Money is Power [ASOIAF SI, System]

[AbenSur]

Dear god that's diabolical lol, I hope they have enough gold put together for a few skills cause he's gonna have a much smaller crew after this lol.

 

[Simplexity]

I really hope he doesn't stay with the Lannisters long term...

 

[penniless]

I like the concept but maybe don't have the cost of rolls be a constant amount.

I can see the problem coming that for him at some point those 10 gold are going to become trivial

 

[Slipstream02]

Very nice story so far i wonder in what direction you plan on taking it

 

[Fanfictionlord]

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 11 Chapters(Over 25k words) ahead on my Patreon.

 

[Fanfictionlord]

Very nice story so far i wonder in what direction you plan on taking it

Click to shrink...

You'll have to keep reading to know that hehe.

 

[AbenSur]

A Dothraki, A peasant, A Knight and A Lannister all walk into a tavern

 

[Fanfictionlord]

I like the concept but maybe don't have the cost of rolls be a constant amount.

I can see the problem coming that for him at some point those 10 gold are going to become trivial

Click to shrink...

That could certainly pose a problem. Thanks for the reminder. I'll think of something.

 

[The Radiance's Follower]

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.

Click to shrink...

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]

That could certainly pose a problem. Thanks for the reminder. I'll think of something.

Click to shrink...

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.

 

[Fanfictionlord]

In the early morning, a thin mist once again rose over the silent roads of the Riverlands.

A heavy stench of blood hung over the camp. The bonfires had long burned out, and the sounds of fighting had faded.

The long-brewing internal strife among the Brave Companions had come to an end.

Already shaken by how abruptly the battle had erupted—and further overwhelmed by the indiscriminate slaughter unleashed by Iggo and Brienne—almost none of the Brave Companions involved in last night's melee survived.

Those who did were already gravely injured and were swiftly sent to their companions afterwards.

In the woods, Iggo moved between the trees, occasionally crouching to strip useful items off the corpses scattered across the clearing.

Money pouches, weapons, hard bread, and dried meat. He picked up whatever valuables he could find. His face remained blank throughout, as though he were simply gathering ripened grain.

Of course, the Dothraki never farm.

Brienne, meanwhile, was down on one knee, leaning on her sword hilt with her forehead pressed to the back of her hand.

She murmured something under her breath—likely invocations from the Faith of the Seven.

At the center of the camp, beneath an oak tree, Ronin held his small surgical knife. After thoroughly heating it over the flame, he focused on treating Jaime Lannister's severed wrist.

Given the precarious situation and the threat posed earlier by the Brave Companions, the initial bandaging and treatment he had done had been extremely crude—just enough to slow necrosis and stop the bleeding.

Now that the situation had somewhat stabilized, Ronin showed some real skill and thoroughly patched up Jaime Lannister.

After his experience in treating Vargo, Ronin's mindset had somewhat solidified. Even performing surgery in such a filthy, open-air environment didn't waver him one bit.

Perhaps fate itself had decided Ser Jaime Lannister was not meant to die.

After all, the man had rolled in mud after the amputation, then been exposed to horse urine, dung, and half a dozen other contaminations, yet the wound showed no sign of infection.

Ronin couldn't explain it scientifically. He could only marvel at Jaime's almost divine luck. Was this the legendary plot armor at work?

The blade precisely cut through the blackened, rotting flesh as he removed every patch of dead tissue. His movements were orderly, each gesture carrying a natural grace.

"Ugh! Ahh!!!!!"

"Ooh! Huhh!!!"

Jaime's forehead glistened with cold sweat. Even though he tried his best to remain silent, clenching his jaw, his occasional cries of pain still couldn't be suppressed.

His left hand dug into the dirt, clenching so hard that soil wedged beneath his nails. It was just that painful.

"Relax, Ser Jaime."

Ronin didn't raise his head, but Jaime could see his lips curl up in a mocking arc. "Your screams are more shrill than a little girl being violated by a septon."

"Oh, forgive me. I nearly forgot. Septons aren't fond of little girls."

"Were you ever harassed by a septon when you were young, Ser Jaime? Oh no, what nonsense am I even saying? You're Tywin Lannister's eldest son—the future Lord of Casterly Rock. Who would dare?"

"Shut up, Ronin!"

Jaime snapped, unable to take it anymore. This man was a damned chatterbox. How had he not noticed before?

Jaime sucked in a sharp breath and growled between clenched teeth. "Since it's not your flesh being cut, of course you can stand there and talk. Why don't we trade places for a moment and—ahh!!!"

He tried to use sarcasm to fight off the pain, but Ronin's knife pressed down again with flawless timing.

"Indeed, Ser."

Slicing off another piece of dead flesh, Ronin spoke again, his voice laced with genuine admiration. "To bear this kind of pain without a draft of milk of the poppy and stay awake through it, you truly are a strong-willed man."

"At least far stronger than that Vargo Hoat."

Hearing his praise, Jaime merely snorted, but judging by his slightly curled lips, anyone could tell he was greatly pleased.

Having his hand chopped off by Vargo Hoat was arguably the greatest humiliation he had ever suffered in his entire life. Hearing someone say he outmatched the man in something somewhat soothed his wounded heart.

Neither man spoke again, and the surgery continued amidst the silence and the occasional cries of pain.

After the last bit of decayed flesh was removed and the wound was perfectly stitched, Ronin cleaned it again with boiled water and clean cloth, then applied honey and performed the final bandaging. Finally, he tied the cloth with a surprisingly delicate bow.

Jaime stared at the dainty bow on his wrist, his expression a bit strange. In the end, he could only force out a smile.

"Your skill… is remarkable, Ronin. In terms of treating wounds, I'd even say that old coot Pycelle falls short of you."

He spoke sincerely, his gaze falling on Ronin's bare neck, which lacked the chain of a trained maester. He couldn't help but ask curiously, "As a farmer, how did you learn all this?"

Ronin paused as he packed away his tools. He lifted his head, met Jaime's green eyes, and flashed a faint, knowing smile.

"Everyone in this world has their own secrets, Ser Jaime."

"Just as I've never pressed you about your past, never asked how you ended up here, and certainly never pried into your… private affairs."

"As a friend, I hope you'll treat this hard-won friendship the same way."

A friend?

Jaime froze.

He looked at the ragged yet composed healer before him—whose eyes seemed impossibly deep—and a complex, unfamiliar emotion rose in his chest.

Did he have friends?

He couldn't be sure. As the eldest son of Tywin Lannister, the heir to Casterly Rock, he had never lacked "friends" eager to stand at his side.

But he knew better than anyone that those fawning smiles and embraces had always been directed at the gold mines of Casterly Rock behind him, and the awe-inspiring influence of his father.

Things changed after he joined the Kingsguard though.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull. Ser Barristan the Bold. Even Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, who had personally knighted him. He had genuinely come to recognize all of them as his sworn brothers, companions he could trust with his back.

That was the only time he had experienced what true friendship and companionship felt like. Unfortunately, that too had been short-lived.

Just a few years later, war broke out, and his brothers either left or fell in battle one after another.

Lewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry fell at the Trident. Ser Arthur and two others were slain at the Tower of Joy.

Of the seven, only he and Barristan survived. But after Jaime killed the Mad King and gained the title of "Kingslayer," even Barristan distanced himself from him, severing their last bond.

So for Jaime Lannister, despite his wealth and privilege, friendship had always been a luxury he longed for.

And now, in this blood-soaked, foul-smelling clearing, a lowborn healer looked at him with calm, unreadable eyes and asked him, simply and sincerely, to be his friend.

He found the situation quite absurd, but he also couldn't help having some expectations in his heart.

"Ronin Graves."

Jaime finally spoke, studying the man. Although he was utterly exhausted by the treatment just now, he still managed a sincere smile and extended his remaining left hand.

"Allow me to introduce myself again."

"Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard."

A smile also appeared on Ronin's face. "And you may call me Ronin, my friend."

The healer and the knight clasped hands firmly, sealing their friendship.

Suddenly, the sound of heated bickering came from nearby, breaking the harmonious atmosphere.

They turned at the same time and saw Brienne and Iggo arguing endlessly over a man who lay collapsed on the ground beside them.

The man was broad-shouldered and noseless, and the faint rise and fall of his chest hinted that he was still alive.

"I struck him first!" Brienne said with absolute certainty. "I cracked his collarbone with my sword hilt. That was the blow that disabled him, so the right to execute him should be mine!"

"No," Iggo replied coldly, having no intention of backing off. "Your blow only made him stumble. I came from behind and hit him here with my knife hilt."

"Just one strike." He gestured at the back of Rorge's head. "Only then did he collapsed like a dying pig. Thus, he is mine."

That statement immediately stirred Brienne's displeasure, and she retorted, "I clearly remember landing the decisive blow first! Your walnut-sized brain probably fails to recall that!"

"My memory doesn't fail. Yours does, woman. Among the Dothraki, women remember less than men. They can't even recall who they were lying with a moment before. Perhaps you should think harder."

"You savage barbarian, don't you dare compare me with those kinds of women! I'll say it again: he is mine!"

The two continued arguing relentlessly, like two stubborn hounds squabbling over the ownership of a bone.

Jaime and Ronin exchanged glances, both seeing amusement mixed with helplessness in the other's eyes, and then stepped forward to mediate.

"Iggo."

Ronin's voice wasn't loud, but Iggo immediately stopped arguing and withdrew half a step to stand beside him.

Jaime approached Brienne and lightly pressed her tensed arm with his left hand, but she quickly shook him off. "I was the first to strike! By the knight's code, the right to deal with him should be mine!"

Ronin had originally intended to let her have the man and end this pointless quarrel, but then his gaze suddenly swept over Rorge's face, and a faint glint flashed in his eyes.

"This man."

He spoke calmly. "Give him to me. He is important to me and played a crucial role in our previous operation."

Jaime looked at Rorge in surprise, raised an eyebrow, then turned to Brienne and advised, "Let him have him, Brienne. He saved our lives."

Brienne sharply turned her head, seemingly wanting to retort, but then her gaze fell upon Jaime's bandaged stump, tied with a ridiculous bow, and the words she was about to speak were swallowed back.

Seeing this, Ronin gave a small bow of gratitude, then ordered Iggo, "Take him. He must stay alive."

Iggo did not question him, tossing the unconscious Rorge onto a horse's back like a sack of grain, not caring about injuring him one bit.

"It's time to move."

To ease the tension, Ronin clapped his hands and said, half-jokingly, "We still have to reach King's Landing soon to collect my reward. After all, an entire bathtub full of gold dragons is waiting for me there!"

Jaime also laughed, then looked at Ronin, asking curiously, "So, Ronin. How do you intend to get us past the blockade of Northern soldiers ahead?"

"You know we're between Riverrun and Harrenhal, right under Roose Bolton's nose. There are at least several thousand Northerners up ahead."

Before Ronin could respond, Brienne cut in, her voice carrying a hint of disdain: "I will take you to King's Landing, Kingslayer! If necessary, I will carve a path with my sword. That is my duty!"

She spoke with righteous certainty, as though asserting her claim over Jaime.

Ronin merely gave her an indifferent glance. "One person against several thousand Northern soldiers? I must say you're very brave, my lady. But sadly, I doubt you have the ability. With courage alone, we wouldn't make it five leagues."

Brienne took the sensible warning as an insult and shot back sharply, "At least I can vow to protect the Kingslayer with my life! I would never trust a man who speaks only of profit and gold dragons!"

Ronin's gaze sharpened at her words. Brienne's character was no doubt admirable, but her stubbornness was almost blinding. If he didn't correct her attitude now, it might later become a problem for all of them.

"And you, Brienne of Tarth?" Ronin spoke sharply, not intending to hold anything back. "You swore to protect Renly Baratheon but he died."

"Then you swore fealty to Lady Catelyn Tully, promising to bring Ser Jaime to King's Landing to exchange him for her daughters. And what was the result?"

"If not for me—the man who only speaks of profit and gold dragons—you and your 'mission' would be bound like livestock by the Brave Companions, dragged to Harrenhal, and handed over to Roose Bolton for a reward."

"What protects your vows? Your tongue?"

His words seemed to strike Brienne where it hurt the most. She was immediately enraged, her hand flying to her sword hilt as she shouted, "How dare you!"

"Enough, Brienne!"

Just then, Jaime decisively grabbed her wrist, his voice solemn. "Drawing your sword against the man who saved us—is that what you call honor?"

Brienne's chest rose and fell violently, her blue eyes showing three parts anger, three parts grievance, and four parts frustration, displaying a perfect pie chart of emotion.

She violently flung off Jaime's hand, dropped heavily to the ground, and hugged her knees like a sulking child weighing over two hundred pounds, refusing to look at anyone.

Jaime shook his head helplessly, but made no attempt to console her, and instead turned his gaze back to Ronin, awaiting his answer.

Ronin also didn't take Brienne's reaction to heart and asked Jaime a question: "After Vargo Hoat captured you, where did he plan to take you for the reward?"

Hearing this, Jaime frowned at first, then seemed to realize something. "You mean… Harrenhal?"

The moment the words left his mouth, Brienne, who was sitting on the ground, bristled like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, pointing at Ronin: "I knew it!"

"I knew you had ill intentions! You want to deliver us to Roose Bolton for gold dragons! You're no different from Vargo Hoat!"

Faced with her accusations, Ronin couldn't even be bothered to act hurt.

Dealing with fools was sometimes far harder than dealing with the clever, but he guessed he'd have to get used to it. After all, there were more fools in the world than the clever.

"Stay seated, my lady." His tone bordered on pity. "Use your head. If I wanted ransom, delivering you and Ser Jaime safely to Lord Tywin would earn at least ten times what Roose Bolton or the King in the North would pay."

Brienne choked on her words, unable to argue, and only demanded stubbornly, "Then why—"

"We have no choice." Ronin shrugged. "If we avoid Harrenhal, we would have to detour around the Gods Eye. That would triple the distance and expose us to far greater danger."

"Even if we reached King's Landing alive, by that time, the war might already be over."

He took a deep breath, then looked Brienne in the eye and laid down the choice. "Either you trust me, or I'll have to ask you to leave right now, alone, and return to Riverrun to report back to Lady Catelyn Tully."

"Tell her you lost her last bargaining chip."

That seemed to push Brienne past her limit. She jumped to her feet, grabbed Jaime's arm, and pulled him back. "Come with me, Kingslayer! This farmer is mad! He cannot be trusted. We will die if we follow him!"

But to her surprise, Jaime didn't budge an inch no matter how much she pulled. She turned in confusion, only to see him place his remaining hand on her arm.

Jaime looked her straight in the eyes; his emerald eyes shone with determination, and he spoke calmly: "I trust him, Brienne."

"He is my friend."

"Just as you are."

The words struck Brienne like a bolt of lightning. She froze, disbelief flickering in her eyes before pride pushed her to violently shake off Jaime's hand, as if it were something filthy.

"He is not my friend, Kingslayer!"

Her voice was cold and tinged with resentment, as though she'd been betrayed, and she added cruelly.

"And neither are you."
...

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[AAALLlIII333]

when one want to do good but the world is full of shit and assholes one can't help but do the same as the rest.

With the MC skill he can do a lot of good but knowing where he is and how the world work around him he need to survive.

 

[Dragonfly_8]

Gah, I caught up!
If he knows the shitstorm that is coming, kissing Lannister ass is indeed the fastest way to get rich.

I dig the bromance

 

[Fanfictionlord]

Harrenhal, the King's Pyre Tower.

The name itself carried an ominous feeling, as if the vengeful spirit of its builder, Harren the Black, who was burned alive by dragonfire, still lingered within the walls of this colossal fortress raised through the full might of the Riverlands.

Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, sat behind a dark red oak desk, lost in thought.

The room was meticulously cleaned, looking almost spotless. The air was filled with the smell of old parchment and dry ink.

Roose Bolton set down the book he was holding, its cover clearly titled: "The Greatest of the Seven Kingdoms—Harrenhal and Its Owners"

As the name suggested, this book documented the successive owners of the castle since the time Aegon I Targaryen conquered the Seven Kingdoms.

It was hard to imagine that Harrenhal had been ruled by nine different houses in less than three centuries.

But the most outrageous thing was that, apart from House Hoare, who were still in exile, almost none of Harrenhal's rulers, including their family members, had a peaceful end.

All the accounts in the book forced one to believe in a ridiculous notion—a curse.

Legend claimed that Harren the Black had mixed human blood into the mortar of the castle, damning it from the day it was completed. Every lord who ruled it seemed unable to escape the clutches of misfortune.

It was said that late at night, servants could still hear the screams of Harren and his sons.

"Hah."

Roose Bolton's slender, pale fingers traced the smooth surface of the desk, scornful of the idea.

As Lord of the Dreadfort, the Lord of Leech, he did not believe in such nonsense.

In his mind, Harrenhal's curse was nothing more than a story woven by incompetent lords to hide their failures or comfort themselves.

The Boltons had thrived for centuries in the harsh North not through superstition, but through calculation, decisiveness, and relentless endurance.

Tapping the desk, Roose Bolton put the book aside and placed a scroll detailing military provisions before him. As he read on, a subtle, almost imperceptible frown appeared on his brows.

The current situation had become somewhat tricky.

Roose Bolton leaned back in his chair, and a figure surfaced in his mind.

The King in the North—Robb Stark, the young man supported by nearly all of the Northmen.

Even he had to admit that the boy possessed natural talent for warfare. Bold in strategy and decisive in command, he won one battle after another. Some even speculated the Young Wolf would eventually overthrow the Baratheon rule.

But his talent seemed confined only to the battlefield.

No one expected the young genius to recklessly break the marriage pact with House Frey over an insignificant woman. It wasn't only dishonorable but practically a political suicide.

Not just politically, but strategically as well.

House Frey controlled the Twins, the most critical crossing point of the Green Fork. Losing the support of House Frey meant the Northern army's logistics and communications were choked off.

This foolish action forcibly pushed a potentially powerful ally to the opposing side, causing strategic damage far more profound than losing a single battle.

Roose Bolton racked his brain but could not fathom what had driven Robb to such reckless self-sabotage.

After all, Moat Cailin was currently occupied by a band of Ironmen. They were firmly lodged on the only land route connecting North and South, like a venomous wedge.

If Robb Stark had not gone too far, they could have relied on the prosperous Twins for support… but now, all the Northern forces had become virtually isolated, completely cut off from their homeland, including Roose's own forces.

They appeared to be fighting fiercely in the South, but in reality, they had already become rootless trees, mired in the quagmire of war that was the Riverlands, unable to advance or retreat.

It was like being locked in a finely crafted coffin: safe for now, but the air slowly thinning.

The King in the North was winning every battle, but he was losing the war!

Adding insult to injury, Catelyn Tully, that foolish woman, blinded by maternal affection, had secretly released Jaime Lannister, the North's most valuable bargaining chip in negotiations with the Lannisters.

He had to admit—House Stark certainly produced talents.

Thinking of the Kingslayer, Roose Bolton couldn't help but massage his throbbing brow.

He did not order Vargo Hoat and his group to pursue Jaime Lannister, yet the man had taken it upon himself to leave the castle without even informing him.

Truth be told, Roose Bolton did not trust the Essosi sellsword one bit. He knew his true nature too well—ever greedy and utterly disloyal. But currently, he neither had the means nor the time to restrain him.

Thinking this, he couldn't help but open his drawer and glance at a sealed envelope lying on top, stamped with the seal of a lion. His expression turned thoughtful.

Just then, a set of familiar footsteps approached from outside, the sharp echo of armored boots.

"My Lord."

Without even needing to look, Roose Bolton knew it was his most trusted subordinate.

Sure enough, when he raised his head, he saw an armoured man with a stern expression and sharp eyes appear at the doorway.

"My Lord, we've found the Kingslayer," Walton said, his tone respectful but without embellishment.

"Oh?" Roose Bolton's pale eyes lifted slightly with surprise. "It seems Vargo Hoat actually possesses some skill."

"No… it's not Vargo Hoat who caught him, my Lord. It was… him himself… umm…"

The serious expression on Walton's face turned slightly awkward as he tried to explain, but it seemed he himself hadn't fully come to terms with the situation.

After stuttering for a long while, he swallowed and gave up trying to explain.

"They are at the castle gate right now. You should see for yourself, my Lord."

---

Roose Bolton did not leave the castle; instead, he received Ronin and his group in a modest sitting room.

The flames in the fireplace flickered quietly, casting dancing shadows across the faces of everyone present.

Roose Bolton sat in the main chair, a flicker of confusion crossing his pale face as he took in the unusual group before him—arguably the strangest gathering in all of Westeros.

He also understood why even Walton had shown such a peculiar reaction when reporting earlier.

A woman, taller and broader than most men, clad in stained armor, plain-featured and flat-chested.

Beside her sat Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. He looked as miserable as a beggar on the streets of King's Landing. His golden hair was matted, clinging to his forehead.

The once-handsome face now looked drawn and exhausted. But what drew Roose Bolton's attention was his right hand. It was gone from the wrist, wrapped awkwardly in gauze tied with a bow.

Roose Bolton couldn't take his eyes off it for a moment. He never thought that Jaime Lannister, the man renowned for his swordsmanship across the Seven Kingdoms, would one day end up losing his sword-wielding hand!

Then his gaze shifted to the dark-skinned Dothraki—one of Vargo Hoat's men—whose eyes constantly darted around, alert even as he ate.

As his gaze turned to the fourth figure, Bolton's eyes couldn't help narrowing instinctively.

The man before him wore tattered and dirt-streaked clothes that could have belonged to any lowborn commoner.

He also introduced himself as one, just with a bit of knowledge about medicine. Yet he sat with an unusual ease, his posture as elegant as that of a highborn noble.

That calm composure unnerved Bolton, like a venomous snake suddenly spotting another in the shadows, raising his guard instinctively.

What was even stranger was that this man seemed to be surrounded by a subtle, indefinable aura, as if there was nothing he couldn't see through—making Bolton recall his first meeting with Lord Tywin Lannister during the Rebellion. That man had given him the same unsettling feeling.

'Interesting.'

Silence fell over the sitting room, broken only by the occasional crackle from the fireplace and a grating, persistent sound.

"Screech, screech…"

"Screech, screech…"

Jaime gripped a dinner knife tightly in his left hand, struggling with the roasted beef on his plate. But the meat seemed incredibly tough, resisting every attempt to slice it, scraping against the plate and producing a grating, irritating noise.

He tried repeatedly, his cheeks reddening with effort, but to no avail. All he ended up doing was splattering gravy onto the tablecloth.

The noise continued until Brienne couldn't bear it any longer.

"Enough."

She pressed down on Jaime's stubborn piece of beef with her fork, giving him a solid anchor.

"Thank you, not-friend," Jaime said, his tone flat. He deliberately emphasized the last part, still brooding over her earlier remark about their relationship. Thanks to her help, however, he could finally eat without struggling.

He cut a small piece of beef and placed it in his mouth; the long-missed tender, juicy flavor instantly exploded on his palate.

It had simple seasoning of black pepper and salt, but for him—who had been surviving on hard bread and water for so long—it was an unparalleled delicacy. Jaime couldn't help but chew a bit longer than usual, savoring each bite.

His absorbed expression further perplexed Roose Bolton.

This was certainly not the demeanor a captive in enemy territory should display, nor did he act like a cautious fugitive.

Had the trauma from the loss of his arm gotten to his head?

"If I recall correctly, Ser Jaime," he finally couldn't resist speaking, breaking the silence, "we are, theoretically, still at war. Lord Edmure Tully has offered a bounty of thousand gold dragons for your capture."

"Yet here you are, not only daring to stride into Harrenhal but also eating the food served by your enemies. Is this not showing a bit too much disregard for me?"

Hearing this, Jaime did not reply immediately. Instead, he lifted the beef with his knife and began tearing at it with his mouth. After all, in case Ronin's plan failed, at least he should enjoy a proper meal first.

"Do you plan to take me back to the Twins for the reward, Lord Bolton?" Jaime asked between bites. "If so, you may command your men to bind us this very moment. But I doubt you'd be able to claim those thousand gold dragons in full."

He raised his right arm and waved it in front of Roose: Bolton. "You see? Your hostage is no longer complete."

Jaime maintained a facade of indifference as he spoke, secretly observing Roose Bolton's reaction, recalling Ronin's evaluation of the man:

'Remember, Jaime—Roose Bolton is an extremely utilitarian man. The more aggressive he acts, the more he is weighing his options and waiting to be bought. I suspect what he truly seeks might not be the reward from Robb Stark, but the greater benefits he might extract from your father.'

As expected, Jaime's arrogance did not provoke Roose Bolton. Instead, the man leaned forward slightly and replied, his tone laced with threat.

"The loss of one hand does not seem to have dulled your wit, Ser Jaime. Perhaps I should remove the other and send it to Robb Stark. I imagine he would be very pleased with my 'gift,' considering your nephew—or perhaps son—beheaded his father."

Even with Ronin's prior warning, Jaime couldn't help but feel a surge of anger at those words.

He stabbed his knife into the table with a clang, his emerald pupils fiercely glaring at Roose Bolton. "Do not tempt me to cut out off your tongue, Roose Bolton. The Brave Companions chopped off my hand, and they answered to you, did they not?"

"When I return to King's Landing, this is the first thing I'll be telling my father."

Bolton only gave a cold laugh at his naked threats. "I could also send your head to King's Landing instead. Let's see if you can still prattle before Lord Tywin."

The tension in the room grew thicker with his words. Walton, standing behind Roose Bolton, involuntarily gripped his sword hilt, while Brienne and Iggo also tightened their grips on the knives they were eating with

Just as it seemed a confrontation would break out, a calm voice rang out.

"Please forgive Ser Jaime's loose tongue, Lord Bolton. After all, you cannot expect him to act entirely rational after what the Brave Companions did to him, can you?"

Roose Bolton's gaze shifted abruptly from Jaime to Ronin, who seemed to have just finished his meal and was now delicately wiping his mouth with a napkin.

From the moment this man had entered, he had maintained an elegant demeanor not befitting someone of his status. But in Bolton's deeply ingrained sense of hierarchy, this could not change the man's low birth.

A peasant daring to interfere in their conversation was an insult to both of them.

He shot Ronin a piercing look, then glanced at Jaime—only to see him sighing in relief.

"Forgive me, I have been too exhausted lately. For what follows, please confer with my personal advisor, Ronin Graves. He is fully authorized to represent my interests."

Having said this, he returned to his meal and once again began wrestling with the beef on his plate.

A personal advisor?

Roose Bolton found the statement absurd. He was almost tempted to believe his earlier guess that the Kingslayer might have lost his mind due to trauma.

A commoner representing the heir of Casterly Rock? Preposterous.

His gaze was as sharp as a knife as he looked at Ronin, trying to gauge his identity.

Yet under his scrutinizing gaze, Ronin merely adjusted his posture, then placed the napkin he had wiped his mouth with on the table.

He leaned back, sinking into the shadows of the high-backed chair. The flickering firelight from the hearth could only illuminate the area below his waist, while his upper body, especially his face, was concealed in deep shadow. Only his black eyes, calm and piercing, observed everything.

The entire room seemed to fall into abrupt silence.

Suddenly, Roose Bolton's hand holding the knife started trembling faintly.

He stared at Ronin in disbelief, astonished to find that the aura emanating from the man was rising at an alarming rate—almost becoming palpable.

It began pressing down on him, making the Lord of the Dreadfort's heart race wildly.

Roose Bolton recognized it now. This was the aura born from possessing power, cultivated over time.

But how could a mere commoner possess it—and even subtly suppress him?

This was impossible!

Roose Bolton's heart was racing with shock, but after three silent breaths, he managed to force a calm expression. Only his pale pupils contracted uncontrollably.

In the shadows, a faint smile tugged at Ronin's lips.

This was exactly the effect he wanted.

On the way to Harrenhal, he had invested a full hundred gold dragons—almost half of the wealth he had looted from the Brave Companions—into the System for a Veteran-level draw, obtaining a rather formidable skill—

Majesty Lv2
...

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A/N: I want to specify something. Although the skill might seem overpowered at first glance, it can only play an auxiliary role in negotiations at best. And sometimes even do more harm than good, which can be seen in the next chapter. A man like Roose Bolton isn't so easy to convince.

 

[TRm]

Well, that is certainly an interesting sounding skill; looking forward to seeing the details of it

 

[The Radiance's Follower]

On the way to Harrenhal, he had invested a full hundred gold dragons—almost half of the wealth he had looted from the Brave Companions—into the System for a Veteran-level draw, obtaining a rather formidable skill—

Click to shrink...

I didn't think he would have gold for a draw. But I should have. Time to climb the ranks, one gatcha pull at a time.

 

[bannerlord181]

He stared at Ronin in disbelief, astonished to find that the aura emanating from the man was rising at an alarming rate—almost becoming palpable.

It began pressing down on him, making the Lord of the Dreadfort's heart race wildly.

Roose Bolton recognized it now. This was the aura born from possessing power, cultivated over time.

But how could a mere commoner possess it—and even subtly suppress him?

This was impossible!

Roose Bolton's heart was racing with shock, but after three silent breaths, he managed to force a calm expression. Only his pale pupils contracted uncontrollably.

Click to shrink...

So…this is what this story is gonna be about huh?

 

[Fanfictionlord]

So…this is what this story is gonna be about huh?

Click to shrink...

Not really. Although the skill might seem overpowered at a glance, It can only play an auxiliary role in negotiations at best. And sometimes even be counterproductive, which you'll see in the next chapter.