"You damned peasant! How dare you stand beneath Lord Finn's apple tree counting the apples! You must be plotting to steal them!"
"I've been wronged, my lord! Everyone knows I can't count at all!"
"Nonsense! Still talking back, are you? I'll give you five lashes!"
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
"Ahhh— wait, my lord, that was the sixth!"
"Ha! And you claim you can't count!"
Another barrage of lashes struck, each snap of the whip carving fire across flesh. The beating lasted long enough for the victim's screams to fade into weak gasps before finally dying away altogether. Only when the unfortunate man slumped unconscious did the steward lower his whip in satisfaction.
"Hang this fool up! Let every ungrateful commoner see what happens to thieves!"
"Yes, sir!"
---
"Where… the hell am I?"
Corleon regained consciousness slowly, as though rising through thick mud. Pain pulsed through his skull, radiating down his spine and across his limbs until even drawing breath sent shocks stabbing through him.
His last memory had absolutely nothing to do with apple orchards, peasants, or medieval whips.
He remembered completing eight grueling years of combined bachelor's and master's medical training, finally earning his practitioner's license. He remembered opening his own clinic—his first day, the symbol of everything he had worked for.
And then…
A runaway truck—nicknamed the "Hundred-Ton King"—burst through the wall like a rampaging beast.
"Damn it…"
He groaned, shaking his head, and suddenly a torrent of memories that were not his came crashing into him.
The Riverlands. Working the fields. Counting apples for fun. Earning copper pennies. Saving for brothel visits.
Holy crap.
He had transmigrated into the rotten, disease-ridden Middle Ages!
Corleon forced open his swollen eyelids. His arms were tied tightly behind him, and he dangled from the thick branch of an apple tree like a carcass hung to dry. His medical knowledge told him instantly: dozens of contusions, lacerations, and possibly cracked ribs. No wonder every breath stung.
Below him, scattered peasants in ragged, patched clothes gathered to gawk, gossiping without the slightest hint of sympathy.
"That wretched Corleon! Lord Finn gives us work out of kindness, and he dares to steal apples!"
"Yes! If the lord gets angry and deducts our wages, we'll all starve!"
"May the Stranger take him swiftly and appease Lord Finn's wrath! May the Mother bless the apple harvest!"
"It's because of maggots like him that last season's apples turned sour! Young Master Derek has grown thin because of it!"
"We must work harder so the young master grows plump again!"
A round of spirited chants rose, and the laborers enthusiastically returned to their toil. Not one showed concern for the man hanging half-dead before them.
"You motherf—"
Rage flared in Corleon's chest, but he was too weak to shout. Only shallow wheezes escaped him.
These fools!
The original Corleon had not been trying to steal anything—he had merely been counting apples to pass time. And the so-called benevolent Lord Finn?
He was notoriously stingy.
A strong laborer's wage amounted to ninety-one copper pennies per month—barely two silver stags—and that was for fourteen hours a day, no rest days, no holidays, and food that barely qualified as edible. Moldy black bread. Watery gruel. And yet the original Corleon had still saved every copper he could, determined to visit a brothel twice a year.
Willpower like granite. Intelligence like mud.
Kindness? To hell with kindness!
But even enraged, Corleon knew lecturing these brainwashed peasants about class oppression wouldn't achieve anything. Survival came first. He forced himself to steady his breathing, gathering strength, thinking through his next steps in this brutal feudal world.
Then—something impossible happened.
A translucent screen materialized before his eyes.
[Name: Corleon]
[Occupation: Doctor]
[Skill: Surgical Procedures Lv2]
[Current Available Skill Draws: 0]
[Please note, draws can be obtained through charging. Specific rules are:
Lv1 (Apprentice) – 10 Gold Dragons per draw
Lv2 (Veteran) – 100 Gold Dragons per draw
Lv3 (Expert) – 1,000 Gold Dragons per draw
Lv4 (Master) – 10,000 Gold Dragons per draw
Lv5 (Hall of Fame) – 1,000,000 Gold Dragons per draw]
A cheat system!
Corleon's eyes lit up—only to dim just as quickly.
Ten Gold Dragons for the cheapest draw?
With his monthly wage, even if he never ate, drank, or lived, he'd need more than a century to afford one draw. And the prices multiplied by ten each tier—until the final jump, which multiplied by a hundred.
A million Gold Dragons?
He could work from the dawn of mankind to the modern age and still never see that amount!
This system was a scam!
"I f***ing hate you, you damned system!"
[Ding—— Host's first activation detected. A free draw (unranked) has been granted.]
…My beloved benefactor.
"I take it back. There were too many people earlier, that's why I said it loudly. Please accept my bow!"
"Start the draw!"
The panel shifted, a whirlwind of cards spinning before his eyes until finally a black, multicolored card emerged.
[Skill: Fate's Gamble (Unranked, Cannot be upgraded)]
[Your pocket will always contain a Gold Dragon coin that cannot be used as currency. When an enemy attacks you, you may trigger "Fate's Gamble." If the opponent proceeds with the attack, you will negate the next instance of damage with 100% certainty and gain the right to execute them. (Cooldown: 7 days)]
[P.S.: I bet there are no bullets in your gun.]
Corleon blinked.
A cheat that let him gamble with death?
Not the worst thing in Westeros.
Clip-clop. Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
The sound of hooves thundered across the fields. A group of riders approached, trampling crops as they came—clearly not friendly.
"What are you staring at? Back to work!" the steward barked, then took two men and strode forward to meet the riders.
"Halt, knights! This is Ser Finn's land! Respect the crops!"
The leader pulled his strange mount to a stop—and Corleon nearly choked.
A zebra.
A real zebra.
The rider was tall and lean, with a goatee and a necklace strung with coins. One ear was wrapped in still-bloody gauze, giving him a comical yet dangerous air.
"Apologies," the man said lightly. "My men are thirsty. We merely seek a few apples."
He paused, pretending to think.
"Ser Finn… yes, I've heard the name. Who does he bend the knee to?"
"Lord Edmure Tully, good sir," the steward replied, visibly relieved yet cautious. "And the apples aren't ripe."
The rider grinned wider and raised his voice.
"Well then, it seems I remembered correctly!"
"We are knights sworn to Roose Bolton, acting under orders of His Grace, Robb Stark—King in the North—to escort the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, back to Riverrun!"
The words struck Corleon like a hammer.
Roose Bolton.
Robb Stark.
Jaime Lannister.
These weren't just names—these were plot markers.
He had transmigrated into A Song of Ice and Fire.
And not just anywhere—this was the War of the Five Kings!
The rider waved his hand, and two bound prisoners came into view.
One—broad-shouldered, armored, fierce—even beneath grime, her rage was unmistakable. A woman.
Brienne of Tarth.
The other—thin, defeated, dirty-haired—looked like a wounded lion brought low.
And
around his neck hung a severed hand.
Jaime Lannister—the Kingslayer—maimed.
Corleon swallowed.
He had landed in Westeros at the worst possible time.
And he was hanging from a tree.