand tightened around the dagger. With a hard pull, the thick ropes finally snapped, freeing him. Brienne gave one sharp tug, freeing herself as well.
They stood up, rubbing the red welts on their wrists, breathing heavily. But as they looked ahead, the scene that greeted them made them freeze in place.
It was pure carnage. The camp had become a complete slaughterhouse. The Brave Companions had turned on each other. Men who had shared wine an hour ago now hacked each other down with crazed glints in their eyes.
Firelight flickered across distorted, blood-streaked faces. Severed limbs and lifeless bodies lay scattered in the mud that had already been dyed crimson.
Brienne asked in a low voice, "Which side are we on?"
Jaime rolled his shoulder, working feeling back into his arm, eyes moving across the chaos.
"Does it matter?" he said calmly. "Cut down anyone who stands in your way. They're nothing but rabid dogs anyway. They should all rot in Seven hells. The Riverlands will only thank us for killing them."
Brienne nodded in agreement for once. She couldn't be blamed, to be honest. Ever since she started wielding a sword, she had fought a lot of criminals and lowlifes, but no one had managed to incite as much disgust in her as this bunch.
The Brave Companions seemed to embody every sickening aspect of mankind.
Just as she stepped forward, a robust man stumbled through the melee and collapsed at her feet.
Brienne looked down, and their eyes met for a brief moment.
"Waaagh!" the man roared.
"Waaagh!" Brienne roared back, louder than him.
Before he could scramble to his feet, she grabbed him around the neck from behind and squeezed with all her might, locking him in a crushing chokehold.
He bucked against her, meaty hands scrabbling at her bracers, legs kicking up clods of dirt, but Brienne's grip seemed like a mountain, refusing to budge. The man's face flushed, veins bulging out on his neck.
Just then, a dagger slid cleanly into the gap in his leather armor.
The man's eyes went wide, his struggle intensifying!
In just a few moments, his body went completely limp.
"Steel ends it way quicker than hands," Jaime said as he pulled the dagger free from the man's chest, then cleaned the blade against his tunic.
Brienne unwound her arms, letting the now-lifeless body drop fully, then shot Jaime a look. "I know that, Kingslayer. But attacking an unarmed opponent with a weapon is not an honorable act."
With that, she crouched down and lifted the dead man's longsword from the muck.
Before Jaime could respond, she let out another fierce roar and charged into the fray. Clearly, days of captivity had left her more than eager for a fight.
Jaime clicked his tongue, annoyed at the title "Kingslayer," as he watched her wide back disappear into the chaos.
Honor, here, in this pit of filth?
Nonsense.
"Don't try to play the hero while you still draw breath. Just stay alive, Ser Jaime Lannister." A calm voice drifted down from the darkness above.
Jaime's head jerked up. High in the branches behind him sat Ronin Graves, legs dangling, face half-lit by distant fire. His eyes never left the slaughter below.
"Over time," Ronin said softly, "heroes begin to look foolish, don't they?"
Jaime stared a moment longer, then huffed. "I don't agree, Ronin Graves." His voice was low, tinged with a hint of stubbornness.
"Some things must be done, even when they're foolish, impossible, or certain to kill you."
Ronin smiled in response and said nothing more.
...
Vargo Hoat knelt in the mud, panting like a dog. He spat out a mouthful of torn flesh and wiped his chin.
He had won. Urswyck lay dead beneath him, throat torn open to the spine. Ofcourse, he had also payed a heavy price. His left eye was gone—just a wet red socket now. Blood ran down his cheek in a steady stream.
He pushed himself up, immediately becoming aware of the sluggishness in his limbs, likely from the blood loss.
He looked toward the camp—his camp—and saw his men still hacking at each other like rabid dogs.
The company he had built with his own hands was tearing itself apart right in front of his eyes, but Vargo didn't call out to stop it. He barely had the strength to stand himself.
Instead, he staggered toward the edge of the woods. There—half-buried in mud—lay his broadsword. Instinctively, he bent down to pick it up.
But before his fingers could close around the hilt, a boot slammed onto the flat of the blade. At the same time, cold steel kissed the side of his neck and forced his head back.
Vargo's remaining eye traveled up the length of the sword… and met Jaime Lannister's.
The Kingslayer stood over him, filthy golden hair hanging in his face, his emerald eyes emitting bone chilling sharpness. He held a longsword steady in his left hand, its edge digging into Vargo's throat.
Vargo couldn't help but paused for moment, then he flashed a grin—a cracked, bloody grin.
"Well, well… Isn't it Ser Jaime Lannister?" He forced out a strained laugh. "Come to finish the job? Be careful, you might lose your other hand too."
His gaze drifted toward Jaime's empty sleeve as he tried to stand straight, to maintain a shred of dignity, but his swaying betrayed him. It was keenly noticed by Jaime's sharp eyes.
"I have never met a creature as shameless as you, Vargo Hoat," he said coldly. "Men curse each other to the Seven Hells. I think that place was practically built to house filths like you."
Vargo sneered at his words, spitting blood at Jaime's boots. "You're no better, Kingslayer! You murdered your own king! Kill me—go on! But I'll be waiting for you down there. They've probably built a throne of fire just for you!"
He shouted it, as if noise could hide the shaking in his arms. But Jaime saw straight through it.
"A pity."
Jaime Lannister shook his head. His voice was grim, almost sorrowful.
"I am not as dishonorable as you, Vargo Hoat. Even for a wretch like you… I will allow a fair fight."
Under Vargo's stunned eyes, Jaime stepped back—removing his foot from the broadsword.
"Pick it up."
Jaime's voice sharpened.
"I said pick up your sword."
Hearing his words, Vargo, who was always used to being in a superior position, couldn't help but feel humiliated.
He let out a raw, angry roar and threw himself forward, grabbing the heavy broadsword out of the mud with both hands.
Unlike Jaime, he had no knightly honor at all; the second his fingers closed around the hilt, he attacked first.
He yelled again and swung the broadsword in a brutal chop, putting all his weight behind it.
It was a crude yet powerful strike!
Under normal circumstances, if it had landed, Jaime—fighting only with his left hand—would never have been able to hold it off.
But Vargo had lost an eye, and coupled with the dizziness from his fever, his strike was crooked, missing Jaime by half a foot.
Jaime reacted quickly, slipping aside with practiced ease, his movements swift and precise. Instinct made him almost try to counter with his right hand, but he immediately caught himself, awkwardly thrusting his sword sideways with his left at Vargo's face.
But... his aim missed!
His blade instead struck Vargo's thick breastplate!
Clang!
The sword rang sharply against the metal, sending a jolt through Jaime's wrist. His left hand shook so badly he almost lost his grip.
Vargo saw the tremble and hacked sideways, aiming to take Jaime across the ribs.
Jaime jumped back. His boots slipped in the wet mud and he almost stumbled, but he caught his balance just in time. The broadsword whistled past his stomach and tore a long rip in his shirt.
Jaime's heart skipped a beat for a second. This was a close call!
They kept at it, exchanging blow after blow for a while. Most of Vargo's swings missed completely or were clumsily parried by Jaime.
Jaime's own counterattacks were weak and lacked power. He could see openings in Vargo's defense several times, but his left hand just couldn't deliver the right force.
Two men who had once been feared for their skill now looked like tired, broken things swinging at shadows. Just two cripples flailing in the mud.
Jaime found it quite ironic. But it also strengthened his resolve, as he felt his movements slowly getting smoother.
Vargo, however, was gradually running out of steam. Blood loss, fever, and the imbalance from his missing eye—he had too many debuffs to begin with.
He swung again, overextended, and staggered forward.
Jaime seized the opening and slashed down at his sword-wielding hand.
The edge dug deep into his flesh and blood spurted out like a fountain. It wasn't a clean cut, lacking the strength to fully sever the wrist, but it was enough.
"Ahhh!"
Vargo screamed in agony. The broadsword dropped from lifeless fingers and his right hand hung to his shoulder solely by tendons.
He collapsed backward into the mud with a heavy splash and lay there gasping.
Jaime glanced at the half-severed hand, a flicker of regret passing through him. With his right hand, that would have been a clean cut.
Shaking his head, he stepped forward, raising his sword toward Vargo's throat to deliver a finishing blow.
Vengeance for all the humiliation he had suffered during this time was finally within reach. But strangely, Jaime didn't feel any joy—only calmness.
Suddenly, Vargo shrieked, pointing behind him: "That woman—she's dying!"
Jaime's heart skipped a beat.
Who? Brienne?
Some part of his mind shouted that it was the oldest trick in the book. But the rest of him turned anyway—just a quick glance over his shoulder.
There was nothing there.
'I fell for it—'
The instant he turned, Vargo lunged out from the mud like a dying beast, slamming his whole body into Jaime's sword arm.
Bang!
His unstable left hand buckled, and the sword flew from his grip, landing a few paces away.
"Hahaha! What a fool!" Vargo spat, blood foaming at his lips.
He yanked a dagger from his boot and lunged again and again. Jaime, unarmed, could only dodge and deflect with desperate footwork.
But Vargo's left hand was nimble, and the dagger soon left bloody marks across Jaime's body.
Just then, a calm, faintly teasing voice drifted from nearby.
"I told you not to play the hero, Ser Jaime Lannister."
Both men froze.
A few paces away from them, Ronin Graves stood with hands in the pockets. Beside him stood Iggo, the silent Dothraki who had once been on Vargo's side.
Vargo's face lit up with hope. He shrieked desperately toward the Dothraki, "Iggo! My bloodrider! Kill the Kingslayer! I'll give you half of Harrenhal—no, all of it! Everything!"
Met with his temptations, Iggo didn't even blink. He just stood there behind Ronin like a statue carved from bronze.
In the distance, the last noises of fighting were dying out. Only a few blade clashes still rang, accompanied by a woman's loud battle cries.
Seeing Iggo unresponsive, the hope in Vargo's eye went out like a snuffed candle. His face twisted with rage and he bared his broken teeth at him.
"Iggo, you treacherous dog—You dare betray me? I armed you! I called you my brother, and this is how you repay me!"
Iggo still said nothing.
Instead, he took out a steel longsword he had seized from one of the men he had slain earlier and tossed it forward. It landed point-down in the mud right in front of Jaime.
Jaime quickly grabbed it and then rose unsteadily.
Shock and despair flooded Vargo's face. Then his legs gave out. The fever and the blood loss finally dragged him down into the muck.
Jaime walked over. There was no flourish, no speech. Without hesitation, he drove the blade straight through Vargo Hoat's throat.
The man's remaining eye stayed fixed on Jaime's face until the light behind it went dark. He fell back into the mud once more, for the last time.
Jaime let go of the hilt. The sword stayed where it was, standing upright in the corpse.
Jaime felt the strength run out of his legs. He reached up with his good hand, grabbed the rotten, severed hand that had hung around his neck for weeks, then tore the cord free.
"I don't need this anymore," he said, tossing it onto Vargo's corpse. "Take it with you and rot together in Seven Hells."
He turned his back on the body and didn't look again.
Ronin was still leaning against a tree, watching the whole thing like a detached spectator, his expression unreadable, only his dark eyes glinting in the firelight.
"That wasn't wise, Ser Jaime," he said calmly. "You could have ended it the moment he dropped his guard. Instead you gave him a fight. You risked your life for nothing."
Jaime wiped blood and rain from his face with his sleeve. Some of the old fire came back into his eyes. He smiled—the genuine smile, the one he'd worn when he was young and whole. When he was called the best sword in the Seven Kingdoms.
"I wasn't planning to lose, Ronin Graves."
His smile widened as he continued, the words carrying through the dying rain, "And don't forget—I still owe you a bathtub full of gold dragons."
"After all, a Lannister always pays his debts."
...
Read Chapter 10 on my Patreon for free.
Last edited:
Fanfictionlord
Making the rounds.
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You'll have to keep reading to know that hehe.
Fanfictionlord
Making the rounds.
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That could certainly pose a problem. Thanks for the reminder. I'll think of something.
Last edited:
The Radiance's Follower
The Radiance is best.
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Is my man actually aura farming here ? The sitting on the tree, the looking coldly at men fighting for their lives.
While he is looking quite cold there. I wonder how his mind is acting ? All according to keikaku or cheering internally since he didn't know if this will work or not ?
AbenSur
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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Perhaps decide on a number of abilities or rolls that'd be an appropriate 'prologue/tutorial' amount so he's not completely fucked and then increase it in some way connected to that.
Hell if this is the books change one of the high tiers to sacrificing a magic item or something similar.