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."

 

[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."

 

[Fanfictionlord]

It was nearly midnight when Rorge escorted Ronin back to the wooden cabin.

His conversation with Urswyck had dragged on far longer than expected, and for most of it, Ronin had been explaining human anatomy to the pervert.

Blood vessel distribution, nerve pathways, muscle layers, skeletal weak points—terms Urswyck had never even heard of before. To him, it was as if a brand-new world had suddenly opened up.

Having been a sadist his entire life, he genuinely hadn't known the human body had so many details worth exploring.

The torture methods he used to take pride in looked downright childish once Ronin laid everything out clearly and systematically.

Under Ronin's calm guidance and quick tongue, Urswyck quickly began treating him as a kindred spirit. Ronin even walked away with benefits.

Feeling the heavy weight of ten Gold Dragons in his pocket, he couldn't help but feel a wave of emotion.

He hadn't expected to earn his first pot of gold in this world so soon.

One thing had to be admitted: Urswyck was good at winning people over. At the very least, he wasn't stingy.

In his own words, Ronin had already shown his loyalty by personally killing a noble's son. Since he'd proven his determination, Urswyck needed to make sure Ronin stayed on their side.

In this world, self-interest was the rope that tied unrelated people together more tightly than any oath.

Ten Gold Dragons was not a small amount. In peacetime, it could nearly outfit a knight—armor, horse, weapons, and all.

Even now, with the war dragging on for over a year and prices soaring, ten dragons could keep a family of five fed for half a year. That alone proved Urswyck's generosity.

After all, even when the escaped captive happened to be Jaime Lannister—practically the richest noble scion in the Seven Kingdoms—the Duke of Riverrun had only offered a bounty of a thousand Gold Dragons.

"System. Start the draw."

As he walked, Ronin opened the system panel.

Even though he'd never seen this much money before, he invested all the Gold Dragons without hesitation.

Strength came first. Only by surviving could he earn more wealth later—and that wealth would go right back into the system, keeping the cycle going.

Right now, he only had two innate skills: Surgey and Manipulation. He didn't know how the latter came about to be though.

The system was clearly slandering him!

In his knowledge, he had never manipulated anyone. He just occasionally guided some lost souls onto the right path.

The feeling of helping someone...gave him mental solace.

As soon as he issued the command in his mind, the ten Gold Dragons vanished from his pocket, and the system's roulette spun violently.

Ding~~~ Skill acquired: Insight Lv1

There was no description, only a line of text flickering in the air—just like his two innate skills.

Apparently, the system didn't think low-level skills were worth a description.

Ronin's brows knitted.

Given the situation he was in, the ideal outcome would've been something that increased his combat power—"Swordsmanship," "Combat," anything that allowed him to fight better.

Compared to those, a support-type skill like Insight felt a bit disappointing.

But as that disappointment surfaced, a clear stream of awareness suddenly washed through his mind. Ronin blinked.

He noticed that the world looked…a bit different.

He tilted his head slightly, and Rorge's ferocious face came into view.

'Attention scattered. Occasionally glancing toward companions drinking by the bonfire—distracted.'

'Left leg shows a faint incoordination when walking—old injury, likely untreated…'

In just two seconds, multiple details he'd never noticed before flowed naturally into his mind.

"So that's how it is…"

Ronin's eyes brightened. This skill was perfect for his current situation!

"Go on in yourself, healer."

Sure enough, when they reached the wooden hut, Rorge didn't escort him inside like before. Instead, he clapped Ronin's shoulder in an exaggerated show of friendliness.

"Deputy leader Urswyck says you're part of our group now. If I get hurt later, I'll have to count on you to patch me up properly!"

Then, lowering his voice, he jerked his chin toward the hut with a disdainful snort.

"But be careful. That Dothraki savage isn't easy to deal with. The leader trusts only him."

"Just don't do anything he doesn't like. If he tries something, shout. Fang and I will rush in right away."

With that, he left Ronin behind and headed straight for the distant bonfire, clearly impatient to drink.

"This guy… must've figured something out."

Watching him walk away, Ronin narrowed his eyes.

For someone who looked so rough and bulky, Rorge had a surprisingly sharp mind. Maybe he'd guessed parts of his deal with Urswyck. Yet instead of exposing anything, he'd even offered a warning.

'Interesting.'

In chaotic times like these, no survivor could be underestimated.

Ronin pushed open the wooden door. Before he even stepped inside, a bulky figure blocked his path.

"You were gone for a long time."

Iggo's tone was cold, his eyes filled with suspicion.

"Yeah. I had to take a dump." Ronin shrugged, looking completely relaxed. "I was tied up for hours and then did two surgeries in a row. My bottom felt like it was about to explode."

Iggo didn't relax fully, but he stepped aside and let him pass.

He glanced past Ronin and asked, "Where's Rorge? He's supposed to guard leader Vargo with me."

"He went to drink."

Ronin entered, peeling off his ragged clothes and shoes. His body was covered in whip marks. He dropped everything casually on the ground.

A small gesture—but a clear one, meant to show Iggo that he wasn't hiding any weapons.

He sat down on the pile of dry grass and rubbed his sore shoulders like a craftsman who had just finished a long day's labor.

"He said with you here, everyone can rest well tonight. They don't need him. It seems both the leader and Rorge have a lot of trust in you, Iggo."

The words sounded casual, but they were a light provocation and a test.

Iggo snorted sharply.

The Dothraki revered strength, but the feeling of being talked about behind his back was unpleasant. Still, he didn't press the issue. Ronin's defenseless posture made him lower his guard.

Ronin looked around.

Vargo lay in the center of the room, stretched out on a soft heap of dry hay and rags, snoring loudly. His face was flushed from alcohol.

Jaime and Brienne had already been taken away earlier. Iggo alone couldn't guard so many prisoners.

Seeing Ronin lying there, not even moving to check the leader, Iggo frowned and strode toward him.

"Healer, it's time to change the leader's bandages. You said they must be changed every two hours."

"Ah… has it been that long?"

Ronin opened his eyes halfway, looking exhausted. But he didn't argue. He slapped his knees, pushed himself up, and walked toward Vargo in a slow, sleepy shuffle.

After inspecting him for a moment, he suddenly muttered, "Incredible. Sleeping this deeply with such a serious wound…"

"He is," Iggo replied with some pride. "Leader Vargo is a true Khal. Since I started following him, we've never lost a battle."

Ronin only gave a mild look.

Given Vargo Hoat's nature, the Brave Companions naturally wouldn't lose battles, because their enemies were always carefully selected from weaklings.

Without pausing, he began unwrapping the bandages carefully.

Even without turning around, Insight let him see Iggo's expression clearly from the corner of his vision.

He didn't display absolute loyalty but the Dothraki's instinct to follow the strongest.

Ronin smiled faintly and continued probing.

"They say that in the Dothraki Sea, there once was an unbeatable Khal named Drogo. He commanded over forty thousand riders. Strongest in history."

"But he fell from his horse because of a wound infection. And when he did, his followers scattered."

"Yes, I've heard of him." Iggo, as if starved for conversation for a long time, eagerly joined in. His Dothraki accent was thick and heavy. "Son of Khal Bharbo. They say his braid reached his thigh. He never lost a single duel."

Ronin smirked. "Still died, though."

"Even the mightiest eagle falls eventually."

"Exactly." Iggo nodded. "That's why his khalasar scattered like frightened wild horses, taken over by new strong riders."

"That's the Dothraki way. When the lion falls, the hyenas feast. Then a new lion king is born from blood and fire."

Listening to that cold philosophy, Ronin kept unwrapping the bandage. When the wound was revealed, he finally saw what he expected.

Though he had cleaned it earlier, the edge of the torn ear now had a faint yellow-green tint, and the surrounding skin was redder and more swollen.

A small smile curled at Ronin's lips.

In a steady, clear voice, he said:

"It's a shame, Iggo."

"You should probably start thinking about which new Khal you'll follow."

"Because our esteemed leader Vargo Hoat… doesn't have much time left."

...

"What did you say?"

The words had barely left his mouth when a low roar tore through the air, and a cold blade pressed hard against Ronin's neck.

Iggo stepped forward, one hand steady on his scimitar, the other grabbing Vargo's chin and turning his head for a better look.

Sure enough—the skin around the wound near his ear was gray and rotting. A smear of yellow-green pus clung to the edges, and a faint, foul smell drifted out.

The Dothraki had seen too many battlefields, too many dying men. He knew exactly what those signs meant.

"You promised!"

"You promised you would heal him! You liar!"

He spun back around, roaring straight into Ronin's face, feeling like a fool who had been tricked.

The blade stayed cold against Ronin's neck—unmistakably real. With 【Insight Lv1】 sharpening his vision, he could see every twitch of Iggo's anger, every ripple of fury shifting across his expression.

Even so, he didn't resist. He simply let the steel press into his skin and spoke steadily.

"I am just a healer, Iggo."

"I cleaned every bit of dead flesh. I did everything I could. But even the greatest healer or maester can't save a man who is determined to die."

Ronin held his gaze, his voice tightening with emphasis.

"He pressed necrotic filth onto his own wound. And during the operation, he drank himself unconscious like a dead pig."

"This isn't my medical failure. The gods claimed him. His own stupidity sounded his death knell long before I arrived."

Iggo's breathing stayed rough. His jaw clenched hard, but he had nothing to throw back.

Ronin caught the flicker of hesitation in his eyes—the opening he was waiting for. He stepped forward deliberately, ignoring the blade still at his throat, and began re-bandaging Vargo's wound with slow, steady hands.

"Accept it, Iggo."

"The fever will eventually come back. The wound will rot and in three days at most, he'll be dead—and...he'll die in agony."

Even with a weapon pressed to his neck, Ronin's calm voice felt deeper than before.

He met Iggo's eyes. With Insight, he saw the sharp constriction of the pupils, the restless shifting beneath the forced composure.

Exactly as he expected.

The Dothraki did not follow a Khal out of affection. They followed strength. Vargo the man mattered far less than Vargo the leader.

And now that pillar of strength was crumbling. Instinct was already pulling Iggo toward survival… toward a new place to stand.

"Why are you telling me this?" Iggo finally asked.

He pulled the scimitar back a little, but his eyes were still filled with wariness. "You could've hidden the truth. You could've bought yourself time. What are you after?"

He may have been born in the plains, but that did not make him dull. Iggo was sharper than most Dothraki—otherwise he wouldn't have survived for all these years in Westeros.

Ronin smiled faintly and took a step closer.

"Urswyck wants me to sabotage the treatment… to kill leader Vargo."

"And I agreed."

Shock cracked across Iggo's face. His hand shifted, ready to call his men.

Ronin immediately leaned in and said firmly:

"Dothraki follow the strongest stallion, Iggo. When a Khal can no longer lead, the only smart choice is to find someone stronger—someone with a future."

"You want me to bow to Urswyck?" Iggo snarled. A cruel grin curled on his lips, and his grip tightened around the scimitar.

One wrong word and he would make Ronin's head hit the ground. For a Dothraki warrior, kneeling to a man weaker than Vargo was worse than death.

Ronin saw the shift clearly through Insight but he didn't flinch. Instead, he raised a hand and tapped his temple.

"Power doesn't only live in a blade. Sometimes it's here— A man who sees clearly in a single breath stands higher than the man who stumbles blindly his whole life."

"Urswyck will never understand real power. And if he ever gains it, it will only serve him temporarily. Until eventually destroying him."

Iggo's eyes narrowed. "Then what are you saying?"

"I, Ronin Graves," he said in a steady and almost ceremonial voice. "Am the one you should swear fealty to."

Iggo laughed loudly at his words. "You? A peasant? Can you even lift a sword?"

Ronin didn't got angry at his mockery, but instead showed a strange, confident smile on his face.

"Lord Tywin Lannister—the Warden of the West. When was the last time he personally drew steel? Ten years? Twenty? Yet he decides the fate of thousands with a single word."

There was such conviction in his tone that Iggo froze for a moment then he snapped.

"But you're not Tywin Lannister! You were just a farmer hanging from an apple tree a while ago! If we hadn't passed by, you'd be a dried corpse right now!"

"A man who couldn't save himself—what right does he have to speak of power?"

Ronin's gaze drifted briefly, as if returning to that tree. "Hanging from a tree?" He let out a chuckle.

"You're right. That cowardly, ignorant Ronin died on that tree."

He spread his arms slightly, as if greeting a new world.

"I am not the man I used to be."

"I was reborn on that apple tree. The gods gave me revelation—eyes that cut through fog, and the power to change fate."

Meeting Iggo's doubtful gaze, Ronin showed a faint, confident smile.

"You don't believe me? Good. The Dothraki trust strength above all, right? Then let's make a wager."

"Swing your scimitar at me, Dothraki."

Ronin grinned, pointing at his neck.

"I wager your blade cannot sever my head."

 

[Fanfictionlord]

The cold morning mist wrapped the farm in a blanket of gray.

Vargo Hoat woke from his sleep, his head pounding fiercely and a burning, tearing pain running through his throat.

"Goddamn it…"

He cursed under his breath, his voice rough and scraping, like metal grating against metal.

Every heartbeat made the vessels in his temples throb, and the wound near his ear pulsed with sharp pain.

"I drank way too much yesterday…"

He blamed everything on the cheap ale from the night before. Never once did he consider he might have a fever. It was easier to tell himself he was hungover. After all, he had needed to drink himself half-dead just to endure the pain of the surgery.

"Starting today… I quit drinking!!!"

Vargo Hoat slammed his right fist down on the straw mattress. His cloudy eyes drifted across the dim wooden shack.

In the corner, the healer lay curled up in a pile of hay, wrapped in a filthy fur, breathing steadily as if nothing in the world could disturb him.

His most trusted man, Iggo, stood by the bedside with his arms crossed, back straight, watching over him like a silent shadow.

Just seeing the Dothraki eased the unease rising in Vargo's chest. A man like him, who lived by the blade and dared betray Lord Tywin Lannister himself, kept a knife under his pillow even as a baby. Yet Iggo was one of the few people he trusted.

No other reason. The Dothraki mind was just too simple. They followed strength, even if it was feigned strength.

Vargo didn't notice that Iggo had positioned himself between him and Ronin, standing slightly closer to Ronin than to him. Rather than guarding the lord of Harrenhal, he looked more like a wall separating Vargo from the sleeping healer.

"Water, Iggo."

Vargo spoke weakly, and Iggo immediately handed him a waterskin.

Vargo uncorked it and took several large gulps out of habit—but the cold liquid hit his throat like razor blades.

"Ugh… cough, cough—"

The pain forced him into a violent fit of dry heaving and coughing.

When it finally stopped, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lifted the waterskin again, and this time drank in slow, careful sips, looking almost refined—like a noble trying to hide his weakness.

Iggo stood silently, staring at him without a word.

Vargo laughed awkwardly, then joked, "Iggo, I hear you Dothraki share everything with your bloodriders—even your wives, right?"

"Some khals do," Iggo replied calmly.

"Good then!"

Vargo burst into a wide grin. "When we get to Harrenhal, I'll find myself a wife at the Red Mill. Once I'm done with her, you can take your turn!"

"Hahahahahaha!"

While Vargo laughed, Iggo remained silent.

Vargo mistook the silence for agreement, and his grin grew even wider.

He had said it all on purpose. After the surgery and with his pounding hangover, he could collapse at any moment. He needed loyal men around him. He needed to stop someone like Urswyck from making a move.

He also needed to reach Harrenhal quickly. Only Qyburn could treat him properly. Some random farm healer like Ronin was never someone Vargo trusted—neither his skill nor his loyalty.

"Wake that fellow up!"

He jabbed a thumb toward Ronin. "Move! We have to ride a few more leagues before noon. Can't keep that wife waiting!"

Only once he reached Harrenhal and Qyburn confirmed the wound wasn't fatal would Vargo truly relax. And after that… perhaps he'd cut out the healer's tongue just to shut him up.

---

Creaaak—

The wooden door groaned open, and cold, damp mist flooded the shack, making Vargo shiver.

Outside, most of the Brave Companions were already mounted. Moisture clung to their armor and worn leather, and their horses stood ready, weighed down with stolen goods from the farm.

The horses snorted, their breath mixing with the thick fog.

Even the two prisoners were already tied to the same horse.

Brienne held her head high, her blue eyes fixed on Vargo with burning fury. Jaime kept his gaze low, golden hair stuck to his cheek by dew and mud. He looked indifferent, almost bored.

It all looked just as it had the day before. Nothing had changed.

Urswyck, spotting Vargo, hurried forward, his face twisted into a flattering smile.

"Boss!"

"The Seven bless you—you look much better today!"

His voice was loud and cheerful, but his eyes flicked over Vargo's flushed face, taking in the feverish glow and trembling fingers.

Urswyck's grin widened.

"The raven was sent before dawn! Straight to Tarth! It won't be long before that big woman's father sends us a mountain of sapphires as ransom!"

Hearing this, Vargo looked around at his men. The horses were ready. The prisoners secure. Even Urswyck—the mangy cur who slithered in the shadows—was acting obedient.

It all eased his mind and even the sickness seemed lighter. Maybe that farmer-healer did have some skill.

Once they reached Harrenhal, and the King in the North heard he had captured the Kingslayer himself… even Roose Bolton would have to respect him.

The leftover alcohol from last night rose to his head again, dulling the pain for now.

Vargo grinned, showing crooked, yellow-black teeth. He staggered a little as he mounted his horse. Still, he held himself like the leader he believed he was. He lifted his arm and shouted.

"Move out! Back to Harrenhal!"

"Damn this fog. Keep your eyes sharp!"

At his command, the group began moving. The clanking of metal and the squelch of hooves in the mud were muted by the thick mist.

Vargo rode in front, never looking back. He didn't see the brief flash of malice in Urswyck's eyes.

Jaime Lannister, bound on horseback, lifted his head slightly. He watched the last man to step out of the shack. Ronin felt the gaze and looked up.

Their eyes met. The healer didn't react but jaime could a faint smile on his lips.

Jaime's pupil tightened. After a moment, he lowered his head again, letting the hair fall over his face. But Brienne, beside him, could sense something—his calm breathing had changed. It was quicker now.

The company disappeared into the fog, their noise fading until the farm fell silent again.

The apple trees stood bare, with corpses hanging from their branches, swaying gently like rotten fruit in the morning breeze.

Among them, one corpse stood out the most—bright, raw red from head to toe. His skin had been flayed clean off.

The exposed muscles glistened in the damp air. His face was too ruined to recognize, but the blood-soaked leather sash around his waist showed who he had once been.

The most powerful influential man on this farm.

...


"This bear, bear, bear!"

"All black and brown, covered in fur."

"Bear! Bear!"

"Oh, people are shouting—come see the beauty!"

"Beauty? He understands that, but I'm a bear!"

"All black and brown, covered in fur!"

"Sniffing maidens, mead in the air!"

"Tear off their dresses, reveal—hahaha!"

Along the muddy roads of the Riverlands, crude singing drifted back and forth. The Brave companions had twisted the original lyrics beyond recognition, turning them into something crude, noisy, and full of lewdness.

Vargo Hoat rode at the front, leading the song with his rough, rasping voice. His wounded ear still throbbed and his head felt heavy, but after looting the farm and with a massive ransom waiting ahead, he was in surprisingly good spirits.

The whole group carried a loud, rowdy sense of joy.

Bundles of stolen goods and bits of silver hung from every saddle, a clear sign that while hunting the kingslayer, they had picked up more than a few "trophies."

To these men, war wasn't suffering. It was a feast served to them by the gods.

Behind them, the loud, vulgar singing drifted into Jaime Lannister's ears. He had been riding with his head lowered, lost in his own thoughts, but the noise made him lift his eyes with a faint, mocking curl of his lips.

"If Robert Baratheon were alive, he'd get along well with these fools," he murmured. "He was always singing this song after whoring or drinking."

His voice was low but kept that familiar edge of cynicism.

Even with his hand gone, his pride trampled into the mud, and even after being tricked into drinking horse piss, Jaime still hadn't broken the habit of speaking that way.

Brienne frowned.

Captive or not, she still clung to her knightly ideals. Any mockery of her late king made her uncomfortable.

"His Majesty Robert was a mighty warrior," she said stiffly. "He defeated Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in single combat and won the war."

"Heh." Jaime snorted lightly. "If I hadn't killed the Mad King, all Robert would've won was a ruined kingdom."

Brienne shot him a questioning look. Jaime hesitated, then deliberately shifted the topic, choosing another jab instead of clarifying.

"A king who ends up drunk and torn open by a wild boar in the woods… quite an ending, isn't it? Just like us— the noble Kingsguard and the Maid of Tarth—now nothing but captives of a pack of lowborn scums."

"We were outnumbered," Brienne said sharply. "That is not shameful, kingslayer."

"Yes. Outnumbered…" Jaime said thoughtfully. "Back then, old Barristan alone could charge into an army of ten thousand men and take 'Savage' Maris's head."

"If my sword skills and bones haven't rusted from being locked in Harrenhal for too long, these fellows, even if they all came at me together, wouldn't be my match!"

He gritted his teeth, his eyes filled with resentment.

Brienne wanted to argue, but her eyes fell on his lost hand—cut off because he defended her—and the words froze on her tongue.

She drew a slow breath, her gaze drifting toward the calm figure riding at the front.

"You shouldn't have cooperated with him," she muttered quietly. "That man, Ronin… maybe he was innocent once, but now he's helping criminals. He betrayed his farm and his lord. A traitor can't be trusted."

"Trust?" Jaime let out a small, dry laugh. "Out here, trust is rarer than Valyrian steel, my lady. And don't forget—you're chained next to a kingslayer."

But even as he said it, he glanced ahead again, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I don't need to trust him," Jaime murmured. "I only need to know what he wants. And I'm certain what he wants is far more than simply staying alive."

Before Jaime could finish, their hushed conversation caught Iggo's attention from the front and he rode over.

"Shut your mouths. No talking. Unless you want to be dragged behind a horse!"

Before Jaime could react, Iggo slammed the end of his sword sheath into his ribs.

"Ugh!" Jaime grunted, his body curling in pain, but he gritted his teeth and made no further sound.

Brienne glared at the Dothraki, but before she could speak, a voice beat her to it:

"Hey! Watch it, you Dothraki brute!"

Urswyck rode over, bumping Iggo's horse aside. "Don't break him! Neither the King in the North nor Lord Tywin wants a dead Kingslayer. They want him alive—that's a mountain of gold dragons!"

Iggo shot him a cold, dangerous look. "Then keep an eye on the captives. Stop them from dreaming about escape. If the gold runs off, I'll cut out your tongue and feed it to the horses."

Urswyck's face darkened instantly. "What do you mean, you Dothraki savage? How dare you threaten me?"

In an instant, the Brave Companions split into two circles—Urswyck's new recruits on one side, Iggo's older members on the other.

The air tightened immediately.

"ALL OF YOU, SHUT UP!"

Vargo Hoat's roar ripped through the road.

He hauled his zebra around and glared at both sides, his feverish, bloodshot eyes full of fury.

"Move! Keep moving! If anyone starts a fight again, I'll cut of his tongue and swallow it myself!"

Under his threat, Iggo snorted and rode ahead, returning to his place near Ronin and Vargo, appearing loyal and obedient.

Urswyck, however, stared menacingly at Vargo's swaying back, licked his lips, and felt an uncontrollable urgency in his heart.

But in the end, he held himself back.

The two groups quickly dispersed and continued their journey.

Brienne glanced at Jaime, who still hung his head, and asked worriedly, "Are you alright?"

Jaime slowly raised his head, his eyes devoid of anger or pain. His emerald green eyes shone with a gleam Brienne hadn't seen in a long time.

He grinned, revealing a wild, savage smile.

"Alright? I'm more than alright, my dear Brienne."

Brienne froze.

Jaime didn't elaborate. Instead, he flexed his left wrist, letting a small curved dagger slide smoothly into his sleeve. The cold metallic touch was like a draft of fresh air, awakening something deep inside him.

His eyes drifted forward once more.

"Was that you, Ronin Graves…?" he wondered. It made no sense—the man was just a farmer scraping by with a bit of healing skill. But Jaime couldn't think of any other reason why that Dothraki would pass him this dagger.

And then Jaime saw it.

Ronin turned slightly in the saddle and met his gaze with calm, steady eyes.

Those dark, unreadable eyes seemed to cut straight into him. Then Ronin lifted a finger to his lips.

Shh.

Before Jaime could react, Ronin dipped his head in a subtle, impossibly elegant bow—far too refined for any common farmer.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat. A moment later, he was facing forward again, swaying gently with the march, as ordinary and unremarkable as before.

As if nothing had happened at all.

Jaime tightened his grip on the dagger until his knuckles turned white.

That posture, that calm presence… just what was the true identity of this healer?

 

[Fanfictionlord]

The Riverlands in autumn were always muddy.

Even though the sun had already dispersed the thick morning fog, the River Road stayed messy and wet, with mud covering everything, and every step the horses took felt heavy.

Around noon, the wheel of a carriage filled with stolen loot sank deeply into the mire, and the group had to stop once more.

Ronin used the chance to change Vargo's bandages, with two men from the Brave Companions watching him.

Vargo was slumped between two trees; one was an oak, and the other was also an oak.

As the afternoon dragged on, everyone became sluggish and tired.

Down the road, Urswyck was shouting at his men, trying to get them to lift the wheel out of the mud.

Hearing the noise, Vargo suddenly shivered. The dizziness in his head grew stronger. He could feel something inside him slipping away, like quicksand running out between his fingers.

He had never felt this kind of powerlessness before, and it terrified him more than facing a sword.

"Zollo!" Vargo shouted hoarsely at his closest man.

"Go tell them to move faster! They look like whores who've taken twenty men in a row—legs too weak to stand!"

He just wanted to get back behind the walls of Harrenhal as soon as possible. Only under Qyburn's treatment could he feel a shred of safety.

The fat man named Zollo hurried off at his orders, leaving only Iggo and Ronin with him.

Vargo stared at the healer with bloodshot eyes and lowered his voice, full of irritation. "Why do I feel worse? How's the wound, healer?"

"It's not healing well at all, my Lord."

Ronin unwrapped the bandage and found that the edges were already soaked with a layer of yellow-green pus.

He didn't hide the truth and gave him an honest answer. "The infection is very serious, my Lord. Much worse than expected."

"You useless quack!"

Vargo burst into anger, leaning forward and violently grabbing Ronin collar. "Did you even treat me properly?!"

Ronin displayed a look of appropriate exhaustion and a hint of grievance. "My Lord, I swear by the Seven, I've done everything I can."

"But you pushed the dead flesh back into your wound and drank alcohol while burning with fever. That is practically asking the Stranger to take you."

"All I can do now is slow the infection, not cure it."

"Slow it down?" Vargo spat. "You said you could cure me!"

The doubt in his eyes turned instantly into murderous rage. He pointed at Ronin and ordered Iggo, "I'm done with this peasant. Kill him. Right now!"

Iggo did not hesitate in the slightest. Swiftly drawing his scimitar, he stepped forward, placing himself between Ronin and his master.

"Boss!!!"

Urswyck's voice rang out just in time.

He had been watching the commotion. The moment Iggo reached for his weapon, Urswyck abandoned the cart and rushed over, wearing a worried smile.

"How are you feeling, Boss? You look terrible. Maybe you should rest a bit longer?"

Vargo ignored him completely and repeated the command. "Kill him, Iggo!"

Iggo raised his sword, but Urswyck stepped in front of him again, earnestly pleading, "Don't do it, Boss!"

"You still need a healer. Even a bad one is better than nothing. If you kill him now and your wound worsens on the road, what then?"

Saying this, he leaned close to Vargo and whispered in his ear, "If you ask me, we should wait until Harrenhal. Once Qyburn takes over, it won't be too late to skin him then."

Urswyck spoke very sincerely, as if he truly had Vargo, the leader, in his best interest.

However, his words immediately aroused Vargo's suspicion, and his gaze flickered back and forth between Ronin and Urswyck, full of doubts and confusion.

Urswyck, who was usually so cruel, was actively protecting this quack?

Coupled with the dizziness from the high fever, a surge of furious betrayal instantly rushed to his head!

"How much longer… will the carriage take?" Suppressing the urge to kill, Vargo gritted his teeth and asked in a low voice.

Urswyck showed a troubled expression and shook his head: "It's stuck too deep, Boss. The mud's gripping the wheel tighter than that old maid from Tarth. It might take until after dark…"

"Then why the hell… are you standing here?!" Vargo snapped. "Go help them! Do you want us to spend winter in this damned forest?!"

Urswyck froze, tightening his grip around his sword, then forced a smile. "I'm going now, Boss!"

He backed away reluctantly, but before leaving, he gave Ronin a long, warning look as if saying watch your back.

Ronin gave a subtle nod without changing his expression, an action that Vargo "just happened" to see clearly.

He was instantly certain.

This damned quack and Urswyck were working together.

But why? What did they want to do?

Vargo narrowed his eyes slightly, a cold curve appearing at the corner of his mouth, as if what had just happened was merely a misunderstanding.

"So, healer." He said in a low voice, "Given my current condition, what do you think is the best course of action?"

"My suggestion, my Lord…"

Ronin looked straight at him and gave an unexpected answer.

"You should leave the slow main force behind, take only me and Yigo, and ride back to Harrenhal."

"The infection and fever are spreading too quickly. We must hurry. Perhaps we can still get more professional treatment and bring it under control before the situation completely deteriorates out of hand."

Vargo didn't answer right away. He just stared at Ronin with a cold, sharp gaxe.

He had expected him to take Urswyck's side and continue with the delaying tactics. Instead, this healer wanted... to isolate him?

Then split the loot with Urswyck later?

Pathetic.

Vargo sneered internally. They didn't even have the courage to rebel properly, only thinking about quick gains.

He became increasingly certain that this was a conspiracy against him.

However, he couldn't just chop Ronin down. That would be tantamount to immediately breaking ties with Urswyck, and the risk of forcing his opponent into a corner would be too great.

A new plan began to take shape in his mind, muddled with fever.

He stopped looking at Ronin, as if the man were already dead, waved his hand, and said coldly, "Your skills are useless now. It seems this is all your medical skills amount to. I guess I shouldn't have expected much from a mere farmer."

"Get out of my sight. Don't stand in front of me."

Saying this, Vargo pointed at the captives. "Perhaps you can use your mediocre skills to look at the Kingslayer's wounds. Of course, if you happen to kill him… ha!" Vargo started laughing hysterically.

Ronin quietly packed his tools. As he stood up to leave, he hesitated for a moment as if wanting to say something, but in the end stayed silent.

Under Iggo's watchful eyes, he walked toward Jaime and Brienne. The shadow of the leaves obscured half his face, hiding his expression and preventing anyone from seeing the slight upward curve of his lips.

Good advice is wasted on a doomed man.

As a professional doctor, he had given Vargo the best possible suggestion. But if the patient refused to listen, there was nothing he could do.

Doctor–patient relationships were always difficult, even in Westeros.

Under the oak tree, Vargo watched Ronin's departing back with cold, narrow eyes.

After a moment, he leaned toward Iggo and whispered:

"Watch that quack closely. And also…"

"Tell Zollo, Timeon, and Togg that tonight, they must find a chance to kill Urswyck and those two captives."

...

Ronin walked toward the edge of the camp where Jaime and Brienne were held captive and was immediately stopped by two members of the Brave Companions standing guard.

"This is Leader Vargo's order."

Before they could question him, Ronin lifted his chin and spoke with borrowed authority, carrying himself like he had every right to be there. "I'm here to treat the Kingslayer's wounds. If he dies before we reach Harrenhal, none of you will get a single gold dragon."

The two guards exchanged a look, irritated but unable to argue. They stepped aside reluctantly, but not before giving him threatening glances.

Why was a farmer acting all high and mighty? If it weren't for the leader's orders, they would have gutted him right here.

Under their dangerous eyes, Ronin swaggered over to Jaime, crouched, and began unwrapping the filthy bandages around the mangled stump.

"The treatment worked," he said in a steady, straightforward tone. "The rot hasn't spread much farther. But the dead flesh must be surgically removed as soon as possible, or you'll lose the entire arm."

He spoke loud enough for the guards to hear.

Jaime lowered his head, his voice tinged with deliberate exhaustion. "What's the point of saving it? Will it let me hold a sword again and swing it like before?"

As he spoke, he raised his eyelids, and a flicker of inquiry crossed his emerald eyes.

Ronin worked briskly, saying casually: "At least a clean wound won't leave you burning with fever at midnight, dying before you even make it to… dawn!"

At this, Jaime's eyes narrowed slightly.

He vaguely understood Ronin's meaning. The time to act would be tonight. However, he did not respond immediately, but sneered again.

"Even if you heal me, boy, I won't thank you," he said. "And perhaps, when my father pays the ransom, I might demand that Roose Bolton chop your head off to vent my anger."

"The gold of Casterly Rock can't give me back my hand, but it can buy the life of a useless little… healer like you."

"How much would it take, I wonder? Five hundred? A thousand dragons?"

Ronin's hands didn't pause.

Jaime was warning him: Help me and you might still die for it.

But Ronin understood Jaime better than Jaime realized — perhaps better than even his father Tywin Lannister.

He looked up calmly, meeting Jaime's sharp, probing gaze.

His voice was low, steady, and strangely certain.

"A lion may be forced by circumstances to roll in the mud, staining its golden fur."

"It may kill intruders to protect its den. It may even shoulder blame to prevent a far worse disaster."

"But I have never heard of a proud lion willingly breaking an oath it swore. If such a thing happened, it would not be out of the lion's own baseness or greed."

"It would only be because the choice before it was greater — something nobler than its own honor."

Jaime froze.

Ronin's words slipped past every wall Jaime had built over the years, cutting straight into the wound he buried deepest — the wound the whole world mocked him for.

No one had ever said this to him.

Not the honorable Eddard Stark.

Not any knight.

Not anyone.

'He understands me... He truly understands me!'

Bitterness and relief hit him all at once, cracking the hard shell of anger and humiliation he'd carried for so long.

He stared at the shabby, quiet healer, mouth slightly open, unable to speak.

Brienne, standing nearby, was utterly lost. All she heard were strange metaphors about "lions" and "wounds," and none of it made much sense to her.

The guards looked just as confused, unable to catch any hidden meaning.

At that moment, Urswyck's furious roar cut through the camp.

"Hey! You two — Timeon, Togg !"

"Are you blind? Can't you see everyone's worn out like they've bedded an entire whorehouse? Get your useless asses over here and push the cart!"

The two guards flinched. "But… the Kingslayer and this woman—"

"I'll watch them!"

Urswyck, whose clothes were spotless, marched over, cursing loudly. "Seven hells, what a useless bunch! The Brave Companions will die without me!"

Seeing his expression, the guards didn't dare argue. They rushed off toward the stuck carriage.

Taking their place, Urswyck crossed his arms and cast a gloomy look over Ronin and Jaime. Then without warning, he lifted his foot and kicked Ronin in the shoulder, sending him staggering back.

"Stop dawdling! Get over here! I cut my hand pushing the cart just now, take a look at it!"

He stomped toward a tree and sat down.

After finishing Jaime's bandage, Ronin gave him a quick raised eyebrow, glanced toward Urswyck, and said in a low voice:

"Tonight, Ser Jaime. Remind me to change your dressing."

Ronin picked up his medical bag and walked toward Urswyck, calm as ever, showing no trace of anger from being kicked.

He crouched, opened the bag, took out a clean cloth and a waterskin, and acted as though treating an actual wound.

Urswyck kept his voice low, barely moving his lips. "Your 'treatment' seems to be working. He's swaying on his horse. But it's not enough. He needs to meet the Stranger before dawn."

His tone was urgent.

Ronin wiped Urswyck's palm with the damp cloth. "He doesn't trust me anymore," he said softly. "He ordered that Dothraki to slit my throat. I can't get close, much less try anything else."

"Damn it!"

Urswyck swore and hissed, "Figure something out!"

"Before dawn, try one last time — slip something in his waterskin or his food!"

"And if that fails…"

A flash of ruthlessness appeared in his eyes, and he finally gritted his teeth: "We move early. We can't wait anymore. Vargo cannot be allowed to return to Harrenhal alive."

He muttered through the plan, assuming Ronin's silence as agreement.

He thought for a moment, glanced at Iggo across the camp, who was guarding Vargo, and curled his lips into a cruel smile: "Once the fighting starts, you need to find a way to get close and kill that Dothraki savage!"

"He is Vargo's most loyal dog, and he must be dealt with first!"

"Me? Kill him?"

Hearing his words, Ronin pointed at himself, genuinely astonished.

He screamed inwardly: Is this guy joking?

Iggo arms were thicker than his legs!

"What, you don't want to?" Urswyck sneered. "Since you took ten gold dragons from me, you need to prove your worth, otherwise... I'll kill you right now!"

Seeing Urswyck's aggressive stance, Ronin sneered inwardly.

This fellow certainly knew how to calculate things.

He was clearly being sent on a near-suicidal mission, but regardless of success or failure, Urswyck could easily eliminate two potential obstacles: Iggo and himself.

Ronin naturally played along, even furrowing his brow slightly to display the appropriate amount of difficulty, and replied softly: "Since you've decided, I can try... but please lend me a hand if anything goes wrong."

Ronin's obedience greatly pleased Urswyck, and a twisted smile appeared on his face.

He suddenly yanked his hand back and barked loudly, "Get lost! You clumsy idiot — you can't even treat a scratch!"

Ronin packed his tools silently, stood, and walked away.

Urswyck watched his departing back, smirking, proud of himself.

...

A/N : I wrote this in a hurry so if you find any spelling mistake, please point it out.

 

[Fanfictionlord]

Thanks to Urswyck, the carriage remained stuck in the mud until sundown.

When night fell, the group had no choice but to set up camp along the muddy main road of the Riverlands.

The bonfire crackled sharply. The air carried the smell of cheap ale, burnt meat, and sweat.

Vargo leaned crookedly against a tree a little way from the fire, wrapped in a stolen woollen blanket. His face showed a sickly red hue under the flickering light.

His cloudy eyes swept over his noisy subordinates, pausing briefly on Urswyck's face.

The bastard was still wearing that fake smile, and Vargo wished he could just pick up his sword and cut his head off. But he doubted he could even do that now, given his current condition. He had never felt this powerless in his entire life.

Then his gaze shifted to Iggo, who stood by his side, silently guarding him.

"Have you informed everyone?" he asked in a low voice.

"I already told Zollo and the other two. As soon as they hear the shout 'Long live the Brave Companions!', they are to strike immediately and kill Urswyck and his men."

Iggo nodded, then answered in a steady, simple tone. "I didn't tell the others, though. They can't be trusted."

Seeing how thorough he was, Vargo smiled with satisfaction. "You're still the most dependable, Iggo."

"Don't worry. Once we take care of this mess on the road and return to Harrenhal, you'll be second-in-command. Everything I have, you'll have too."

However, even after making this grand promise, all he received in return was Iggo's silence, which immediately left him feeling awkward.

This Dothraki subordinate was reliable in every way except that he never flattered him. Having such a man at his side was reassuring, but Vargo always felt something was lacking.

Take Urswyck, for example. If Vargo had told him such a thing, the man would have started flattering him endlessly—saying things like, "Boss, my respect for you is as endless as the Blackwater River," or, "It's like the Green Fork overflowing, unstoppable."

But then again, if Iggo acted like that, Vargo wouldn't have trusted him half as much.

Maybe everything really did have its downsides, even when it looked good on the surface.

'How insightful', Vargo thought as he licked his lips. Could it be that his hidden scholarly talent was finally awakening in the face of adversity?

The noise around the bonfire grew louder. The atmosphere felt cheerful and lively. All the Brave Companions were drinking and laughing.

Urswyck seemed particularly happy; his laugh was the loudest. He clinked his cup with the man beside him, smiling from ear to ear, but from the corner of his eye he kept stealing glances toward Vargo.

When he saw Vargo and Iggo conversing in low voices, his expression changed slightly. Although he couldn't hear their words, something in his chest tightened for no reason.

No. He couldn't wait any longer.

He took a small sip of his wine, then stealthily spat it back into the mug when no one was watching. Keeping his expression the same, he gave a subtle nod to Rorge, who was standing at the edge of the crowd.

Rorge seemed to understand. He staggered forward, pretending to be drunk, and made his way to Ronin, who was idly leaning against a tree in one corner, clearly not invited to the feast.

As he walked, Rorge unbuckled his belt as if preparing to relieve himself. When he brushed past Ronin, he intentionally bumped into him.

"Watch where you're going, you peasant!" Rorge shouted furiously, his face twisted with anger. But from an angle no one else could see, he discreetly slipped a short dagger into Ronin's hand.

"Take this."

He leaned close to Ronin's ear, his voice suddenly devoid of any intoxication. "When you hear someone shout 'Long live the Brave Companions!', get yourself close to that Dothraki savage and kill him."

Feeling the cold metal in his palm, Ronin froze for a moment, unsure if he had heard correctly.

Long live the Brave Companions? The leader and deputy leader of this bandit group really did have an understanding, didn't they?

Outwardly, his expression remained calm. He swiftly slid the dagger into the wide cuff of his worn jacket and forced a slightly nervous smile.

"When the time comes, Lord Rorge, please look out for me. I doubt I can kill that man…"

"The Seven will watch over you, boy."

Rorge's lips curled into a mocking smile. Perhaps because Ronin was now considered expendable, he treated him more harshly than usual.

Pretending to pat Ronin's shoulder, he slipped back into his drunken act and wandered off into the crowd.

The bonfire burned brighter. The alcohol seemed to be taking effect; the singing grew more chaotic and the jokes more lewd.

But the core members of both factions had barely drunk anything. They watched one another closely, masking their real intentions. The air was heavy with forced cheer.

As Vargo felt his strength fading with each passing moment, he made one last attempt.

"Urswyck!"

His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise immediately.

Urswyck turned and met Vargo's eyes. His fake smile stiffened for a moment before stretching even wider.

He set his mug down, signalled his men to keep drinking, then slowly stood up. His hand rested casually on the hilt at his waist as he walked over to Vargo's side.

"Boss, what do you need?"

Seeing how alert he was, Vargo didn't blame him. He simply raised his hand and pointed to an old, bare oak at the edge of the camp.

"Let's talk over there. Just you and me."

Urswyck's eyes flickered. He glanced at Iggo, then at the subtly divided crowd, before nodding. "Alright, Boss."

He pretended to sway slightly as he followed Vargo into the dark corner. Iggo tried to follow, but Vargo waved his hand, signalling him to stop.

Away from the bonfire, the cold night wind made Vargo tremble. He tightened his cloak around him, looking worn and weak.

He leaned against the rough bark of the tree, breathing heavily. Urswyck stopped a few steps away, arms crossed. There was a concerned smile on his face, but a subtle amusement flickered in his eyes.

He was calculating whether he could kill Vargo right then. But after thinking it through, he didn't dare.

Vargo Hoat had led the Brave Companions for over a decade and was known for his swordsmanship. Even weakened, he wasn't someone Urswyck wanted to face alone.

"Urswyck…"

After resting for a moment, Vargo finally spoke.

His voice was hoarse and tired, but deeply sincere. "Do you remember? On the Stepstones, when the storm almost threw us to the sharks? And later in Qohor, when you took an arrow for me while we stole that silk ship?"

Urswyck's smile faded slightly, stirred by the memory. He didn't speak, only listened.

"We came all the way from Essos together, my brother."

Vargo's voice deepened, heavy with emotion. "What was it all for?"

"Wasn't it so we could finally plant our feet in Westeros and settle somewhere?"

"And now we have it… Harrenhal. Roose Bolton gave me the title of lord, but I never thought of it as mine alone. It belongs to all of us."

He paused to watch Urswyck's reaction.

"Boss! You still remember all that!"

After a brief silence, Urswyck stepped half a pace forward, slipping back into his usual performance.

"Taking that arrow was nothing! Without your leadership, we would've rotted in the alleys of the Free Cities long ago!"

"To be honest, Boss, my respect for you is as endless as the Blackwater River, and the Green Fork—"

"Enough!" Vargo stared at his exaggerated act, speechless.

With a long breath, he lowered his voice. "The King in the North keeps winning. Most of the Riverlands is already his. The war is turning in his favour, and we weren't wrong to side with him."

"But Roose Bolton—that flayer—do you really believe he'll let us stay comfortable as lords in Harrenhal?"

"I've noticed he keeps close contact with Tywin Lannister. If I die…"

Vargo looked at him sharply. "How long do you think the Brave Companions will last? Bolton will hand all of you over to the Lannisters the moment trouble comes."

Urswyck frowned. He couldn't deny it. Vargo did have a point.

If he wanted to survive, was delivering the Kingslayer to Tywin Lannister in exchange for protection the only option? But then again—if the King in the North won, would Urswyck still get Harrenhal?

He weighed everything carefully. Without realising it, his resolve to act tonight began to loosen.

Vargo instantly noticed the shift and played his final card. "Don't be stupid… old friend. As long as I return to Harrenhal, that castle is still ours. Money, women, power—everything I have, you'll have."

"Harrenhal…"

Urswyck repeated, a greedy light flashing in his eyes. After a long moment, a smile slowly returned to his face.

Vargo was right. Even if he killed him now, Bolton wouldn't make him the lord. And if he defected to Tywin… who knew what the Kingslayer would say when he reached King's Landing?

He couldn't risk it.

After thinking it through, Urswyck smiled again.

"Just as I said earlier, Boss—my respect for you is as endless as the Blackwater River. The Brave Companions can only thrive under your leadership," he said sincerely and extended his arm.

Vargo let out a relieved sigh and smiled faintly. Settling this without bloodshed and saving his men—he really was a clever leader.

He reached out and clasped Urswyck's arm, sealing their reconciliation. He was just about to pat Urswyck's shoulder and suggest returning to the fire for a drink—

When a piercing shout erupted from the crowd not far away.

"Long live the Brave Companions!!!"

...

A/N : Sorry for the delay. I was busy with somethings. I will be posting regularly from now on.

 

[Fanfictionlord]

Time rewinds to five minutes earlier.

Ronin leaned against a tree trunk, most of his figure swallowed by darkness.

The heightened awareness granted by Insight Lv1 allowed him to silently scan everything happening around the camp.

When he saw Urswyck called away by Vargo, he immediately sensed something was wrong.

He never underestimated anyone. As he often reminded himself — women and children could afford to make mistakes; men cannot.

In this world where life was cheaper than weeds, a single mistake could end everything. So every word, every gesture, every step needed to be handled with extreme caution.

He originally thought Vargo wouldn't be able to resist and would immediately take action against the "traitor." But now it seemed the man wasn't as impulsive as he put on.

After thinking for a moment, Ronin took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows.

Waiting passively? Leaving his fate in someone else's hands?

Only fools did that.

If an opportunity didn't exist — then he would create one himself.

As he walked, the timidness and fear belonging to a farmer faded from his face, replaced by unshakable calmness.

He strode directly toward Zollo, who was gnawing on roasted meat beside the bonfire, and extended his hand, speaking in a commanding tone.

"Give me a roasted lamb leg."

Zollo looked up, his greasy, swollen face frozen with disbelief, as if he had misheard something. But as the realization dawned on him, his face twisted in anger.

A mere farmer daring to speak to him in such a tone?!

If the boss didn't require his treatment, he would have become a shriveled corpse hanging from a tree long ago.

Seeing Ronin's serious expression, Zollo let out a loud, mocking laugh. "That lamb leg is for boss Vargo, boy."

He casually grabbed a half-charred sheep's head with barely any meat on it, tossed it at Ronin's feet, and spoke coldly:

"Take that and get lost."

Ronin didn't even lower his eyes to the sheep's head. His sharp gaze stayed locked on Zollo, and he raised his voice, repeating his words.

"I said I want… a roasted lamb leg."

The provocative tone immediately drew the attention of several Brave Companions members nearby. They turned toward them with amusement flickering in their eyes.

A lowborn farmer daring to provoke Zollo? Had he gone insane?

Ronin's calm defiance seemed to further ignite Zollo's anger. He jumped to his feet and gripped the hilt of his sword.

"Are you looking for death? I'll tell you one last time — only the sheep's head! Say another word and I'll dismember you and roast you instead!"

Spittle flew dangerously close to Ronin's face. But he didn't back off. He met Zollo's gaze without flinching and demanded again:

"I'm eating a lamb leg today, and no one can stop me."

"Bastard!"

Zollo finally snapped and lunged at him. But before he could reach Ronin, a figure shot in from the side.

Bang!

A boot slammed into Ronin's waist, sending him tumbling into the mud.

"I've put up with you long enough, quack!" Iggo stood between Ronin and Zollo, his face contorted with anger.

"You never treated Leader's wound properly! Now he's infected and burning with fever, and you even dare to ask for his lamb leg! You damned quack!"

"I'll kill you!"

Under everyone's gaze, Iggo drew his Arakh and raised it high, ready to strike.

The sudden change stunned even Zollo.

Wait — he was the one being provoked. Why was Iggo getting mad for?

"Don't be reckless, Iggo!" Zollo, though furious himself, still retained a bit of rationality. Seeing Iggo preparing to kill, he stepped forward, instinctively reaching out to stop him.

"The Leader still needs this farmer to—"

His words cut off abruptly because the strike aimed at Ronin suddenly changed direction mid-swing, plunging straight into Zollo's unguarded throat.

"Urgh…"

Zollo's eyes widened in utter shock. He clutched his throat in disbelief, staring at Iggo. He opened his mouth to speak, but only incoherent sounds came out along with crimson blood.

Iggo's face was expressionless, his eyes carrying their usual coldness. He twisted his wrist and ripped the blade free from Zollo's throat.

Blood sprayed out endlessly and Zollo's body collapsed to the ground like a sack of meat.

The singing, the laughter, the clinking of cups — everything froze for a moment.

Everyone stared in disbelief as light gradually disappeared from Zollo's eyes.

Why would Iggo, the leader's most trusted man, suddenly attack Zollo, who was from the same faction?

Amid the silence, Iggo lifted the blood-soaked sword, gathered all his strength, and roared:

"Long Live The Brave Companions!!!"

His shout detonated through the clearing like a spark hitting gunpowder.

Rorge and Fang were first to react, their faces lighting up with joy.

By the Seven Gods… just what magic had the deputy leader done? Even the iron-willed Iggo had switched to their side!

On the other side, the members of Vargo's faction — Timeon, Togg, and the others — were still struggling to make sense of the situation.

The slogan was correct… but why kill Zollo?

Had the plan changed? Or—

They had no time to think. The moment Iggo's shout faded, Rorge, Fang, and the rest of the opposing faction unsheathed their weapons and madly charged forward.

Driven by instinct, they also drew their weapons to meet their attacks.

Clang!

The clanging swords echoed through the clearing, tearing apart the thin veil of peace the Brave Companions had been maintaining.

The neutral members, previously uninvolved, were now completely confused.

They were fighting! But why?

They didn't know what was happening, but Iggo had shouted "Long live the Brave Companions!"

He was the leader's most trusted man — if he raised his weapon, then Timeon, Togg, and the others must be traitors!

"Follow Iggo!"

"Kill all the traitors!"

Dozens more joined the fray, their weapons raised. The camp exploded into chaos. Screams, furious shouts, and the ringing of clashing blades blended into a brutal symphony.

Flames flickered, lighting twisted faces as blood sprayed across the muddy ground. In just a few moments, the soil in the clearing was dyed crimson.

Blind loyalty became the only compass. No one even knew who the traitors were anymore. They simply followed instinct, hacking at anyone who looked suspicious or was a moment too slow.

Meanwhile, beneath a crooked oak tree not far from the bonfire — when the words "Long live the Brave Companions!" reached them, Vargo and Urswyck froze.

The fake smiles they wore instantly vanished, replaced by the fury of betrayal.

"You bastard…"

Vargo's face turned ghostly pale. He reached for the sword at his hip, but fever made him sluggish, considerably slowing his reflexes.

"You treacherous dog!"

Urswyck reacted much faster than him. The moment he heard Iggo's shout, he assumed Vargo had played him for a fool and decisively drew his sword.

With a furious roar, he drove it straight at Vargo's heart.

Vargo threw himself sideways, narrowly dodging the fatal strike, but a long gash still ripped through his leather jerkin.

He staggered back, yanked his heavy broadsword free, and met Urswyck's next blow head-on.

The two men clashed desperately in the dark clearing, every blow filled with killing intent. Vargo still held the strength and skill, but fever drained his power, slowing and weakening him with every passing moment.

Urswyck also seemed to realize this as he moved like an eel, never clashing head-on, circling and dodging, exploiting his familiarity with Vargo's fighting style. He was slowly but steadily grinding him down.

After a few minutes of stalemate, Vargo seemed to have reached his limit as he gasped for breath, his lungs burning like fire.

Sweat mixed with blood blurred his vision. The broadsword that had followed him throughout his career as a sellsword began to feel as heavy as a millstone.

"Is this all you have, Vargo Hoat?" Urswyck laughed, shaking with excitement. To him, victory was already within reach.

"Where is the great Lord of Harrenhal now? Show me!"

The words seemed to sting Vargo. He roared like a mad dog, gathered the last bit of his strength, and swung his sword in a wide arc.

Urswyck ducked easily, rushed in, and slammed his shoulder into Vargo's chest.

"Ugh!"

Vargo staggered and fell hard on his back. His sword flew from his grasp, landing in the mud.

Urswyck eagerly pounced at him, preparing to deliver the finishing blow — but Vargo kicked up at the last moment. His boot struck Urswyck's wrist, sending his sword flying as well.

They crashed into the dirt, grappling like animals. Vargo got on top, pinned Urswyck down, and clamped his hands around his throat. Then, he lowered his head and sank his teeth into Urswyck's cheek.

"AHHH!"

Urswyck shrieked in agony as he felt his flesh torn away. The pain nearly made him faint — but his fingers somehow found their way to Vargo's ear.

A mad glint flashed in his eyes. He jammed his fingers into Vargo's rotting ear wound with all his strength, trying to dig as deep as possible. Immediately, he felt rotten pus burst under his fingers.

"Pffft—!"

Vargo let out a blood-curdling scream, his body convulsing from the pain.

In the mud, the two highest-ranking leaders of the Brave Companions fought like animals — clawing, biting, killing any way they could. Swordsmanship, honor, pride — everything was gone. Only raw instinct remained.

And the instigator of all this was quietly perched atop a tree in the distance, watching the chaos below with a satisfied smile on his face.

"Heh… years of picking apples finally paid off."

 

[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."

 

[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."

 

[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

 

[Fanfictionlord]

Just like with his other skills, the system didn't bother giving any description for his newly acquired skill. Ronin had to run a few experiments on his own to figure out its functions.

In simple terms, it radiated a powerful aura within a 10-meter radius around him, putting subtle pressure on anyone inside the range. It could also be focused on a single target, greatly intensifying the effect.

All in all, Majesty was another auxiliary skill that didn't provide any direct combat power to Ronin which, honestly, left him a bit disappointed.

But it wasn't a loss either. The fact that it was a ranged skill that could affect multiple people at once was worth all the gold dragons he had invested.

More importantly, it could play a significant role in negotiations—something Ronin urgently needed right now.

And Roose Bolton became his first test subject.

"Lord Bolton…" Ronin paused slightly, his gaze firmly locked onto Roose Bolton.

It wasn't aggressive, yet it made Roose Bolton, who was accustomed to respect, fear, and flattery, feel an odd sense of unease, instinctively making him want to pay attention to what the other party had to say.

"I am a person who values friendship," Ronin said. "Although you are loyal to the King in the North and your current relationship with Ser Jaime can indeed be considered hostile to some extent, I believe no one would want to refuse genuine friendship as long as it's built on shared goals and mutual benefits."

"I do not deny that," Roose admitted honestly.

"To tell you the truth, my lord," Ronin continued, "Ser Jaime and I have come here to offer you a 'friendship' that could greatly benefit both of us. If you do not object, I can explain the first step in establishing it."

He returned the question, showing both respect and testing the waters at the same time.

From what he knew about Roose Bolton, he was an ambitious individual. He would inevitably choose to board the Lannister's boat, but his ambitions didn't just end there.

Sure enough, Roose Bolton did not answer immediately. Instead, he studied Ronin's face hidden in the shadows, as if trying to gauge his true intentions.

Unfortunately, Ronin maintained a polite smile the whole time, not even blinking, and Bolton couldn't discern anything at all.

After a long pause, he replied softly, "I am listening."

With these words, a heavy weight seemed to be lifted off Ronin's shoulders. This wasn't just polite formality—Bolton's words gave a clear signal. It formally marked the beginning of a "fair" negotiation between them.

Having achieved the initial breakthrough, Ronin still retained a polite smile, slowly raising a finger.

"The first is a 'gift'. A token of our sincerity."

"A gift?" Roose Bolton raised an eyebow, amusement flickering across his face.

"Yes, a gift," Ronin said confidently. "Vargo Hoat and his Brave Companions. They are affiliated with Harrenhal, nominally loyal to the King in the North, yet they pillage the Riverlands and flay innocents, ruining your reputation."

"They are like leeches attached to your skin, my lord—constantly sucking blood, and capable of turning against you at any moment."

Roose Bolton countered, "But I rather like leeches."

Hearing this, Ronin knew the other party was not lying. In the original work, Roose Bolton did enjoy "leech therapy"—placing leeches on his body to draw out impurities, believing it would improve his health and longevity.

"As a professional healer, my lord, I must remind you," Ronin advised sincerely. "Using leeches occasionally is effective, but they may one day grow strong and refuse to let go. At that point, even if you forcibly remove them, you could lose a layer of skin."

Ronin continued, "And through our utmost efforts, I'm delighted to tell you, my lord, that we have successfully removed these leeches, eliminating a potential threat for you. This is the first 'gift' I offer you."

Roose Bolton listened silently, his pale fingers lightly tapping the armrest of his chair.

"Oh?" he said finally, his cold voice laced with a hint of sarcasm. "According to your words, I should thank you properly then, right?"

He acknowledged the upsides of eliminating the Brave Companions, but a gift of this magnitude was far from enough to make him concede.

Ronin had expected as much. He paused, then raised a second finger. "Second, Lord Bolton, let us discuss the lord you currently serve—the King in the North, Robb Stark."

As he mentioned the Young Wolf, Ronin neither showed reverence nor disdain. His tone was completely calm and indifferent; he might as well have been naming a horse he was thinking of buying.

This, however, piqued Roose Bolton's interest. He shifted in his chair, unconsciously sitting a bit straighter, wanting to hear what this unusual commoner thought of the king he served.

"It must be acknowledged," Ronin began, "that he is young and courageous, like a newly risen direwolf, and his march south has certainly brought him many victories."

He paused just long enough for the fire to crack in the hearth.

"But a true king needs more than just skill in battle." He said calmly, as if stating the weather. "Even if he continues to remain victorious on the battlefield, the North is still going to lose this war."

The certainty in his tone stunned the whole room.

The prestige of the Northern army was currently at its peak, having occupied most of the Riverlands with the support of House Tully.

Word had it that Robb Stark was already gathering his forces and preparing to launch a full-scale assault on Casterly Rock.

"Your claim is completely baseless, healer!"

Brienne, sworn to Lady Catelyn, snapped back before anyone else could respond. "Since riding south, the King in the North has not lost a single battle. It's only a matter of time before the Lannisters fall."

Her tone was sharp, but her words echoed what most people believed, including Jaime himself.

"Easy," Jaime said, quickly placing a hand on her shoulder to calm her down.

Her stubbornness sometimes reminded him of Cersei. After all, knowing something was one thing—but saying it out loud in front of others was another, especially considering the fact that they were currently sitting at a negotiating table.

Reason told Jaime that Brienne's actions just now would ruin the opportunity Ronin had worked so hard to secure.

He glanced at Roose Bolton, half expecting him to object to Ronin's words, but the man remained completely silent, offering neither protest nor correction.

"There is reason behind what I say, my lords."
Ronin didn't seem bothered by Brienne's outburst, and the faint smile on his face suggested he had fully expected it.

"Mainly three, to be exact."

He lifted three fingers.

"First: he broke his marriage pact with House Frey for a woman. That was not only betrayal—it severed his most important alliance and supply line."

"Second: he fights far away from home, deep in the South, while leaving the Riverlands—his supposed ally—ruined and exhausted, unable to support him."

"His army is a sharp arrow without a bowstring. No matter how far it flies, it will eventually snap in his grip."

"And third… the most crucial of all."

Ronin leaned forward, the candlelight catching his dark eyes as he held Roose Bolton's gaze.

"Our King in the North is not as… honorable… as his father."

Roose Bolton's couldn't help but be moved after hearing this.

These seemingly disrespectful words phad genuinely struck a chord deep inside him.

The Boltons had bent the knee to the Starks long ago, but their ambitions had never fully faded. Still, when Eddard Stark became Lord of Winterfell, even Roose Bolton had to admit the man's integrity was beyond doubt.

He had thought more than once that under such a lord, one at least didn't have to worry about being exploited—or worse, betrayed—by their liege. So much that he even tried to raise his eldest son to be like Eddard Stark, but unfortunately…

"Your words are somewhat excessive, Ronin Graves," Roose Bolton said at last. Even if he agreed with Ronin's assessment of Robb, he could not show it on his face.

His expression remained unreadable as he continued, "We fight for honor."

"Honor?" Ronin let out an unmasked sneer. "What about Lord Rickard Karstark then?"

"He gave more than most in the previous wars, and even his two sons died protecting their liege in the Whispering Wood."

Ronin gestured toward Jaime, who still seemed to be immersed in his beef.

Jaime felt the eyes on him; he looked up to see Ronin's gesture, and lifted a brow.

Those two Karstark sons had indeed died under his sword. And though he'd been captured that day, he had never counted it as a defeat. He had personally slain more than a dozen of the Young Wolf's guards, only a few steps short of emulating Barristan's feat of taking an enemy general's head amidst ten thousand troops—singlehandedly turning the tide of the entire battle.

Those few steps still haunted him, becoming eternal regret in his heart.

He sighed inwardly, then lowered his head and returned to tearing at the poor piece of beef.

Ronin, meanwhile, refocused his gaze on Roose Bolton. "So, Lord Bolton, please tell me—did House Karstark win honor?"

"No!" he continued, his voice sharpening. "Lord Rickard—a father who lost both his sons, a loyal vassal who had shed blood for his liege—just killed a couple of Lannister prisoners out of grief. And our 'honorable' King in the North answered by ordering his execution."

"Lord Bolton, you wouldn't want to meet the same end as Lord Rickard Karstark, would you?"

When his voice fell, the sitting room fell into heavy silence. The fire crackled in the hearth, illuminating Roose Bolton's faintly cracked expression.

Jaime stopped chewing, his tight lips betraying his inner turmoil. He couldn't help it. Ronin's words had struck something truly dangerous—he was practically openly challenging the loyalty of a great lord to his liege.

How would Bolton react?

Beside him, Brienne's jaw was clenched so hard that Jaime could see the muscle jumping.

To her, Lady Catelyn was a guiding star, and House Stark was the embodiment of justice and honor. Ronin's blasphemous words made her blood boil with anger, and it was taking everything she had to restrain herself and not confront him right then and there.

The tension hung for a long while before Roose Bolton finally spoke, breaking the silence. "This is not your concern, Ronin Graves."

"Even if King Robb is prejudiced in certain matters, House Bolton's loyalty will not waver in the slightest," he stated with absolute certainty.

Ronin studied his impassive face, thinking wryly, 'I trust you as much as I trust a ghost.'

How could he not understand Roose Bolton's intentions?

The man was drawing a boundary, reminding him that this was an internal matter of the North. But at the same time, he did not refute Ronin's evaluation of Robb Stark, making his stance completely uncertain.

His acting skills were spot on, and not even Insight Lv1 could detect any flaw in his expression. If Ronin didn't know the original story, he might have really been fooled by him.

Roose leaned back in his chair and continued, "Now, I'd like to hear more about that 'friendship' you spoke of and how it can benefit both of us."

Ronin smiled in response. "Of course, Lord Bolton. As I said before, clear interests maintain a relationship longer than empty vows. And I am a man who is very keen on discussing business with friends."

He extended a finger and lightly tapped the air. "All we require is for you to lend a helping hand, providing a travel permit to us so we can ride south to King's Landing without being stopped at every crossroads."

Roose Bolton interjected, cutting straight to the chase. "Then what do I get in return?"

"What is it you seek, Lord Bolton?" Ronin didn't answer outright, instead circling the point. "You are already Lord of the Dreadfort, second only to none, above countless others…"

Roose Bolton, perceptive as ever, immediately understood the implications behind Ronin's words, and the corner of his mouth twitched faintly.

"Your words are very bold, Ronin Graves. But why should I trust the empty promises of a stranger?"

When he said this, Brienne's eyes moved between him and Ronin in confusion. Was he… accepting? But on what terms? She didn't recall Ronin making any offer!

"You don't need to trust my promise," Ronin replied calmly. "We both know that if I were lying, the moment I reached King's Landing I'd face Lord Tywin's blade."

"I absolutely won't wager with my life."

Roose Bolton observed his face without blinking, as if searching for any hint of falsehood. After a moment, he gave a small nod. "I can trust you. However… I require more than just a verbal guarantee."

As he spoke, his gaze drifted from Jaime to Brienne of Tarth, who looked utterly confused. He lifted a pale finger and pointed at her.

"This woman must remain here."

 

[Fanfictionlord]

"That's impossible!"

Roose Bolton's sudden demand deepened the confusion in Brienne's eyes, which was immediately replaced by a surge of anger. She stood abruptly, knocking over the chair behind her.

"No! I will not stay!"

Her gaze locked on Roose Bolton, her voice tight with anger and disbelief: "I am not a bargaining chip in your deal, nor cargo to be discarded at will!"

"I followed Lady Catelyn Tully's orders to return the Kingslayer safely to King's Landing in exchange for her two daughters. Are you going to betray your liege's decision and doom them, Lord Bolton?"

"Mind your words, my lady."

Faced with her accusations, Roose Bolton's reaction was surprisingly calm.

Unlike the intensity he had shown toward Ronin earlier, the way he gazed at Brienne appeared as if looking at a buzzing fly. Clearly, the Lord of the Dreadfort did not hold the Maiden of Tarth in high regard.

"Setting aside the fact that Lady Catelyn's secret release of a valuable prisoner bordered on treason, the promise you think you are keeping carries no honor."

"Everything I am doing now is to guarantee the safety of the two stark ladies."

"You value your honor above all else, do you not, Brienne of Tarth? Very well. Now is the time to show it."

"If you remain in Harrenhal as a hostage, I will release Ser Jaime to return to King's Landing in exchange for Lady Catelyn's daughters."

He lifted a brow. "What do you say?"

The question left Brienne speechless.

Even if she was usually slow, the trap laid out by Bolton was too obvious. He had cunningly turned her most prized possession—her honor—into a very weapon against her.

If she agreed, then she would be handing her fate into his hands. If she refused, she would appear unfaithful to her vows.

She was trapped!

"In matters like this, someone always pays the price," Roose Bolton continued, seeing her struggle.

"Lady brienne, your anger is like the winter sun of the North—fierce, yes, but incapable of melting a single flake of ice. No matter how much you resist, you cannot undo the arrangement Ronin and I have made."

Brienne trembled as realization struck. Her gaze darted toward Ronin, whose face was obscured by shadows. To her horror, He said nothing—neither objecting nor offering any aid.

His silence was all the confirmation she needed.

Fury rose in her like a breaking wave!

This cunning, dishonorable healer was trading openly with Roose Bolton—and she was the disposable pawn, sacrificed to secure Jaime Lannister's safe return.

"I knew it!"

"I knew it!" She ground her teeth, her voice quivering with anger. "Look well, Kingslayer—this is the 'friend' you trust."

"Trading my freedom for your safety… This was his plan all along!"

Before she could continue, Roose Bolton waved his hand lightly. Walton stepped forward with two guards in tow and seized her arms.

"No—"

Jaime slammed his hand on the table and stood up, his right hand instinctively reaching for his waist, but unfortunately, there was neither a sword nor the hand to grip it.

He froze for a moment, his body stiffening, but his eyes stayed glued to Walton and the other two guards who had seized Brienne, feeling a surge of anger rising within him.

He admitted Brienne could be frustratingly stubborn at times and they had quarreled often, but throughout their journey, the woman's loyalty and unwavering heart had carved a deep respect into him.

In some ways, she reminded him of the man he once hoped he could be.

And now she was being traded away for his sake?

Never!

He would not let it happen—not again, not after the day he killed Aerys and watched every youthful ideal die with him.

He braced himself to act, even if it meant fighting barehanded. Just then, he saw a movement in the corner of his eye.

Ronin's face was concealed in the darkness, his gaze as calm as usual, devoid of any panic or guilt.

In a daze, Jaime saw Ronin's hand beneath the table press slightly.

The movement was so subtle and fast that one might have thought it an illusion.

The words Ronin had spoken to him earlier echoed in his mind: "Trust me, my friend."

Jaime took a deep breath as a heavy sense of helplessness washed over him.

He didn't like placing his fate in someone else's hands, but he knew acting impulsively now could ruin whatever plan Ronin had in mind.

"I have staked everything, Ronin." He met the healer's calm eyes. "Do not fail me."

After a long struggle, Jaime sank back into his seat, forcing a faint, strained smile toward Brienne.

"Be patient, Brienne," he said softly. "Just trust me this once."

But to Brienne, the words sounded like a final judgment—not a companion's comfort, but the false reassurance of a victor discarding a pawn.

She looked at him, and the fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by deep disappointment—so deep it felt like an accusation.

That look nearly broke Jaime's heart.

Then she turned toward Ronin, uttering a final, scathing warning, her voice as cold as the northern winds in winter.

"You will burn in the Seven Hells, Ronin Graves. The gods will not forgive this. You will spend the rest of your days in shame and regret."

With that, she gave up all resistance. Straightening her broad shoulders, she walked out of the room with heavy, resolute steps, escorted by Northern soldiers.

The door closed with a dull boom, sealing away the last shred of trust she had placed in her "companions."

Her departure plunged the room into a brief, uneasy silence.

Jaime suddenly seized the wine cup from the table and drained it in one gulp, as though attempting to drown the pain and guilt gnawing at his heart in the sour liquid.

Roose Bolton's gaze shifted back to Ronin, hidden in the shadows, and a faint glint flashed in his eyes.

He was waiting.

Waiting to see how this mysterious healer would navigate through this delicate situation.

Frankly speaking, keeping Brienne as a hostage was not necessary for him. The potential collaboration with Tywin Lannister and the long-term benefits of returning Jaime safely had already been meticulously weighed in his mind.

He had done this deliberately to test Ronin Graves. This man… deeply unsettled him.

Not with fear, but with a subtle sense of threat—a feeling that control might be slipping through his fingers.

The calm and confident aura Ronin radiated, and his almost preternatural insight into the situation, triggered Roose Bolton's defensive instincts.

In other words, he wanted to reassert his authority and gain control of the negotiation.

Thus, he had deliberately dug a pit for Ronin, aimed at breaking up the newly united group and treating the moment as a minor test for him.

At the same time, it provided a clear view into whether Ronin truly sought only profit, as he claimed, or if he genuinely valued "friendship," as he professed.

Under Roose's watchful eyes, Ronin made his move.

He slowly stepped out of the shadows, allowing the firelight from the hearth to illuminate his face for the first time.

There was no trace of panic, indignation, or eagerness to patch the situation. Nor was there any sense of triumph at the progress of the negotiations. He remained utterly calm, as though what had happened had been nothing more than a passing interlude.

"Lord Bolton." His voice betrayed no emotion, even carrying a hint of ease.

"Before receiving your permit and setting off for King's Landing, I think we might discuss another… 'business deal.'"

'Interesting.' Roose's curiosity deepened.

"I am listening," he replied softly, his pale grey eyes fixed on Ronin, an amused expression on his face.

Ronin lightly pressed his fingertips together on the table and began speaking.

"Regarding our previous transaction, I believe we've reached an understanding. Yet, I am someone who takes great care in resolving my partner's worries. It helps establish long-term trust."

"For instance… when the war in the south concludes and you need to lead your army home, how do you reclaim Moat Cailin from the Iron Islands reavers with minimal cost?"

"Moat Cailin!" Roose Bolton straightened instinctively, his pupils narrowing slightly.

After all, Moat Cailin was the only choke point leading into and out of the North, and it was currently in the hands of those obstinate ironmen.

When he led his army back to the North, he would eventually have to halt in front of the imposing fortress he couldn't simply bypass.

He was certain he could capture it given enough time and manpower—but not without paying a substantial price.

And now Ronin claimed he had a method to retake it with minimal cost!

Was this healer boasting? Or…

Ronin observed Roose Bolton's reaction, his Insight Lv1 fully activated, and pursed his lips.

"Moat Cailin, titled the 'Throat of the North,' is unassailable due to its unique geography."

"Surrounded by swamps and protected by high walls, a direct assault would be akin to walking into a tiger's mouth… it would only bleed your army and enrich the marshes with their corpses."

"So instead of attacking head-on, the correct strategy is"—Ronin's lips curled up as he laid out his cards—"to let it 'rot' from within."

"Rot?" Roose Bolton repeated, intrigued.

"Exactly," Ronin nodded. "Step one: You can deploy soldiers to surround Moat Cailin from both sides, completely cutting off its contact with the outside world."

"The fortress has been undefended for centuries. There shouldn't be any substantial stockpile of grain inside. The ironmen who raided it were lightly equipped and did not carry large amounts of food. Soon, food shortages will occur within the walls, and if nothing unexpected happens, internal strife may follow right after."

Roose nodded after hearing this but offered no comment. This was a pretty standard tactic, and they had already been considering something similar.

"Step two."

"You can send people to approach the walls of Moat Cailin at night," Ronin continued.

"A sneak attack?" Roose Bolton asked, raising an eyebrow.

Although logic told him that no wise man would propose such a foolish suggestion, he couldn't help but remind Ronin, "For thousands of years, no one has been able to take Moat Cailin by direct assault."

"No, my lord, you misunderstand," Ronin said with a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I am not suggesting a sneak attack. That would be far too reckless and foolish."

"Instead, you may send… preferably children with clear voices, to sing Iron Islands songs like 'Iron Rain' or 'The Bloody Cup' beneath the walls each night."

"What good would that do?" Roose asked, confused.

Ronin's grin widened. "Imagine this: after days without food, shivering behind cold, damp walls, and tormented by homesickness, they hear the songs of their homeland, sung by innocent children. How do you think they will feel?"

"They will remember their poor yet familiar islands. They will question why they are starving, freezing to death, trapped in a desolate swamp for a worthless outpost."

"In other words… they will think of home."

"The children's songs act like a chisel, slowly prying open their hardened hearts, implanting fear and longing. Soon, despair will spread faster than any plague."

Jaime, listening nearby, felt a chill run down his spine.

He imagined the scene: starved, cold, hearing songs symbolizing freedom and home—so close, yet utterly unattainable. By the Seven, this had to be the most cruel torment for the soul!

He couldn't help but look at Ronin, awe rising in his chest. This man's understanding of the human heart was terrifyingly precise.

If, during his imprisonment at Harrenhal, the Starks had sent people to sing such songs into his ear each night, would he have broken sooner? He didn't know.

On the other side, upon hearing Ronin's suggestion, even Roose Bolton's eyes lit up with interest and a flicker of admiration.

The idea was simply ingenious!

It was beyond crude brute forcing, striking directly at vulnerable human hearts, sowing discord and division, and weakening the enemy without shedding a single drop of their own blood.

Ronin Graves… this man undoubtedly had the potential to be a great strategist.

But the man in question seemed not to have had enough of their shocking reactions. Ronin lightly tapped the table, pulling Roose back from his thoughts, then revealed his final trump card.

"Step three… create a plague."

"A plague?" Both Jaime and Roose gasped simultaneously.

In this age of poor medical care, such a thing almost spelled certain death. And yet Ronin spoke as casually as though proposing a minor adjustment.

Facing their questioning looks, Ronin lowered his head slightly, half his face sinking back into the shadows, his expression unreadable.

Then he began slowly, his voice becoming low and seductive, almost like a demon tempting the hearts of men.

"After a week of siege, the garrison's rations will be stretched thin, and their nerves will be at their lowest point."

"At that point, you can select several carcasses of diseased livestock… or human bodies, preferably those who died of fever, and launch them into the fortress at night using light catapults."

"At the same time, the same method could be applied to their water sources."

Ronin looked straight into Roose Bolton's eyes and said calmly, "Within three days, the ironmen inside will start developing fevers, vomiting, and showing suspicious red spots or sores on their bodies. They may not attribute it to viral infection—rather to the ethereal… gods."

Gulp. Jaime swallowed hard, chills running from head to toe. He stared at his "friend" in disbelief, his green eyes filled with horror.

Ronin's strategy could only be described as terrifying. It was cold, calculated, and utterly malicious—so much so that even he, the Kingslayer who had witnessed the cruelty of war, felt profound trepidation.

And yet he had to admit that if they truly followed through with Ronin's suggestion, it would absolutely annihilate the enemy, both psychologically and physically, at minimal cost.

But it was cruel. Too cruel.

Even Roose Bolton fell silent for a moment, his pale eyes fixed on Ronin, unsure how to respond.

However, Ronin did not stop persuading and pressed on in the same, appealing tone, "This is the best, simplest, and most direct method, my lord."

"At that time, the ironmen will descend into panic, turning on one another."

"They will draw blades against each other for the last drop of clean water, and proactively distance themselves from their sickening comrades. Trust will collapse entirely."

"I dare say that within a few days, they will voluntarily open the gates and surrender, begging for pardon and treatment. Or you can wait for chaos to run its course, then walk in and claim the castle… filled with corpses."

 

[Fanfictionlord]

"... Exquisite."

Roose Bolton remained silent for a long time before slowly speaking, offering this evaluation.

"Ronin Graves, I must admit… you possess a dangerous and fascinating mind."

It could be said that the Lord of the Dreadfort had rarely, if ever, praised anyone so highly.

A faint trace of greed appeared in his eyes as he looked at Ronin.

Indeed, it was pure greed.

If someone like this could be used by House Bolton—kept close to provide counsel…

"What do you want?"

The greed in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a composed, negotiating tone. "As a business transaction, aside from the permit I promised earlier, I imagine you've already decided what other compensation you require."

"So, what do you want, Ronin Graves?"

He repeated Ronin's name, pressing for a clear answer. "Gold? Land? Should you agree, I can assign you a portion of Dreadfort's lands and even grant you a title."

"Perhaps… there might be something even greater in the future." Roose tapped the table, his words carefully chosen to serve both as an invitation and a test.

Facing his temptations, Ronin straightened his back and offered a faint smile, neither flattering nor smug.

"My lord, I think…"

"I need a hot bath first."

...

The next day, the chill of dawn still clung to the air, and sounds of heavy strikes constantly echoed across the training grounds of Harrenhal.

Thwack—Thwack—

Ronin gripped an iron longsword with both hands, repeatedly striking the battered wooden stake before him.

He had long since shed his tattered linen clothes. In their place, he wore a set of leather armor that fit him perfectly. Though he still appeared lean, his entire demeanor was different from the half-dead farmer he had once been, tied to an apple tree.

Sweat ran down his temples, and his chest rose and fell in heavy breaths.

Nearby, Iggo stood with his arms crossed, occasionally giving short, straightforward instructions in rough Westerosi.

"More from the waist. And steady the wrist, same way you hold the reins on horseback."

Iggo didn't speak much, but every instruction made Ronin's already difficult strikes feel all the more strenuous. But he couldn't ask for clearer guidance from Iggo. The man simply wasn't built for long explanations.

In a sense, he was illiterate.

So Ronin could only grit his teeth and try to experiment himself, feeling the power travel from his feet up through his hips and shoulders with each swing, searching for the right way to channel force.

The training continued for a long time until his palms were numb and aching from the vibrations, forcing him to stop and lean on his sword, gasping for breath.

With a thought, the system panel appeared before him.

...

Name: Ronin Graves

Occupation: Doctor

Skills: Surgery Lv2, Manipulation Lv3, Insight Lv1, Majesty Lv2, Pause (unranked)

Current Available Skill Draws: 0

...

Nothing had changed.

There was still no sign of any skill representing swordsmanship or weapon mastery—not even a shadow.

He let out a long breath, shook his head, and forced himself to calm down.

"Let's take a break."

He said this to Iggo, and also to himself, reminding himself that haste makes waste.

Although he still had over a hundred gold dragons looted from the Brave Companions and an urgent need for some actual combat ability, putting all his hope into the system's unpredictable lottery draw would be too foolish.

With only auxiliary skills in his arsenal, there was no guarantee he wouldn't end up with something like Baking or Wine Tasting again. If that happened, he would truly be heartbroken.

Building a foundation through real training until the skill appeared on the panel, and then strengthening it with the system, was the wiser path.

He walked to the feeding trough by the stables, took the waterskin Iggo handed over, and eagerly gulped down the cold water.

"Tell me something, Iggo," Ronin said after wiping his mouth. "If I keep this pace… how long before I can defeat a well-trained soldier in a direct battle?"

Iggo was silent for a moment. Then he said, in his plain, heavy voice, "It will take time, my lord. A lot of it."

"You see well, and you learn fast," he added. "But your body hasn't grown with battle. The strength, the memory in the muscles… those are earned when you're young."

"Among dothraki, boys usually start riding and fighting before they reach ten."

"Ten…" Ronin repeated the number softly.

In his previous life, he was worried about the entrance exams to enter middle school at that age, while the children of this world were already wielding sharp blades, struggling to survive in blood and fire.

"You don't have to drive yourself this hard, my lord," Iggo said at last. "The gods already made you untouchable. Even an arakh can't cut you. No living man could kill you in a straight fight. On the battlefield, you are already invincible."

Hearing this, Ronin merely offered a faint, unreadable smile and gave no explanation.

He knew Iggo was referring to the previous "gamble" where he had taken the man's full-strength sword strike without any injury.

That power, which transcended the rules, was deeply imprinted in the Dothraki warrior's mind, making him firmly believe that Ronin was blessed by the gods.

Ronin also didn't explain to him that this absolute defense had a seven-day cooldown period. Sometimes, maintaining mystery is also a type of strength.

"Alright. Let's continue!"

Feeling the soreness in his arms subside to a manageable degree, Ronin slapped his knee and pushed himself up, tossing the empty waterskin back to Iggo, the firmness in his eyes returning.

The fortunate thing was he didn't need to practice his sword skills to the level of Jaime or Brienne. As long as he reached the entry level of Lv1 and had enough gold dragons, he would be able to enhance it to be stronger than everyone else.

He hadn't forgotten—he had a cheat!

"I won't eat until I've swung the sword three hundred times today!"

He roared, hyping himself up, and marched back to the wooden stake. Gripping the longsword tightly with both hands again, he continued swinging down.

Just as Ronin was immersed in the motion, footsteps approached from behind him.

"Your sequence of applying force is wrong," a voice said.

"Power starts at the ground. Push off with your foot, let it roll up through your hips, then drive it through your torso. The arm should only finish what the body starts."

Ronin stopped mid-strike and looked over his shoulder, only to be taken aback.

He saw Brienne, her figure as tall and sturdy as a bear, standing not far behind him.

Her face bore its usual seriousness, but the outfit she had on nearly made Ronin doubt his eyes.

Brienne was wearing a pale-blue gown, delicately embroidered and clearly meant for someone half her size, as the sleeves barely reached her forearms. The skirt hung awkwardly above her ankles, leaving her massive feet fully exposed.

She looked like someone had tried to dress a warhorse as a shy maiden.

Ronin stared for a long while, struggling to take his eyes off her before a crooked smile spread across his face.

"I can only imagine how hard Roose Bolton had to search to find a dress that 'fit' you," he teased, trying not to laugh out loud.

To his surprise, his words made a faint flush creep up Brienne's cheeks, which made Ronin even more amused.

A woman unshaken on the battlefield was actually embarrassed by a dress. He felt like his horizons had been broadened.

"Your wrist! Keep your wrist steady!"

Trying to hide her awkwardness, Brienne pretended not to hear Ronin's teasing. She strode forward and, without a word, took the longsword from his hands.

Her gown clung stiffly to her muscular frame, making her look almost comical at first glance. But the moment the sword settled into her grip, everything about her changed.

Her posture sharpened, and the awkwardness she carried vanished as if it had never been there.

Under their watchful eyes, she grounded her stance. A subtle turn of her hips carried through her torso, propelling her shoulders and arms into a swing.

"Watch closely," she reminded. Her movements weren't flashy, but they possessed the pure beauty of controlled strength.

The blade seemed almost alive in her hands. Each swing was accompanied by the sound of cutting through the air—chopping, hacking, thrusting, lifting—every strike precise and fluid.

The marks she carved on the wooden stake were on an entirely different level compared to Ronin's earlier attempts. Her power felt unified, drawn up from the earth, rising through her body before effortlessly pouring into the blade without any loss.

Compared to her smooth, flowing demonstration, someone's previous clumsy chopping seemed as ridiculous as a child swinging a stick.

Strangely, being outdone by Brienne did not make Ronin feel embarrassed.

After all, he knew perfectly well that Brienne was no ordinary woman. Her swordsmanship—especially for someone of her gender in Westeros—had nearly reached its peak.

In truth, aside from a few elite knights polished by decades of training and combat, few men could outmatch her.

Ronin stood quietly to the side, holding his breath, absorbing every detail. The enhanced perception provided by Insight Lv1 allowed him to keenly grasp the fundamental difference between Brienne and himself.

Simply put, it was the involvement of the core and the pervasive sense of fluidity throughout the movement.

After several minutes, her demonstration came to an end, and she tossed the blade back to Ronin.

"Dothraki fight with curved swords," she explained calmly, turning toward Iggo, who had been silently observing. "They excel at slashing and skirmishing from horseback. But a sword like this—especially a knight's longsword—demands stricter footwork and a proper understanding of how to apply force."

"I don't mean to contradict your instruction. But if he learns the wrong fundamentals and they form habits, correcting them later will be harder than starting fresh."

"If he wants to stand as a true knight one day, he'll face armored foes—not unarmed farmers or grazing beasts."

Iggo's face had darkened with displeasure when she first stepped in, but it gradually faded under her reasonable explanation.

He folded his arms, grunted, and gave a reluctant nod.

The Dothraki might rule the Grass Sea with their arakhs, but Iggo had lived in Westeros long enough to understand just how poorly a curved blade fared against full plate armour.

Meanwhile, Ronin, having received the sword, paid no attention to the interaction between the two, nor did he immediately start practicing. Instead, he closed his eyes and replayed Brienne's movements in his mind.

After a long while, he reopened his eyes. Gripping the blade with both hands, he swung it out again, deliberately imitating that feeling.

Initially, his movements were still clumsy and crude, and the transfer of power was obscure and awkward. But after several attempts, Ronin distinctly felt that the rotation of his waist was starting to drive his shoulders and arms—as Brienne said—and the blade, once light and weak, started to carry weight—real weight.

Brienne did not interrupt him, merely watching him practice repeatedly. A hint of appreciation occasionally showed in her blue eyes.

For a commoner, Ronin's talent in swordsmanship could be said to be remarkable. Not enough to compare with her own gifted younger self, perhaps, but certainly above many dull, ordinary swordsmen.

Of course, few men could match Brienne's talent at all. By sixteen, she had already defeated Ser Humfrey Wagstaff in a fair duel, shattering three of his ribs.

It was a pity Ronin began learning so late. It would be difficult for him to achieve anything too great. But with consistent practice and effort, he might still become a decent knight.

As she was lost in thought, Brienne suddenly noticed the Dothraki man looking at her in a strange way from the corner of her eye.

She looked over, seeing a kind of fire burning in his eyes.

'This bastard!' Brienne gritted her teeth. The blatant, intense gaze made her feel uncomfortable. She almost wanted to draw her sword and teach him some manners but restrained herself, turning her attention back to Ronin.

"Hoo—hah—"

The sun gradually rose higher. Ronin only stopped when the last traces of morning fog dissolved under the sunlight.

This was his first time pushing himself so hard, and his arms felt heavy and numb the moment he relaxed.

The blade slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground. He slumped down beside it, completely exhausted, gasping for breath, his chest heaving violently.
His armor and tunic were already soaked in sweat.

After catching his breath for a while, he looked up at Brienne and flashed a tired smile.

"Thank you, Lady Brienne," he said. "I think I've got the hang of it. Your instructions were very… crucial."

Brienne merely shook her head. "This is nothing special. You could find anyone who has received knight training and get the same instruction."

"I originally thought you wouldn't last long, but your perseverance is admirable. Keep training, and you may truly accomplish something someday."

"Hahaha!!!"

Her praise seemed to greatly lift Ronin's spirit. He straightened slightly and shot Iggo a smug look. "Did you hear that, Iggo? Seems like I'm not hopeless after all."

Iggo shrugged in response, unwilling to argue.

For a moment, Brienne smiled as well, but then her expression shifted, growing serious.

A complex emotion flashed in her blue eyes, as if she were weighing her words. She drew a breath, straightened her back, and spoke solemnly, "I must apologize, Ser Ronin."

"I... misjudged you."

"Ser Jaime told me what you sacrificed to secure my release. You gave up the gold, title, and lands Roose Bolton promised you."

Saying this, the tall woman stepped forward and bowed deeply, her voice tinged with genuine guilt and regret.

"You are an honorable man. Please accept my apology for my previous rudeness."

It was a strange sight: a robust woman in an ill-fitting dress bowing to a thin, sweat-drenched man still sitting on the ground.

Ronin didn't shy away. Instead, he grinned, showing a brilliant smile.

"Call me Ronin. Ronin Graves."

"And don't apologize, Lady Brienne. Rather than using apology as a post-facto remedy, I prefer to think things through carefully beforehand."

These deeply meaningful words made Brienne tremble slightly.

She looked up at the man before her, feeling for the first time that his clear eyes seemed to always harbor admirable wisdom.

"What's past is past. There's no need to look back." Ronin adjusted his posture, trying not to appear too ungraceful despite his exhaustion.

"And please, don't dwell on your mistakes. There were four of us when we arrived, so naturally, four of us must leave together."

"I told you before, didn't I? I never abandon a friend."

He paused, his gaze shifting from Brienne to Iggo, his tone deepening as he added, "I always tend to go out of my way to help my friends. Likewise, when I need help in the future, I expect my friends to spare no effort in offering me assistance."

"Although I hope… that day never comes."

As he said this, Ronin extended his right hand toward Brienne. It was cracked from gripping the sword, but his eyes were clear and honest.

Brienne stared at that outstretched hand, momentarily frozen.

She remembered telling Jaime that Ronin was "not a friend." She remembered her sharp, baseless accusations. Yet the smile on his face held no resentment or displeasure—only sincerity.

She felt even more guilty. How could she have judged such a noble man with a petty heart?

Without any hesitation, she reached out her hand—much larger than Ronin's—firmly grasped his wrist, and pulled him to his feet.

"I owe you a debt, Ronin," she said softly, "and I will repay it no matter how long it takes."

...

"Neigh!"

Just as Ronin was preparing to limp back to his room for a much-needed bath, the sound of hooves hurried toward them.

All three of them turned their heads in unison, only to see Jaime approaching from a distance, sitting astride a horse, holding the reins in his left hand.

His previously dejected demeanor was completely gone. His stubble was shaved clean and his long golden hair neatly fell over his shoulders, making him look dashing and heroic.

If one overlooked his bandaged right hand, he looked every bit the knight sung about in taverns.

"Yo-ho~~ Ladies!"

Seeing Ronin and Brienne shaki
ng hands and making peace, Jaime let out a whistle. "I must say, your taste in clothing is truly disappointing!"

"Hurry up and pack your bags, it's time for us to depart!"

"Once we reach King's Landing, I'll have the court tailor at the Red Keep make you both some fine new outfits!"

 

[Fanfictionlord]

Watching him grow out of all his earlier gloom, once again turning into the cheerful Jaime Lannister, Ronin couldn't help but laugh.

He shook his head, teasing in a playful tone, "You certainly look refreshed, Ser Lannister."

"What happened? Did Roose Bolton arrange some kind of 'full service' last night to help you regain your vigor?"

"I know there are a few well-known brothels in Harrenhal. I've been there before, and I must say, their skills are quite good."

He wasn't boasting. His predecessor really had been frugal enough to save money to visit Harrenhal twice just for that—though it had been the lowest tier…

But that's how men are: save where you can, spend where you must.

Even if you starve, you must spend money where it counts.

"No, no, no, my dear Ronin."

Jaime shook his head repeatedly, but the radiant smile on his face told another story. Last night was indeed not half bad.

His emerald eyes drifted toward Brienne, who looked embarrassed in her clothes. He winked slyly, then deliberately raised his voice, ensuring everyone on the training ground could hear.

"My experience was far more wonderful than any of those ordinary services!"

"Yesterday, I had the pleasure of sharing a truly unforgettable 'mandarin duck bath' with a certain high-born lady!"

"The feeling...was too wonderful to describe. It washed away all my exhaustion and bad luck from the journey!"

Hearing this, Ronin glanced at Brienne and immediately remembered that this scene had also occurred in the original story. But it was definitely not as vulgar as Jaime made it sound.

He was most likely teasing the taciturn woman from Tarth. Sure enough, upon hearing his words, Brienne's face instantly flushed bright red.

"Shut your filthy mouth, Jaime!"

Furious and humiliated, she stepped forward and clenched her fists, ready to drag Jaime off his horse.

What was surprising, however, was that she didn't call him "Kingslayer".

Only Iggo, standing nearby, narrowed his eyes. His huge hand tightened around his sword hilt as he stared at Jaime's smug, punchable face.

He seemed to be considering whether he should follow Dothraki tradition and challenge the blond bastard to a duel to the death to claim the tall woman for himself.

But after weighing the choice for a moment, he slowly released the sword hilt and shook his head.

Defeating a cripple wouldn't demonstrate the valor of a Dothraki warrior. It might even make the the tall and strong, bear-like woman look unfavorably upon him.

On his horse, Jaime saw Brienne's fierce expression and laughed even more proudly, as if he had already won a battle. He continued his shameless teasing.

The atmosphere in the training ground suddenly became relaxed and harmonious, and all the recent bloodshed, scheming, and tension faded away for a moment.

But this rare moment of harmony was quickly broken by loud shouts and curses.

"You damned bastard! You sewer rat! I finally caught you!"

"Drag him to the stables!"

"I'm going to cut off his filthy little thing, toss it into the feeding trough, and make him watch the warhorses chew up and swallow it!"

Turning to look, they saw Roose Bolton's guard captain—Walton—leading a group of grim-looking soldiers, roughly dragging a person across the training ground.

The man struggled desperately, letting out muffled cries, but with his hands and feet tightly bound by ropes, escaping was impossible.

Ronin frowned, instinctively wanting to turn his head away. During wartime, especially in territory occupied by the Bolton family, these cruel and bloody displays could be seen every day; it was normal.

But just as he was about to turn away, he keenly caught the appearance of the man being dragged with his enhanced perception.

"Rorge!"

He blurted the name out.

"Rorge?"

Hearing this, Jaime and the other two, who had no intention of interfering either, looked more closely.

Sure enough, with his short, sturdy build and the faint black hair covering his body, who else could it be but Rorge?

"The survivor from the Brave Companions?"

Jaime leaned from his saddle and whispered into Ronin's ear, "Didn't you settle him in a room? How did Roose Bolton's men catch him?"

"Who knows?"

Ronin shrugged, a hint of gloom on his face, and responded quietly. "This is their territory. They probably even count every hair in your underpants."

"Oh, speaking of which, do you wear underpants?"

"No proper man wears underpants—they're too restrictive!" Jaime scoffed dismissively, then continued to ask, "That's your spoils of war. What do you say? Should we try getting him back?"

Ronin narrowed his eyes, falling into thought. Rorge was indeed quite useful to him, but openly confronting Roose Bolton's men head-on right before their departure was simply too risky.

He thought for about two or three seconds, ultimately deciding to concede.

Shaking his head, he spoke reluctantly. "Forget it, Jaime. We're leaving soon. It's best not to cause trouble…"

"Alright I get it!"

Jaime suddenly interjected, shouting excitedly. Not giving Ronin any chance to explain, he flashed a confident "leave it to me" smile and kicked his horse's flanks.

"Hah!"

The warhorse neighed loudly and charged across the training ground, its hooves kicking up mud as it raced toward Walton and his men!

Watching Jaime's disappearing figure, Ronin couldn't help but curse.

What did "I get it" even mean?!

But since Jaime had already charged ahead, could he really just stand by and abandon him?

Ronin made a quick decision, let out a frustrated sigh, and dashed after him.

Although Brienne and Iggo were equally confused, but seeing that both Ronin and Jaime had taken action, they quickly followed after them.

Brienne, dressed in a gown, ran faster than both of them, even having the presence of mind to grab a rake from beside the stables before she sprinted.

Clip-clop… clip-clop… The pounding of hooves grew louder.

Walton, who was busy shouting orders and kicking Rorge in the waist and stomach, heard the noise behind him and turned back impatiently.

Just one glance made his scalp tingle.

A massive horse, appearing almost out of nowhere, was charging rapidly at him, showing no signs of stopping!

On its back, the golden-haired Kingslayer wore a chilling, crazed grin, controlling the reins with one hand.

"Isn't that—my horse?!" The thought flashed by in his mind but vanished quickly as fear overwhelmed him.

Despite being a seasoned warrior, facing a warhorse galloping rapidly toward him, Walton's legs turned to jelly.

It was no joke; he could even smell the stench of animal sweat mixed with leather!

"Gods above!" Walton cried out in desperation and fell backward into the mud.

Just at that moment, Jaime on horseback let out a long whistle and sharply pulled back on the reins with his left hand! The charging horse reared up, its front hooves slashing the air a few times.

Then its hooves slammed into the ground half a meter from Walton's head, splattering mud all over his deathly pale face.

Walton stiffly lifted his head to see Jaime sitting proudly on the horse, looking down at him with a face full of playful mockery.

Raising an eyebrow, the golden-haired, green-eyed Lannister rested his elbow on the horse's neck, leaning slightly, and teased, "Yo!"

"Did I frighten you, my lady?"

Walton, still a bit fear stricken, stiffly gazed at the horse a few inches away from him and he could swear on every god in existence: this damned horse was his. He'd had it for over ten years!

"You thief—you stole my horse!" he pointed at Jaime and shouted angrily.

Jaime straightened his back and retorted, "Mind your words, Captain Walton. I am a Lannister—my piss is gold."

"As for this horse, Lord Bolton gave it to me." He said righteously, "If yours is gone, what does that have to do with me?"

His words made Walton even more furious. Wiping mud from his face, he was about to continue arguing when suddenly, a stream of hot liquid gushed out from between the horse's legs.

Fortunately, Walton reacted quickly and scrambled backward, narrowly avoiding being sprayed in the face.

The hot stream, carrying a strong, pungent odor, shot onto the muddy ground where he had just been sitting, almost grazing his nose.

Walton scrambled away, getting up awkwardly and looking utterly disheveled and furious.

"You—" Just as he was about to start cursing again, Ronin and the others arrived, forcing Walton to swallow his words.

Brienne and Iggo, both experienced warriors, instinctively formed a half-circle with Ronin without needing any instructions.

However, Walton's side outnumbered them slightly, and soon the two sides entered a tense standoff.

Ronin didn't speak right away. Instead, his gaze first fell upon Rorge, who was tied up like a wild boar.

It must be said that this one had decent physical fitness. He had been unconscious when they arrived at Harrenhal yesterday, but now he was already wriggling on the ground, even having the energy to glare at them

Although his wounds still oozed a little blood, he wasn't in any life-threatening danger. Seeing that, Ronin heaved a sigh of relief and then turned to Walton.

"Captain Walton." He spoke softly, letting the aura of Majesty Lv2 emanate unrestrained.

His voice made Walton, who was still in a fit of rage, freeze slightly, feeling a tremor in his heart.

As if compelled by an invisible force, he involuntarily shifted his attention from Jaime to Ronin.

The aura around him gave Walton the same uneasy feeling he had when facing Roose Bolton. He felt like something bad would happen if he crossed this man.

But as a guard captain of House Bolton, he also had his own pride and was unwilling to back down. In the end, he swallowed the bullet and spoke up. "Lord Bolton ordered all remnants of the Brave Companions to be executed!"

"This bastard was sneaking around the castle like a rat, and I caught him myself. I am only obeying the Lord's orders!"

He emphasized Lord Roose Bolton's order, trying to stand his ground by relying on his liege's name.

However, Ronin merely sneered. "Your logic is flawed, Captain. He is my captive, so he is naturally under my authority. Lord Bolton's order does not apply to him."

"Your captive?" Walton spat. "Don't give me that!"

"This bastard dared to fight me over Wells, the top prostitute at the 'Red Hole,' just half a month ago! Even if the Seven Gods were standing here today, I'd still kill him!"

"Take him!" he ordered, and the surrounding Northern soldiers prepared to rush forward.

"Stop!" Ronin snapped, his gaze icy cold. The pressure of Majesty Lv2 intensified, becoming almost palpable.

Brienne and Iggo also stepped forward immediately, their presence adding to the pressure, momentarily intimidating Walton and the soldiers.

Seeing them come to a halt, Ronin sighed with relief. Harrenhal was, after all, the garrison for the Bolton army. Making a commotion here could attract unwanted attention, making the situation difficult to manage later.

"Very well, Captain Walton. If you insist on taking him, then let us talk business."

While Walton was hesitating whether to take further action, Ronin's voice rang out, changing the subject.

Under the other party's somewhat astonished gaze, Ronin raised his index finger. "One thousand gold dragons."

"According to Westerosi custom, if you wish to ransom him, then pay one thousand gold dragons."

"After that, the man is yours, and whatever you do with him is none of my concern."

"H-how much???" Hearing the price quoted by Ronin, Walton's eyes widened in disbelief.

"This bastard is worth a thousand gold dragons? Are you kidding me? The Kingslayer's bounty is only a thousand!" he shouted, pointing at Jaime.

Ronin's expression remained unchanged. He merely tilted his head and explained patiently, "The accounts cannot be calculated that way."

"Ser Jaime's ransom is a one-time thing because he is a member of the Kingsguard and cannot marry or have children. But Rorge…"

Ronin nudged him lightly with his foot. "He is different."

"He will work for me and create value. Then he will marry and have children. His children will work for me, and their children will too… this cycle will never end."

"So, if you consider the lifetime value of him and all his descendants, isn't a thousand gold dragons fair? This is already a discounted price. I'm giving it to you only out of respect for Lord Bolton."

Ronin shrugged, wearing an expression that said, "You've gotten a huge bargain."

Walton was absolutely dumbfounded, his mouth agape, lost for words. The explanation Ronin gave... almost sounded logical. But it clearly treated him like a fool!

Walton's chest rose and fell violently, making his face flush crimson.

Wasn't this just bullying an honest man?!

jaime spoke up at the perfect moment from atop his horse. "I suggest you seriously consider Ser Ronin's proposal, Captain Walton. You have only two choices: either pay the ransom, or immediately release the man."

Saying this, he leaned slightly, a hint of malice flashing in his emerald eyes. "Otherwise, when I return to King's Landing, I might casually mention to my father…"

"That Vargo Hoat ordered my hand to be cut off—and the man who swung the blade… was you."

The moment those words were spoken, Walton felt a chill run up his spine.

"Slander!"

Walton stomped his feet in panic, pointing at Jaime in horror. "You're slandering me! A man as honorable as Lord Tywin Lannister would never believe empty words without any evidence!"

This accusation… it was too malicious! As expected from a man titled "Kingslayer." He was simply inhumane!

However, seeing his reaction, Jaime grew even more smug. Straightening proudly in the saddle, he looked down with a cold smile and said softly.

"Then Captain…"

"Whose words do you think my father will believe? Yours or mine?"

 

[Fanfictionlord]

Jaime's threat was the final straw that completely broke Walton's resolve.

He couldn't be blamed. If he allowed the Kingslayer to run to his father and pin every disaster that had taken place in the Riverlands onto him, the consequences would be unimaginable.

He stared at Jaime and forced himself to retort stiffly, "Th-This… is Harrenhal. You are… challenging Lord Bolton's… authority!"

Although he tried to toughen his tone, the constant chattering of his teeth told another story.

The crack in his psychological defenses was immediately noticed by Ronin. He subtly patted Jaime's thigh, signaling him to stop pressing the matter.

The desired effect had largely been achieved. Pushing too hard now might be counterproductive and incite the man's desperate resistance.

Stepping forward, Ronin softened his tone, speaking as if genuinely trying to comfort him. "Captain Walton, I believe we are all honorable people here. There's no need to escalate this over some worthless fellow and a petty private grudge to the point of no return."

"Lord Bolton's authority is meant to eliminate threats and maintain order, not for you to settle private scores and fight over a prostitute."

"Wells is a male prostitute," Iggo suddenly interjected from the side.

Hearing that, Ronin looked at Walton in surprise. But seeing the man's expression remain completely unchanged, showing no signs of embarrassment or denial, he simply shrugged.

After all, such preferences were far from uncommon across Westeros. And, frankly, this world lacked the "toxic butts" of his previous life, which made the whole thing much safer… probably.

Deciding not to dwell on the matter, Ronin continued to coax the already wavering Walton.

"Think this through, Captain Walton."

He took another step forward, casually placing a hand on Walton's shoulder. "If this matter reaches Lord Bolton's ears, what do you think he'll do? Praise your judgment or scold you for embarrassing him in front of an honored guest like the heir of Casterly Rock?"

These words were like a sharp dagger, completely piercing through Walton's defenses.

Lowering his head, he fell silent for a moment. He glanced around at the men behind him and took a deep breath. "All I know is loyalty to Lord Bolton and serving him diligently. The rest… I haven't considered!"

—Hah.

Ronin was dumbfounded by this sudden declaration.

Seeing Walton straighten his back and adopt a righteous pose, Ronin was actually quite impressed by his presence of mind.

He understood that backing down too suddenly in front of his subordinates would lower his standing and embarrass him as a captain. So he decided to deliberately put on a show to save face.

But since all he needed was a way out, Ronin decided to pave the way for him with some money.

"As I said earlier, Captain Walton, we are all honorable people here." Ronin tightened his grip slightly, pulling Walton into a half-embrace, patting his shoulder. At the same time, he pushed his Majesty Lv2 aura to the limit.

His tone softened, but the pressure emanating from him only grew stronger. "How about this? I'll give you a solution worthy of your status."

Saying this, he pointed to Rorge lying on the ground. "This man, I must take him with me. But since he has offended you, I will make him pay a price far harsher than anything you can imagine. After today, he will look upon you with nothing but fear—never again daring to covet anyone or anything that belongs to you."

Ronin's voice was powerful and clear, and something about the way he spoke compelled people to believe everything he said.

Then, changing the subject, he gestured toward the horse beneath Jaime. "As for this horse, I believe it's simply a misunderstanding. Perhaps Lord Bolton didn't specify which mount he intended to gift, or perhaps the stable boys made an error. But regardless, continuing to argue over the ownership of a horse is far too undignified for men of our standing."

He deliberately emphasized the word "undignified," letting it settle itself in Walton's mind. Then, without giving him a moment to react, he reached into his robe and pulled out a pouch of coins.

He weighed it once; the crisp clinking of the gold dragons rang out clearly, drawing everyone's attention.

"Here are thirty gold dragons." Ronin decisively shoved the pouch into Walton's arms before continuing. "Consider this my personal compensation to you, as well as payment for the warhorse."

"Take it, lead your men to the best tavern in town and have a feast with the strongest wine you can find."

"And don't think it's too little."

Gulp!

As Ronin's voice faded, Walton stared at the heavy pouch in his hands and couldn't help but swallow hard.

Too little?

In the South, even during wartime when prices were soaring, a gold dragon held tremendous purchasing power.

It was even more so in the North, where resources were scarcer and most people lived on the brink of poverty. Thirty gold dragons nearly equaled an entire month's expenditure for the Dreadfort itself!

"Ser Ronin… You… I… I truly… I…"

Looking up at Ronin's sincere expression, Walton found himself stammering, completely overwhelmed.

Though his unit, under Roose Bolton's discreet orders, had plundered plenty of coins during their southern campaign, most of that wealth had gone straight into the lord's pockets.

Holding such a large sum personally was enough to make anyone tremble with excitement.

"Don't be sad, Captain Walton." Ronin patted him warmly on the back, stepped back, and chuckled as his gaze swept over the Northern soldiers around them. "I know you suffered a loss, but sometimes, ensuring both sides suffer a small loss often means… everyone wins."

"By handling it this way, with just a few minor compromises, we've resolved this conflict peacefully and honorably. Isn't that far wiser than letting things spiral into something unsightly?"

Walton swallowed again. "How can I accept this…? That horse only cost ten gold dragons when I bought it."

Even though he said this, his hands moved with lightning speed, stuffing the gold into his pocket as if afraid Ronin would suddenly change his mind.

Watching his contradictory actions, Ronin sneered inwardly, but on the outside, he remained perfectly composed, giving Walton a polite nod.

"As I told you, we are all honorable men."

"Yes! Yes, of course!!!"

Clutching the gold, all of Walton's previous anger vanished, and a bright, almost blinding smile appeared on his face.

He looked at Ronin with the devotion of a man seeing a savior, enthusiastically stepping forward to embrace him and patting his shoulder.

"We are indeed honorable men, Ser Ronin. From today on, you are the greatest friend of 'Steelshanks Walton! Forget a mere Rorge—even if you asked for my wife, I'd wash her clean and lay her in your bed!"

"That won't be necessary…" Ronin quickly declined.

"In any case, if you need anything at all, just tell me. Everyone in the Dreadfort knows that I never goes back on his words!"

"Let's go! We're drinking to our hearts' content today!" Jingling the gold pouch in his pocket, Walton waved magnanimously, ordering his soldiers to march off with him, having no intention of inviting Ronin and his group.

Watching them leave, Ronin turned to Iggo and instructed, "Gather everyone. We need to leave here quickly."

"Roose Bolton is not the kind of man who keeps his word. We must depart before he changes his mind."

Jaime nodded strongly in agreement. Then, glancing at Rorge, who was carried by Iggo, he leaned closer and teased in a low voice, "You made a loss on that deal, Ronin. That man isn't worth thirty gold dragons."

"Is that so?" Ronin's lips curved into a meaningful smile.

"Lannister aren't the only one who knows how to do business in westeros, Jaime."

"Just watch. Ronin Graves never makes a losing deal either."

---

The chamber in Harrenhal was filled with the stale scent of old parchment mixed with faint traces of herbs and dust.

Walton stood trembling before a dark red desk, his head bowed so low it was almost buried in the collar of his chainmail.

A mud-streaked coin pouch rested on the polished tabletop. Its opening hung slightly open, revealing the faint golden gleam of the dragons within.

Roose Bolton did not touch the pouch. He didn't even spare it a glance.

"You accepted Ronin Grave's gold, and yet you allowed the man I intended to kill to walk away."

His voice was calm—far too calm—but every word made Walton tremble, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

While terrified, he frantically racked his brain, trying to figure out which son of a bitch under him had dared to betray him.

"Don't bother guessing, Walton."

Roose seemed to see right through him, his eyes appearing to know everything. "No one can hide anything from me in my territory—not in the Dreadfort, and not here."

Leaning back in his chair, he tapped the armrest lightly with his pale fingers.

Walton risked a sideways glance, his lips trembling as he tried to explain himself. "My Lord… I… I only—"

"Heh."

As soon as he spoke, Roose let out a soft chuckle, as if remembering something amusing. "Since you took their money and did their bidding, Walton… then you shall go and follow them."

"Ah?!"

Walton raised his head abruptly, his eyes filled with disbelief. He fell to his knees with a thud, his voice even taking on a sobbing tone.

"My Lord! Forgive me! I-I never meant to keep anything from you!"

"I have followed you faithfully for over ten years, and my father served House Bolton all his life—please, take that into account—!"

"I said…" Roose raised his voice slightly, cutting off Walton's desperate rambling. He spoke in a tone that didn't allow any room for refusal.

"You are to follow them."

---

"So… you're really coming with us?" Ronin, sitting on the back of a docile-looking horse, raised an eyebrow, saying in a teasing tone.

By the shores of the God's Eye, the autumn sunlight scattered across the lake's surface in glittering shards, reflecting Walton's contorted face, which looked as if he were suffering from constipation.

At Ronin's remark, his expression turned even uglier. He tightened his grip on the reins of his horse and replied curtly, "This is Lord Bolton's order. I am to escort you safely to King's Landing. And… collect the promised payment."

"Payment?"

Ronin tugged gently on the reins, slowing his horse. A flicker of confusion stirred in his eyes.

The agreement between him and Roose Bolton was mostly based on mutual understanding and potential future benefits. They had not agreed upon any specific "payment."

"What payment?" Ronin asked curiously, but Walton simply shook his head, his brows tightly furrowed.

"My Lord did not specify. He only instructed me to go straight to Lord Tywin once we reach King's Landing."

The vagueness of the answer made Ronin narrow his eyes. Knowing Walton's temperament, he doubted the man was lying. Which made the situation even more intriguing.

What was Roose Bolton planning? Sending a trusted retainer after them… was it for surveillance?

Or… was he using this opportunity to establish a more direct link to Tywin Lannister by personally escorting Jaime back?

There was too little information to figure anything out.

Walton, standing nearby, gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath, "Damn it, if I find out which bastard drank my wine, took my money, and still dared to stab me in the back, I swear I'll strip him naked and hang him on the walls of the Dreadfort when I come back, letting the crows peck out his eyes!"

At his righteous indignation, a meaningful curve played on Ronin's lips.

This kind of thing was actually easy to deduce: whoever gained the most benefit from this matter, or eliminated potential trouble, was most likely responsible.

But he had no intention of enlightening Walton. Let this muscle-headed Northerner figure it out slowly on his own. After all, he still had many unanswered questions himself.

"Keep an eye on him."

Shaking his head, he whispered to Iggo, who was riding beside him.

"And don't let that fellow die," he added, pointing at the unconscious Rorge, who was tied horizontally across Iggo's horse, bouncing like a sack of goods as the horse moved.

"My greatest business deal still needs him as a stepping stone!"

"Yes, my lord!" Iggo responded in a deep voice, reaching out to loosen Rorge's ropes a bit and give him some breathing space.

However, just at this moment—

Woooooooooooo—

A long, deep horn blast echoed from the tree-lined road to their left!

Immediately after came a dense thunder of hooves, rapidly approaching them.

Rumble—rumble—rumble—

Judging from the sound alone, it was a large group—large enough that even the ground beneath them seemed to tremble faintly.

Ronin's pupils tightened. Without a second thought, he shouted sternly, "Prepare for combat!"

Despite having lost his right hand, Jaime reacted the fastest. In one smooth motion, he drew his longsword.

Brienne spurred her horse and rode straight into position, interposing herself between Ronin and the incoming group. The ridiculous dress she was wearing earlier had long since been replaced by her armor.

Iggo followed right after her, drawing his longsword, and let out a low, animalistic growl from his throat.

Even Walton instinctively drew his weapon, looking nervously toward the source of the sound. With practiced efficiency, he maneuvered into position with Brienne and Iggo, forming a rough but effective triangular defense around Ronin.

Their quick response showed that although their unusual gathering was small, every single member was an elite.

Everyone looked out in vigilance, staring intently in the direction of the road.

Within a few breaths, a cavalry unit emerged from the depths of the forest. There were about twenty to thirty men, all on horseback. They weren't at a full charge, but their pace was by no means slow.

Hooves struck the ground in perfect rhythm, sending an almost palpable wave of pressure as they advanced straight toward Ronin and his group.

Ronin's hand reached into his chest, fingers closing over the travel permit with Roose Bolton's seal. He had no idea if this group was enemy or ally.

As the distance closed, his pupils suddenly contracted sharply!

At the very front of their formation, a tall banner fiercely tore at the air in the autumn wind, flapping loudly.

Against a pitch-black background, like the bottomless cold night, was embroidered an incredibly striking white sunburst, emitting a sharp brilliance!

 

[Fanfictionlord]

"A white sunburst…" Ronin muttered under his breath, his eyes instinctively narrowing at the emblem on the banner.

Fragments of knowledge about the great Houses of Westeros—collected since before his transmigration—rapidly flashed through his mind.

He was certain he had seen this aggressive-looking emblem somewhere, but he could not immediately recall where exactly. The sensation was like having a fishbone lodged in his throat, making him very uncomfortable.

But not everyone was as forgetful as him. Just as he was searching through his memory, Walton blurted out beside him, "Karstark!"

"It's the Karstark men! What in the world are those people doing here?!"

Karstark! The moment the surname was spoken, Ronin's heart skipped a beat. His expression tightened, and his gaze involuntarily drifted toward Jaime.

It couldn't be helped. Jaime Lannister and House Karstark had a deep blood feud!

'Dammit!' Ronin cursed inwardly.

A little farther south lay the territory of the Lannister army. There was no way this was a coincidence.

"They mean trouble..." He muttered softly, his voice barely audible even to himself, but the grave look on his face left Jaime and Brienne visibly surprised. After all, Ronin always seemed so composed. Even when facing Roose Bolton, it appeared he was in control of the situation the whole time.

"Everyone, follow my lead!"

Ronin paused for a moment, his stern gaze sweeping over his group, his voice firm. "Stay calm. Let's figure out their intentions first! Do not provoke them no matter the situation!"

The others nodded without hesitation. Among them stood the heir of Casterly Rock, the eldest daughter of the Lord of Tarth, and an exceptionally skilled Dothraki warrior, but not a single person objected to Ronin taking command, unanimously recognising him as the leader of the group.

After speaking, Ronin looked first at the approaching men, then at Jaime. Suddenly a spark of realization flashed across his mind, as if he had remembered something crucial.

He quickly spun around, yanked open a bulging saddlebag, pulled out a thick cloak, and tossed it to Jaime.

Jaime instinctively caught it, his face filled with confusion. "What!"

Ronin shot him a glare and warned sternly, "If you don't want to have your head chopped off like the Karstark, then put it on quickly!"

"Oh—and pull up the hood. Make sure that beautiful golden hair of yours stays hidden."

Rumble!

The rapid clatter of hooves came to an abrupt halt roughly twenty paces away from them.

As the dust slowly dissipated, the Northern cavalry came fully into view.

Around twenty horsemen stood silently, reins in hand. Their gear was vastly different from the polished splendor of Southron knights, showcasing the rugged fierceness typical of Northerners.

Most wore roughly forged black-iron half-helms and heavily worn chainmail, all covered with thick layers of animal hide.

Judging from the pelts, Ronin could make out wolf, bear, and even seal skins.

Their weapons were equally diverse: two-handed greatswords, brutal axes, spiked maces, and the wide-bladed spears favored in the North.

Their skin was coarse, and every face looked thoroughly weather-beaten.

Although their numbers were not excessive, the fierce aura of the Northerners, condensed together, was enough to strike fear into anyone's heart.

The leader was a sturdy-looking man riding an unusually tall Northern warhorse. His beard was thick and streaked with gray, and he wore a gray wolfskin cloak draped over his armor.

Instead of announcing himself or questioning them, he slowly urged his horse forward, studying Ronin's group like a predator sizing up its prey.

"Ser—"

Ronin stepped forward, intending to speak, but before he could even finish the first word, he was loudly cut off.

"That southern tin-can nonsense is worthless! Nothing but weaklings hiding behind steel—but even their fancy armor can't stop my hammer! It smashes right through!"

The man lifted a warhammer with an exaggerated posture and roared toward the sky, "Hogg! Since coming south, how many knights' heads have I smashed?!"

"Too many to count, Captain!"

"Hahahaha!!!"

At that, all the Northern soldiers behind him erupted into laughter.

They pounded their shields and saddles, brandished their weapons, whistled sharply, and let out loud war cries.

Seeing this, Ronin's frown deepened.

He wasn't afraid to deal with men like Roose Bolton or even Tywin Lannister. However twisted or cruel they were, they at least followed certain logic.

What gave him the biggest headache were these brutish lumpheads. They were the worst kind to deal with.

Reasoning meant nothing to them, and slaughter and hatred were the only things in their heads. If they disliked a word he said, they might swing their blades before he even finished speaking.

Even so, he suppressed the irritation in his heart and tried again, speaking with more caution: "My lord—"

"I am Harag Sharp! Captain of Lord Rickard Karstark's personal guard, his most trusted man during his lifetime!" Harag cut him off again with a thunderous voice.

But as he mentioned the dead lord, a hint of hatred flickered in his eyes. "We're looking for the Kingslayer, boy! You and your lot—have you seen that bastard who beds his own sister?!"

As soon as these words were spoken, Ronin could sense Jaime's body involuntarily trembling beneath the cloak.

Clearly, the insult had struck home.

"The Kingslayer? No, Captain Harag!" Ronin quickly stepped forward again, drawing all attention away from Jaime.

He shook his head, speaking with as much innocence as he could muster: "We are people of Ser Fenry Yordel. Our farm was destroyed by a group of men calling themselves the Brave Companions."

"To survive, we had no choice but to cross Gods Eye and seek refuge with relatives in Duskendale. You know, in these times, there is fighting everywhere; the Riverlands is in chaos—and we just want to find a place to settle down."

"Fortunately, Lord Bolton is a benevolent lord. To make up for his men's mistakes, he personally issued us a travel permit."

To bolster the lie, Ronin produced a parchment from his chest and carefully unrolled it, revealing House Bolton's emblem and wax seal.

"You may inspect it, Captain Harag." He offered it with both hands, fully composed and showing not a hint of fear.

This actually made Harag hesitate, not having expected these "refugees" to carry a document signed by Roose Bolton himself.

A trace of suspicion flashed in his gray eyes, and he signaled to a subordinate beside him to step forward and take the parchment.

The soldier rode forward, took it, and handed it to Harag.

Harag pretended to open the parchment, but his eyes did not examine its contents. Instead, he used the moment to covertly scrutinize Ronin's group again.

A woman more robust than most men.

A hulking brute who looked fiercer than any of his own soldiers.

A guard with a look of misfortune.

A bound, suspicious individual… and—

"Heh heh…"

His eyes landed on Jaime, wrapped tightly in the cloak, and suddenly a sly grin bloomed across his face.

He casually tossed the parchment aside, planted his hands on his hips, and declared proudly, "I can't read!"

"..."

Ronin was left speechless by his self-righteous words.

He felt a headache coming up. They truly were a bunch of unreasonable bastards, utterly devoid of any logic.

He clenched his fist before reaching into his chest and pulling out a small pouch. The pleasant clinking sound of coins inside made the eyes of the Northern soldiers light up.

He tossed it toward Harag and spoke pleadingly, "We are nothing but poor folks hoping only to reach Duskendale safely and escape war, my lord."

"There are a hundred gold dragons inside. Think of them as our toll." As he spoke, Ronin forced out a faint, sincere smile.

In times like these, bribery opened more doors than steel. To him, who possessed the System, gold dragons were precious, but if he lost his life, no amount of gold would matter; they would only enrich others.

Besides, as long as he stayed alive and made it to King's Landing, the bathtub filled with gold dragons Jaime had promised was still waiting for him.

Across from him, Harag caught the pouch, weighed it, sneered, and stuffed it into his chest pocket without even checking. But he showed no intention of leaving.

He raised the warhammer again, this time pointing straight at Jaime, and said, "You have some sincerity, boy, but that is not what I want. That sneaky fellow hiding under that cloak—tear that disgrace off him! Now!"

Ronin clenched his teeth at his words. Damn this bastard, he was too rude!

That was all of the gold dragons he had!

Forcing himself to remain calm, his brain working furiously, Ronin took a deep breath, fully activated Majesty Lv2, and shifted into a serious, resolute stance.

"Impossible! My lord, absolutely impossible! He is suffering from a severe illness. He must remain tightly wrapped, otherwise it will spread!"

"Bullshit!" Harag sneered, not believing him one bit.

Even with Majesty activated, the distance between them was too great, making it difficult to affect Harag.

"I've fought from Caho City all the way to the Riverlands, and I've never heard of an illness that makes you wrap someone up like that! Don't try to fool me!"

"It's true!"

Seeing Harag unmoved, Ronin's pupils contracted slightly, and then he uttered a chilling word. "It's Greyscale."

"Greyscale?"

"What in the seven hells is that?"

At the mention of the name, the Northern soldiers fell silent, whispering among themselves. There was no helping it. It sounded too ominous.

Next to Harag, a man with graying hair suddenly spoke up. "Captain... I... I think I've heard it from the mouth of my uncle. You know he's a sailor."

"He said he saw it in Essos. The skin of the ones afflicted with greyscale turns hard like bark and stone, and even cutting off the infected area doesn't help!"

He swallowed, clearly apprehensive. "Let's just leave, Captain. If we catch something like that, the only outcome will be… well, it's not worth it!"

"Exactly."

Seeing that someone recognised it, Ronin quickly pressed his advantage. "The disease comes from across the Rhoyne, and it is extremely strange. Once infected, the skin turns gray like stone, gradually losing all sensation. It spreads until the entire body becomes like stone. There is no cure. The one inflicted with it can only watch himself turn into a statue and slowly wait in agony for death."

He let his voice turn grave and cold: "Anyone who goes near him might be infected. But since he is Ser Finn's eldest son, we cannot abandon him."

With his trusted soldier's frightened words and Ronin's elaborate description, Harag began to hesitate.

His instincts told him that the cloaked figure was highly suspicious—but what if the disease was real? Harag dared not gamble!

He stared hard at the gray cloak, as if trying to peer through it. After a long, tense silence, he forced out an ugly smile and then turned his horse.

"Tch! Damned bad luck!" He spat on the ground and began to curse, "Wasting my time over some plague-ridden ghost!"

"Move! Let's go find that incestuous dog who mounts his own sister!"

"Word is that twat sitting on the Iron Throne is also the Kingslayer's and the whore-queen's bastard, hahahaha!"

"The lion family? They should call themselves the cursed family! Must've committed so many sins the gods punished them with birthing a freak no taller than a Half-man!"

As Harag rode away, he spewed increasingly vile insults about the Lannisters, growing more excited with each word.

"I bet Tywin Lannister's wife was eaten alive by that demon, starting from the bottom!"

"Hahahaha!!!!"

The vulgarity in his words became intolerable, and every alarm bell in Ronin's mind rang all at once.

Damn!!

He knew Jaime far too well—especially when insults targeted his beloved sister, his dead mother, and his brother.

These words were equivalent to repeatedly branding his soul and dignity with a red-hot iron rod!

"Don't do anything rash..." Ronin muttered inwardly, his heart pounding in his throat.

His muscles were tense, and he had already signaled Iggo and Brienne with his eyes to prepare for Jaime's inevitable outburst.

But to his shock, the cloak remained completely still, apart from a single tremor when his mother was insulted.

Harag cursed until his throat was dry, only to find the other party completely unresponsive.

Growing bored, he gave one final glare at the cloaked figure, then waved his arm dismissively. "Move!"

Leading his men, he cursed and turned his horse, riding away along the lakeside road, eventually disappearing around the corner of the woods.

It wasn't until the dust raised by the riders had completely settled, leaving only the sound of the wind and the soft lapping of water against the shore, that the suffocating tension finally eased.

Under everyone's watchful eyes, the gray hood was slowly lifted, golden hair spilling out, gleaming like sunlight breaking through dark clouds.

Jaime turned his head toward Ronin, who still wore a frown. There was no expected fury on his face. Instead, he seemed completely calm.

"What is it?"

"Did you expect me to leap out like a dog with its tail stepped on and drag all of you along with me?"

Jaime let our a sneer, continuing in a teasing tone, "I am Jaime Lannister. My life is worth far more than theirs."

Hearing this, Ronin was stunned for a second.

"Just watch, Ronin."

Jaime paused, his gaze fixed on the direction where those men had gone, and a flicker of resolution ignited in his eyes.

"When I return to King's Landing, I will use my own methods to ensure that foul-mouthed bastard pays dearly for every word he spoke today."

"Don't forget—"

"A Lannister always pays his debts."

Ronin blinked, then allowed a genuine smile to spread across his face.

He realized that the man before him was no longer the impulsive, hot-headed "Kingslayer" of his youth.

The loss of his hand and the hardships endured along the way had carved away his recklessness while sharpening something far more dangerous and resolute.

Ronin nodded, his voice earnest. "You have matured, Jaime."

Jaime raised an eyebrow, clearly ready to respond to his assessment with his usual sarcasm.

But just before he could speak—

Rumble!

A sudden burst of frantic, chaotic hoofbeats echoed from the direction the Karstark cavalry had just disappeared—accompanied by desperate, furious shouts.

"Thats Arya Stark!"

"Arya Stark is with The Hound! Catch her!"

 

[Fanfictionlord]

"Arya Stark!!!"

As the name rang out, everyone's heart skipped a beat without exception. Especially Brienne's!

Her tall body trembled violently. She didn't even have time to wonder why Lady Arya, who should be far away in King's Landing, would suddenly appear in the Riverlands, or why the Karstark men were pursuing her. All she knew was that she was in danger!

After swearing allegiance to Catelyn Tully, Brienne viewed rescuing the two Stark Ladies as her paramount honor and duty.

Without waiting for Ronin's command, she drove her heels into her horse's flanks. The large warhorse reared with a sharp neigh, then bolted down the hillside like an arrow loosed from a bow.

"Damn it! Follow her!"

Ronin had no time to scold Brienne for her impulsiveness and quickly spurred his mount to give chase. Jaime and Iggo also followed closely behind. Walton paused for a moment, a hint of hesitation flickering in her eyes, but then followed suit.

The group rode their horses, quickly rushing onto a sparsely wooded hill. As they looked down from above, the scene below came into full view.

The Karstark cavalry—about twenty Northern soldiers—had formed an encirclement, trapping a man riding a tall black warhorse in the center.

The man was exceptionally burly, wearing armor stained with dried mud and soot. He didn't seem too fond of helmets, openly revealing his signature heavily scarred, disfigured, and half-burned face. And in his arms he held a small, short-haired girl disguised as a boy, fiercely glaring at the Karstark riders encircling him.

Ronin, having read the original story, recognized them instantly. The hound and... Arya Stark!

But… according to the original storyline, the two of them should have been on their way to Riverrun or the Twins right now. How could they suddenly appear by the Gods Eye Lake?

Ronin frowned deeply. Had his appearance caused a butterfly effect, or was it something else?

He couldn't be sure.

"Lady Arya!" Just as Ronin was pondering, Brienne cried out again, panic edging her voice. She yanked on her reins, ready to charge downhill.

"Calm down! Brienne!" Fortunately, Ronin was quick this time, tightly grabbing her reins and sternly rebuking her, "Look down there! With just the few of us, charging down now won't save them. It will only get us killed along with them!"

"But thats Lady Arya!" Brienne shouted through gritted teeth, her blue eyes flickering with unwillingness. "I promised Lady Catelyn that I would bring her two daughters back safely..."

"I know." Ronin's tone softened, firm rather than harsh. "We're not abandoning her. But charging blindly isn't saving anyone. We need a plan. And don't forget, my hundred gold dragons are still in that bastard's hands."

Jaime, beside her, also advised, "He is right, Brienne. Although I don't know why Miss Arya is with the Hound, there are more than twenty Northern soldiers down there. We cannot win by force."

"Trust Ronin," Jaime added firmly. "He always finds a way."

The persuasion of the two men brought Brienne back to her senses. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she looked at the heavily surrounded Arya below, then at the sincere faces of Ronin and Jaime.

At last, she drew a deep breath and lowered the reins, forcibly suppressing the boiling protective instinct within her.

She chose to trust Ronin. Throughout their journey, the man's judgment had always proven correct. If anyone could save Arya in this situation, it was him. Moreover, even Jaime, always prideful and short-tempered, had endured Harag's intolerable insults without lashing out. She had no right to drag everyone to their deaths because of her own impulsiveness.

That was not the honor she upheld.

Seeing her calm down, Ronin temporarily breathed a sigh of relief. He turned his gaze back toward the battle below, his mind constantly racing.

Yes, battle.

He had to admit, the Hound's bravery was admirable. Despite being outnumbered, the man did not surrender.

Wielding his sword one-handed, he dashed back and forth within the encirclement. His movements were swift, and every swing of his sword was powerful.

In just a dozen seconds, three or four men had already fallen under his blade.

But two fists cannot defeat four hands, especially when he was holding a burden in his arms. And then it happened. As the Hound slashed down another man, a warhammer slammed into his back!

"Take my hammer, mad dog!"Harag Sharp's roar echoed as the Hound toppled from his saddle, tumbling to the ground along with Arya in his arms.

"Clegane!" Arya cried out in horror, struggling to crawl out of his embrace. She was unscathed, thanks to the Hound cushioning the impact for her with his body.

When she saw his ragged breathing and the blood streaming from his mouth and nose, her expression turned fierce. She drew Needle, bravely settling into the stance Syrio Forel had taught her.

But against more than twenty adult soldiers, her defiance meant nothing.

Sure enough, Harag rode up with lightning speed, and before she could even react, kicked her squarely in the chest, sending her frail body flying back.

"Hahaha!"

Harag threw his head back, laughing triumphantly. "Did you see that, Lord Rickard? I caught the little wolf cub of House Stark! To avenge you, I'll tie her up before King Robb and make him beg for forgiveness before all the Northern houses!"

"I'll have him kneel beneath the Karstark sunburst!"

But before his laughter could echo further, a soldier rushed to him in panic. "Captain! Bad news! Hogg—he took a blade to the thigh. The wound's too deep. The bleeding won't stop!"

"What?! Harag's grin vanished instantly.

Hogg was not like the other soldiers in his cavalry. He had been with Harag since childhood, and the bond between them far exceeded that of ordinary superior and subordinate. They were no less than brothers!

"Damn it! Find someone who can treat him!"

Harag shouted madly, "Maesters, priests, healers—I don't care who! Bring me anyone who can save him! Hogg cannot die! Absolutely not!"

On the hill not far away, Ronin heard this, and a sharp glint flashed in his eyes. A bold plan began to take shape in his mind.

"…Looks like I need to return to my old profession."

He turned his head, shot Jaime a grin, and gestured for him to pull his cloak up again.

He took a deep breath, then deliberately shouted in an anxious and irritated voice, "Don't move around so much, Young Lord Derick! Trust me! No one in the Riverlands can treat your illness except me!"

"Because I... am the best healer in all the Riverlands!" Ronin's voice, carried by the wind, clearly reached the battlefield below.

As expected, several Karstark soldiers turned their heads at the sound, then, as if reaching a consensus, galloped toward them.

Harag was the first to arrive. His sharp gray eyes fixed on Ronin.

"You," he spoke anxiously. "You said you're a healer?"

His eyes showed obvious suspicion and distrust in Ronin, but at the rate Hogg was losing blood, he wouldn't survive for long if his wound was left unattended. For his friend's survival, he had no choice but to desperately cling to the last straw of hope Ronin had thrown.

Ronin straightened his not-so-sturdy back. The aura of Majesty Lv2 emanated unrestrained.

"Didn't I mention it before?" He raised an eyebrow, fearlessly meeting Harag's gaze.

Harag frowned, but as his gaze drifted to Jaime, who was wearing a cloak and whom he had mentally labeled a "plague ghost," he remembered Ronin had indeed claimed to be a healer.

"Very well! Quickly! Come with me, healer!" He raised his warhammer and commanded in a voice that left no room for refusal: "My man is severely wounded and needs immediate treatment!"

Ronin instantly put on a troubled expression. He cast a hesitant look toward the hooded Jaime beside him and stammered, "But… Young Lord Derick's illness—I cannot leave him unattended. I must—"

"To hell with your plague ghost!" Seeing Ronin hesitate, Harag snapped, growing impatient. "Let him rot!"

"Or…"

He raised his warhammer and pointed it at Jaime, his voice thick with threat. "I'll send him to the Seven right now so you can focus all your attention on treating Hogg!"

"Your choice!"

As his words fell, several Northern soldiers immediately drew their swords in unison, the cold, flashing blades all pointing menacingly at Jaime.

Ronin froze for a moment, seemingly intimidated by the blatant threat. Then, deflating like a punctured ball, he said defeatedly, "…Very well. I'll go. Just... don't harm Lord Derick."

But when they began to move again, Harag once more shouted, "Stop!"

Everyone halted, watching Harag glare sharply at Brienne and the others.

"Only the healer," he said coldly. "Your companions stay exactly where they are."

"That is impossible!" Brienne snapped at his words. Her massive frame shifted directly in front of Ronin. "Ronin is our only healer. I will not allow him to walk into danger alone."

Her stern voice was filled with fierce protectiveness—for Ronin, as well as for Arya.

Following Brienne's outburst, Iggo and Walton also drew their weapons, initiating a standoff with Harag and his men.

However, instead of growing angrier, Harag grinned, showing a mouth full of yellowed teeth. "Good! A man must be worth his weight in gold if his friends cling to him so tightly."

He thought for a moment, then offered a middle ground. "You may follow, but stay half a league back and stand guard. When my man is healed, you'll get your precious healer back."

"Otherwise…"

He flexed his warhammer, letting the implied threat speak for him.

With the exchange reaching this point, Ronin naturally knew that pressing any harder would be counterproductive and might even provoke a more violent reaction from the other side.

"Alright," he said at last. "We'll do as Captain Harag says."

He took a deep breath, regaining his composure, and then turned to Brienne and the others. "Stay here and do not move. I'll return once his wounds are treated."

Then he paused and looked deliberately at the hooded Jaime, emphasizing his words, "Remember—give Young Lord Derick his medicine on time."

Beneath the cloak, Jaime's emerald eyes met his meaningful gaze, acknowledging the silent message passed between them.

With that, Ronin no longer hesitated. He mounted and spurred his horse forward, following the Karstark men.

They wasted no time. Because Hogg's condition was dire, the men rode fast; within ten breaths, they arrived at the location of the wounded man.

Hogg lay sprawled on the ground, his face pale as paper from blood loss. A soldier pressed desperately against the base of his thigh, but the blood was still constantly surging out between his fingers.

Ronin dismounted, dropped to one knee beside the man, and examined the wound. With the enhanced perception provided by Insight Lv1, he quickly made a diagnosis.

The wound was on the inner thigh. It wasn't very long, but deep. Rather than bleeding slowly, the blood was spurting out in rhythmic pulses with his heartbeat.

This was the typical sign of arterial bleeding!

The condition was critical. Very critical. If he didn't clamp it now, Hogg would bleed out to death in minutes.

Fortunately, the artery itself wasn't fully torn open. The bleeding rate was severe but still within salvageable limits.

Speaking of which, this man truly had terrible luck—sliced on the inner thigh of all places. However, he also had to be grateful for the injury, as it gave Ronin a chance to infiltrate their camp.

"How is he?"

Harag anxiously knelt beside him, his eyes fixed on Hogg's pale face and the relentlessly flowing blood. "Can he be saved?"

"It's tricky."

Ronin frowned deeply, his expression solemn, but his tone remained extremely calm and professional: "He cut a major artery in his thigh. The blood is flowing too fast."

Harag didn't understand terms like arteries and veins, but the simple phrase "The blood is flowing too fast" made him immediately grasp the situation.

The captain of the Karstark guards grabbed Ronin's shoulder, his voice laced with a hint of pleading: "Save him, healer!"

"You must save him. If you save Hogg, I will return all your gold dragons... No, I'll return twice the amount!"

Hearing this, Ronin raised his head, looked at Harag, and slowly curved his lips into a meaningful, confident smile.

He swiftly opened his portable medical kit, his eyes flickering briefly toward the Hound—bound, hands tied, and being hauled upright by a rope over a tree branch.

Averting his gaze, he retrieved a set of clamping tongs, a needle, and a length of suture thread.

"Don't worry, Captain Harag."

Ronin said, flashing a confident smile. "Without my permission, not even the Stranger can take his life."

"After all, I am the best healer in the entire Riverlands. Of all the patients I have treated, there has never been a single bad review!"
...

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