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? 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 earl of Harrenhal! The earl 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!"