Money is Power [ASOIAF SI, System]

[Fanfictionlord]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another storm of lashes followed.

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

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

"Yes, sir!"

...

"…Where… am I?"

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

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

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

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

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

Holy crap! He had transmigrated into a medieval world!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their sycophantic cries rose together.

"Oh-ho-ho!!!"

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

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

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

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

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

Kindness? His arse!

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

That was some admirable dedication.

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

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

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

...

Name: Ronin Graves

Occupation: Doctor

Skills: Surgery Lv2, Manipulation Lv3

Current Available Skill Draws: 0

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

...

A system!

Ronin's eyes brightened—then dimmed immediately.

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

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

Absolutely insane!

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

Wasn't this just setting him up for failure?

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

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

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

"Start the draw!" he said without hesitation.

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

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

...

Skill: Pause (Unranked — Cannot be upgraded)

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

Cooldown: 7 days

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Whoa—"

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

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

It was a zebra!

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

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

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

"To Lord Edmure Tully, good sir."

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

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

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

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

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

Roose Bolton.
Robb Stark.
Jaime Lannister.

These names were… far too familiar!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jaime Lannister.

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

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

And the leader of this company…

"My name is Walton Steelshanks, ser!"

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

"Good day, Ser Walton."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These ruffians…

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

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

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

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

The guard nodded and hurried toward a wooden hut.

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

'Wait—something's wrong!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Others spurred their horses, ruthlessly hunting down the laborers.

"What are you doing, Vargo Hoat!"

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

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

"Shut up, bitch!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn it…

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

"Look what I found!"

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

"A roasted suckling pig!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dagger drew closer. Inches away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pah!"

"Bloody unripe!"

 

[Fanfictionlord]

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

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

It was… outrageous.

How outrageous?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bi*ch!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In truth, he was anything but that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That was quick work, boy!"

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

"Looks like the surgery worked, eh?"

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

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

Ronin instinctively wanted to activate his Time Stop skill!

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

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

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

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

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

With that, he turned and left the wooden hut.

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

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

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

Ronin blinked. "I see."

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

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

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

"Thank you."

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

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

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

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

"Eat, Westerosi."

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

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

Ronin took a bite of the bread and smiled.

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

"Your name is Iggo, right?"

He touched his chest lightly.

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

...

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

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

"Criminal! Abettor of evil!"

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

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

"Save it, lady."

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

"You… shameless!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ronin's lips curled up.

A reaction was exactly what he needed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"One million gold dragons."

"…What?"

Jaime stared at him, startled.

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

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

However, this infuriated Jaime.

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

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

"Agh!!"

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

"What are you—"

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

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

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

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

Ronin ignored the glare and continued working.

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

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

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

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

Ronin simply shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not me."

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

"Us."

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

Brienne stiffened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And after that, I expect my payment."

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

In her eyes, he saw only one word.

Do it.

Their situation couldn't get any worse anyway.

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

"But first—I need to know your plan."

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

"That second-in-command, Urswyck."

"He'll be our opening."

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

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

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

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

 

[ahmed920]

Great so far cant wait to see where you take this

 

[Pilesofbooks]

Certainly an interesting idea. Looking forward to more.

 

[Jack-21]

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

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

 

[Ahtu]

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

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

 

[Fanfictionlord]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go on in, healer."

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

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

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

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

Ronin bowed sincerely.

"Don't mention it."

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

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

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

"I will remember your kindness, Lord Rorge."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"…What was that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please hand me a dagger."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It appeared the boy didn't remember.

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

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

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

"Like you."

Splat~~~~

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

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

"See?"

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

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

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

Urswyck was completely stunned.

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

Professional.

Utterly professional.

"Teach me!"

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

Ronin's lips curved upward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uswyck's pupils constricted.

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

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

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

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

"Yes. Not worth it."

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

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

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

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

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

He shifted his tone—sharper now.

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

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

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

"Is that fair?"

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

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

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

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

"Then why—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fever," Ronin said again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Kingslayer."

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

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

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

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

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

The risk was immense. But so was the reward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ronin Graves."

His voice was cold, though laced with excitement.

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

"So…"

"Prove your resolve. Right now."

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

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

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

"Learning is everywhere, my lord."

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

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

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

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

The moment his words fell, Ronin moved.

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

Pfft!

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

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

Ronin turned and handed the dagger back to Urswyck.

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

"Very good, Ronin Graves."

"Welcome to the game of power."

 

[TRm]

Brilliant job on that chapter

 

[Yeetboi]

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

 

[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."

 

[Darcksage]

This is actually really good so far, I can't wait to read more! Keep up the good work!

 

[Yeetboi]

The balls on this guy.

 

[TRm]

Ronin is a really interesting character to read like this

 

[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?

 

[TRm]

Jamie's perspective works brilliantly here

 

[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.

 

[zack1224]

Thanks for the chapter

 

[Golden0Rule]

TFTC!
Also every time I read the the words "critical moment" I auto think this is a Chinese novel being MT

 

[Fanfictionlord]

TFTC!
Also every time I read the the words "critical moment" I auto think this is a Chinese novel being MT

Click to shrink...

Sorry. I consume a lot of cultivation junk, so a bit of it might seep through. Please bear with it.

 

[Legeater10]

Nice

 

[AbenSur]

Found and binged keep up the good work, this band of fools is going straight to the top!

 

[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.

 

[AbenSur]

It's about to go DOWN, stab a motherfucker Ronin!

 

[The Radiance's Follower]

Raiding the iron bank vaults is an option ? Sneak in get OP then conquer the world is the plan I am thinking of. But imagine he gets a trash ability.

 

[AbenSur]

Raiding the iron bank vaults is an option ? Sneak in get OP then conquer the world is the plan I am thinking of. But imagine he gets a trash ability.

Click to shrink...

That's a long term plan at best, cause even saying he succeeds which is unlikely until he gets way stronger it's only worth it if he can get away with it unannounced. The iron bank has many hands and even more people in debt, they could easily spread word they've been robbed of offer up forgiveness on loans for anyone who finds the thief.

I'd say the only plausible way he can do it is with a small crew and even then he'd need a fuckton of skills besides that.

 

[Simplexity]

Hmmm I really hope that Robb doesn't die in this...

Tywin can't be trusted even if you save Jaime.

 

[Dissimilate]

The story is pretty good so far, but did the MC forget that the Lannister goldmine hasn't produced gold for years and is flooded? I mean, the MC either watched the show or read the books of this story and so should know this?

 

[AAALLlIII333]

The story is pretty good so far, but did the MC forget that the Lannister goldmine hasn't produced gold for years and is flooded? I mean, the MC either watched the show or read the books of this story and so should know this?

Click to shrink...

That's a show thing. In the books the mine are still running and still producing gold.

 

[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."

 

[The Radiance's Follower]

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

Click to shrink...

Look at them from above. The mastermind is far from the battle, every domino fell perfectly. Or almost that it doesn't matter yet.

Let's hope the second roll can save his ass from Westerosi bullcrap.