"... Exquisite."
Roose Bolton remained silent for a long time before slowly speaking, offering this evaluation.
"Ronin Graves, I must admit… you possess a dangerous and fascinating mind."
It could be said that the Lord of the Dreadfort had rarely, if ever, praised anyone so highly.
A faint trace of greed appeared in his eyes as he looked at Ronin.
Indeed, it was pure greed.
If someone like this could be used by House Bolton—kept close to provide counsel…
"What do you want?"
The greed in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a composed, negotiating tone. "As a business transaction, aside from the permit I promised earlier, I imagine you've already decided what other compensation you require."
"So, what do you want, Ronin Graves?"
He repeated Ronin's name, pressing for a clear answer. "Gold? Land? Should you agree, I can assign you a portion of Dreadfort's lands and even grant you a title."
"Perhaps… there might be something even greater in the future." Roose tapped the table, his words carefully chosen to serve both as an invitation and a test.
Facing his temptations, Ronin straightened his back and offered a faint smile, neither flattering nor smug.
"My lord, I think…"
"I need a hot bath first."
...
The next day, the chill of dawn still clung to the air, and sounds of heavy strikes constantly echoed across the training grounds of Harrenhal.
Thwack—Thwack—
Ronin gripped an iron longsword with both hands, repeatedly striking the battered wooden stake before him.
He had long since shed his tattered linen clothes. In their place, he wore a set of leather armor that fit him perfectly. Though he still appeared lean, his entire demeanor was different from the half-dead farmer he had once been, tied to an apple tree.
Sweat ran down his temples, and his chest rose and fell in heavy breaths.
Nearby, Iggo stood with his arms crossed, occasionally giving short, straightforward instructions in rough Westerosi.
"More from the waist. And steady the wrist, same way you hold the reins on horseback."
Iggo didn't speak much, but every instruction made Ronin's already difficult strikes feel all the more strenuous. But he couldn't ask for clearer guidance from Iggo. The man simply wasn't built for long explanations.
In a sense, he was illiterate.
So Ronin could only grit his teeth and try to experiment himself, feeling the power travel from his feet up through his hips and shoulders with each swing, searching for the right way to channel force.
The training continued for a long time until his palms were numb and aching from the vibrations, forcing him to stop and lean on his sword, gasping for breath.
With a thought, the system panel appeared before him.
...
Name: Ronin Graves
Occupation: Doctor
Skills: Surgery Lv2, Manipulation Lv3, Insight Lv1, Majesty Lv2, Pause (unranked)
Current Available Skill Draws: 0
...
Nothing had changed.
There was still no sign of any skill representing swordsmanship or weapon mastery—not even a shadow.
He let out a long breath, shook his head, and forced himself to calm down.
"Let's take a break."
He said this to Iggo, and also to himself, reminding himself that haste makes waste.
Although he still had over a hundred gold dragons looted from the Brave Companions and an urgent need for some actual combat ability, putting all his hope into the system's unpredictable lottery draw would be too foolish.
With only auxiliary skills in his arsenal, there was no guarantee he wouldn't end up with something like Baking or Wine Tasting again. If that happened, he would truly be heartbroken.
Building a foundation through real training until the skill appeared on the panel, and then strengthening it with the system, was the wiser path.
He walked to the feeding trough by the stables, took the waterskin Iggo handed over, and eagerly gulped down the cold water.
"Tell me something, Iggo," Ronin said after wiping his mouth. "If I keep this pace… how long before I can defeat a well-trained soldier in a direct battle?"
Iggo was silent for a moment. Then he said, in his plain, heavy voice, "It will take time, my lord. A lot of it."
"You see well, and you learn fast," he added. "But your body hasn't grown with battle. The strength, the memory in the muscles… those are earned when you're young."
"Among dothraki, boys usually start riding and fighting before they reach ten."
"Ten…" Ronin repeated the number softly.
In his previous life, he was worried about the entrance exams to enter middle school at that age, while the children of this world were already wielding sharp blades, struggling to survive in blood and fire.
"You don't have to drive yourself this hard, my lord," Iggo said at last. "The gods already made you untouchable. Even an arakh can't cut you. No living man could kill you in a straight fight. On the battlefield, you are already invincible."
Hearing this, Ronin merely offered a faint, unreadable smile and gave no explanation.
He knew Iggo was referring to the previous "gamble" where he had taken the man's full-strength sword strike without any injury.
That power, which transcended the rules, was deeply imprinted in the Dothraki warrior's mind, making him firmly believe that Ronin was blessed by the gods.
Ronin also didn't explain to him that this absolute defense had a seven-day cooldown period. Sometimes, maintaining mystery is also a type of strength.
"Alright. Let's continue!"
Feeling the soreness in his arms subside to a manageable degree, Ronin slapped his knee and pushed himself up, tossing the empty waterskin back to Iggo, the firmness in his eyes returning.
The fortunate thing was he didn't need to practice his sword skills to the level of Jaime or Brienne. As long as he reached the entry level of Lv1 and had enough gold dragons, he would be able to enhance it to be stronger than everyone else.
He hadn't forgotten—he had a cheat!
"I won't eat until I've swung the sword three hundred times today!"
He roared, hyping himself up, and marched back to the wooden stake. Gripping the longsword tightly with both hands again, he continued swinging down.
Just as Ronin was immersed in the motion, footsteps approached from behind him.
"Your sequence of applying force is wrong," a voice said.
"Power starts at the ground. Push off with your foot, let it roll up through your hips, then drive it through your torso. The arm should only finish what the body starts."
Ronin stopped mid-strike and looked over his shoulder, only to be taken aback.
He saw Brienne, her figure as tall and sturdy as a bear, standing not far behind him.
Her face bore its usual seriousness, but the outfit she had on nearly made Ronin doubt his eyes.
Brienne was wearing a pale-blue gown, delicately embroidered and clearly meant for someone half her size, as the sleeves barely reached her forearms. The skirt hung awkwardly above her ankles, leaving her massive feet fully exposed.
She looked like someone had tried to dress a warhorse as a shy maiden.
Ronin stared for a long while, struggling to take his eyes off her before a crooked smile spread across his face.
"I can only imagine how hard Roose Bolton had to search to find a dress that 'fit' you," he teased, trying not to laugh out loud.
To his surprise, his words made a faint flush creep up Brienne's cheeks, which made Ronin even more amused.
A woman unshaken on the battlefield was actually embarrassed by a dress. He felt like his horizons had been broadened.
"Your wrist! Keep your wrist steady!"
Trying to hide her awkwardness, Brienne pretended not to hear Ronin's teasing. She strode forward and, without a word, took the longsword from his hands.
Her gown clung stiffly to her muscular frame, making her look almost comical at first glance. But the moment the sword settled into her grip, everything about her changed.
Her posture sharpened, and the awkwardness she carried vanished as if it had never been there.
Under their watchful eyes, she grounded her stance. A subtle turn of her hips carried through her torso, propelling her shoulders and arms into a swing.
"Watch closely," she reminded. Her movements weren't flashy, but they possessed the pure beauty of controlled strength.
The blade seemed almost alive in her hands. Each swing was accompanied by the sound of cutting through the air—chopping, hacking, thrusting, lifting—every strike precise and fluid.
The marks she carved on the wooden stake were on an entirely different level compared to Ronin's earlier attempts. Her power felt unified, drawn up from the earth, rising through her body before effortlessly pouring into the blade without any loss.
Compared to her smooth, flowing demonstration, someone's previous clumsy chopping seemed as ridiculous as a child swinging a stick.
Strangely, being outdone by Brienne did not make Ronin feel embarrassed.
After all, he knew perfectly well that Brienne was no ordinary woman. Her swordsmanship—especially for someone of her gender in Westeros—had nearly reached its peak.
In truth, aside from a few elite knights polished by decades of training and combat, few men could outmatch her.
Ronin stood quietly to the side, holding his breath, absorbing every detail. The enhanced perception provided by Insight Lv1 allowed him to keenly grasp the fundamental difference between Brienne and himself.
Simply put, it was the involvement of the core and the pervasive sense of fluidity throughout the movement.
After several minutes, her demonstration came to an end, and she tossed the blade back to Ronin.
"Dothraki fight with curved swords," she explained calmly, turning toward Iggo, who had been silently observing. "They excel at slashing and skirmishing from horseback. But a sword like this—especially a knight's longsword—demands stricter footwork and a proper understanding of how to apply force."
"I don't mean to contradict your instruction. But if he learns the wrong fundamentals and they form habits, correcting them later will be harder than starting fresh."
"If he wants to stand as a true knight one day, he'll face armored foes—not unarmed farmers or grazing beasts."
Iggo's face had darkened with displeasure when she first stepped in, but it gradually faded under her reasonable explanation.
He folded his arms, grunted, and gave a reluctant nod.
The Dothraki might rule the Grass Sea with their arakhs, but Iggo had lived in Westeros long enough to understand just how poorly a curved blade fared against full plate armour.
Meanwhile, Ronin, having received the sword, paid no attention to the interaction between the two, nor did he immediately start practicing. Instead, he closed his eyes and replayed Brienne's movements in his mind.
After a long while, he reopened his eyes. Gripping the blade with both hands, he swung it out again, deliberately imitating that feeling.
Initially, his movements were still clumsy and crude, and the transfer of power was obscure and awkward. But after several attempts, Ronin distinctly felt that the rotation of his waist was starting to drive his shoulders and arms—as Brienne said—and the blade, once light and weak, started to carry weight—real weight.
Brienne did not interrupt him, merely watching him practice repeatedly. A hint of appreciation occasionally showed in her blue eyes.
For a commoner, Ronin's talent in swordsmanship could be said to be remarkable. Not enough to compare with her own gifted younger self, perhaps, but certainly above many dull, ordinary swordsmen.
Of course, few men could match Brienne's talent at all. By sixteen, she had already defeated Ser Humfrey Wagstaff in a fair duel, shattering three of his ribs.
It was a pity Ronin began learning so late. It would be difficult for him to achieve anything too great. But with consistent practice and effort, he might still become a decent knight.
As she was lost in thought, Brienne suddenly noticed the Dothraki man looking at her in a strange way from the corner of her eye.
She looked over, seeing a kind of fire burning in his eyes.
'This bastard!' Brienne gritted her teeth. The blatant, intense gaze made her feel uncomfortable. She almost wanted to draw her sword and teach him some manners but restrained herself, turning her attention back to Ronin.
"Hoo—hah—"
The sun gradually rose higher. Ronin only stopped when the last traces of morning fog dissolved under the sunlight.
This was his first time pushing himself so hard, and his arms felt heavy and numb the moment he relaxed.
The blade slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground. He slumped down beside it, completely exhausted, gasping for breath, his chest heaving violently.
His armor and tunic were already soaked in sweat.
After catching his breath for a while, he looked up at Brienne and flashed a tired smile.
"Thank you, Lady Brienne," he said. "I think I've got the hang of it. Your instructions were very… crucial."
Brienne merely shook her head. "This is nothing special. You could find anyone who has received knight training and get the same instruction."
"I originally thought you wouldn't last long, but your perseverance is admirable. Keep training, and you may truly accomplish something someday."
"Hahaha!!!"
Her praise seemed to greatly lift Ronin's spirit. He straightened slightly and shot Iggo a smug look. "Did you hear that, Iggo? Seems like I'm not hopeless after all."
Iggo shrugged in response, unwilling to argue.
For a moment, Brienne smiled as well, but then her expression shifted, growing serious.
A complex emotion flashed in her blue eyes, as if she were weighing her words. She drew a breath, straightened her back, and spoke solemnly, "I must apologize, Ser Ronin."
"I... misjudged you."
"Ser Jaime told me what you sacrificed to secure my release. You gave up the gold, title, and lands Roose Bolton promised you."
Saying this, the tall woman stepped forward and bowed deeply, her voice tinged with genuine guilt and regret.
"You are an honorable man. Please accept my apology for my previous rudeness."
It was a strange sight: a robust woman in an ill-fitting dress bowing to a thin, sweat-drenched man still sitting on the ground.
Ronin didn't shy away. Instead, he grinned, showing a brilliant smile.
"Call me Ronin. Ronin Graves."
"And don't apologize, Lady Brienne. Rather than using apology as a post-facto remedy, I prefer to think things through carefully beforehand."
These deeply meaningful words made Brienne tremble slightly.
She looked up at the man before her, feeling for the first time that his clear eyes seemed to always harbor admirable wisdom.
"What's past is past. There's no need to look back." Ronin adjusted his posture, trying not to appear too ungraceful despite his exhaustion.
"And please, don't dwell on your mistakes. There were four of us when we arrived, so naturally, four of us must leave together."
"I told you before, didn't I? I never abandon a friend."
He paused, his gaze shifting from Brienne to Iggo, his tone deepening as he added, "I always tend to go out of my way to help my friends. Likewise, when I need help in the future, I expect my friends to spare no effort in offering me assistance."
"Although I hope… that day never comes."
As he said this, Ronin extended his right hand toward Brienne. It was cracked from gripping the sword, but his eyes were clear and honest.
Brienne stared at that outstretched hand, momentarily frozen.
She remembered telling Jaime that Ronin was "not a friend." She remembered her sharp, baseless accusations. Yet the smile on his face held no resentment or displeasure—only sincerity.
She felt even more guilty. How could she have judged such a noble man with a petty heart?
Without any hesitation, she reached out her hand—much larger than Ronin's—firmly grasped his wrist, and pulled him to his feet.
"I owe you a debt, Ronin," she said softly, "and I will repay it no matter how long it takes."
...
"Neigh!"
Just as Ronin was preparing to limp back to his room for a much-needed bath, the sound of hooves hurried toward them.
All three of them turned their heads in unison, only to see Jaime approaching from a distance, sitting astride a horse, holding the reins in his left hand.
His previously dejected demeanor was completely gone. His stubble was shaved clean and his long golden hair neatly fell over his shoulders, making him look dashing and heroic.
If one overlooked his bandaged right hand, he looked every bit the knight sung about in taverns.
"Yo-ho~~ Ladies!"
Seeing Ronin and Brienne shaking hands and making peace, Jaime let out a whistle. "I must say, your taste in clothing is truly disappointing!"
"Hurry up and pack your bags, it's time for us to depart!"
"Once we reach King's Landing, I'll have the court tailor at the Red Keep make you both some fine new outfits!"