"…Exquisite."
Roose Bolton remained silent for a long moment before finally speaking, as though the word had been weighed carefully on his tongue. His pale eyes studied Corleone with renewed interest, reassessing the young man dressed in rough, worn farmer's clothes.
For over a full minute, Roose watched him without blinking. Then, slowly, he inhaled, and a rare expression—one that could almost be described as admiration—appeared on his bloodless face.
"Vito Corleone," he murmured, his voice soft and unsettling. "You possess a dangerous and fascinating mind."
It was no small thing. The Lord of the Dreadfort had scarcely praised anyone so directly in his life. Yet as he spoke, another emotion flickered beneath the surface—subtle, hungry, unmistakable.
Greed.
The kind of greed a man felt when staring at something priceless, something useful, something he wished to keep caged and chained beside him. If such a person could be bound to House Bolton, retained to whisper strategies and ideas in his ear…
"What do you want?"
The greed vanished in an instant, hidden behind his usual calm indifference. Roose leaned back slightly, his tone shifting, carrying a hint of negotiation.
"As a transaction," he continued, "beyond the pass I previously promised you, I assume you have already considered the compensation you desire."
His voice dropped lower, probing.
"What do you want, Vito Corleone?"
He repeated the name with deliberate emphasis, as though testing its weight, pushing him to answer.
"Gold?" he offered mildly. "Or land?"
"If you agree, I can carve out territory within the Dreadfort's domain and bestow upon you a title. A modest one at first, of course… though there could be something greater in the future."
His pale fingers tapped softly against the table—temptation wrapped inside a trial, a lure disguised as generosity.
Corleone met his gaze and sat up straighter.
The aura of Presence Lv2 burst forth unrestrained—a quiet, immovable certainty, a dignified calm that made it seem as though he were the true master of the room.
He smiled faintly, without pandering and without arrogance.
"I think…"
"I need a hot bath first."
---
Morning
The chill of dawn had not yet been lifted by the sun, and the sharp, rhythmic sound of wood being struck echoed across Harrenhal's training grounds.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Corleone gripped an iron longsword with both hands, repeatedly chopping at the wooden practice stake before him. He no longer wore his familiar ragged linen clothing—now he was dressed in a tightly fitted set of leather armor. Though still lean, his bearing and spirit were entirely different from the dying farmer who had once lain beneath an apple tree.
Sweat rolled down his temples. His breathing was heavy, chest rising and falling in deep, burning waves.
Beside him stood the Dothraki warrior, arms crossed, watching silently. Every so often he offered short, blunt corrections in his clumsy Westerosi tongue.
"Twist your waist."
"Sink your wrist. Like holding reins on horse."
Yigo's instruction was brief and simple—but every strike felt agonizingly difficult.
Corleone could not demand clearer explanations, for the man was effectively illiterate in both languages of letters and of metaphor. So he gritted his teeth and continued adjusting, feeling each attempt send force up from his feet, through his hips, across his spine, and out through the blade. He sought the correct path to strength, the proper sequence of motion.
Training stretched on until his hands buzzed with numbness, the impact biting deep into his palms. The skin between thumb and forefinger throbbed fiercely, forcing him to stop. Leaning against the sword, he gasped for breath.
With a thought, the familiar system panel appeared before his eyes.
---
[Name: Corleone]
[Profession: Doctor]
[Skills: Surgery Lv2, Presence Lv2, Insight Lv1]
[Unranked Skill: Wheel of Fortune]
[Current Skill Draw Attempts: 0 (Rechargeable)]
---
Nothing had changed.
The skills he desperately wished for—Basic Swordsmanship, One-Handed Weapon Mastery—were nowhere to be seen. Not even a hint of them.
"Haa…"
He exhaled slowly, shaking his head, forcing his emotions back under control.
"Let's rest."
He spoke to Yigo, but he was also reminding himself—haste leads only to failure.
Yes, he needed martial strength. Yes, he possessed over a hundred gold dragons seized from the Warriors' Group. But he could not rely solely on the whims of the system's lottery. Not when it might decide to bestow something like Baking or Wine Tasting again. That would be unbearable.
Better to save his dragons, learn combat through effort, and only then use gold to enhance what he had earned. That was the safer path.
He walked to a feeding trough near the stables, sat down, and took the waterskin Yigo handed him. The cold water slid down his throat, easing the fire in his chest.
"Blood of my blood," he said, wiping his mouth. His voice carried hope mixed with frustration. "If I continue training like this, how long before I can defeat a properly trained soldier in direct combat?"
Yigo hesitated, his dark face expressionless.
"It will be difficult."
The warrior lacked the capacity for flattery, or even softening a blow. His voice was deep, honest, and absolute.
"You have some talent," he conceded. "Your eyes are sharp, blood of my blood. But your body is already set. Your strength is small. Your muscles have no memory. Your tendons do not bend with power."
"In Dothraki, boys ride horses by five and fight and hunt by ten."
"Ten years old…"
Corleone repeated the number softly. He knew Yigo was being gentle by Dothraki standards, yet his heart still sank.
At ten, in his previous life, he had been worried about exams and school admission. Children in this world were already covered in blood, clinging to life by tooth and steel.
"You not need push so hard," Yigo added, noticing Corleone's exhaustion. "Gods gave you immortal body. Even arakh cannot cut you. On battlefield, you already cannot die."
Corleone smiled faintly—cryptic, amused, withholding.
Yigo was referring to the last Game of Fate, when Corleone had taken the warrior's full-strength strike without suffering even a scratch. That impossible defense had branded itself into Yigo's belief, convincing him that his "blood of my blood" was favored by the gods.
Corleone could not explain the seven-day absolute defense rule, so he allowed the misunderstanding to flourish.
Sometimes mystery was power.
"Continue!"
After only a brief rest, he slapped his thigh and rose to his feet. Tossing the empty waterskin back to Yigo, his eyes hardened with determination.
So what if he could never match Jaime Lannister or Brienne of Tarth? As long as he reached Entry Lv1, he could enhance it beyond the reach of ordinary men.
After all—
He had a cheat.
"I won't eat until I've swung three hundred times today!"
He roared at himself, a battle cry of stubborn will, and returned to the stake. His hands wrapped tightly around the longsword once more.
But just as he steadied his breath and lifted the blade, footsteps approached behind him—steady, heavy, unmistakably armored at the heel.
"Your sequence of force is wrong."
The voice was stern, steady, and unmistakably authoritative.
"Power starts from the push of your foot against the ground," the voice continued, "travels to your hips, coils through the twist of your waist into your shoulder and back, and only then does the arm follow through naturally."
Corleone froze mid-swing and turned, startled.
Standing not far behind him was Brienne—tall, broad-shouldered, built like a fortress, and radiating the presence of a seasoned warrior.
But there was a problem.
She was wearing a light blue, elegantly embroidered noblewoman's dress.
The dress was clearly designed for a petite maiden. On Brienne's towering frame it clung awkwardly, stretched tight across her torso. The sleeves were far too short, exposing her muscular forearms, while the hem hung uncomfortably at mid-calf, leaving her enormous feet completely visible.
She looked like a warhorse crammed into a toy carriage—an image both absurd and strangely endearing.
Corleone stared for two seconds before the corners of his mouth twitched upward. Fighting back laughter, he murmured:
"It must have been quite a task for Roose Bolton to find a dress in your size, ha… ha…"
To his surprise, Brienne's cheeks flushed—just slightly,
but unmistakably.
The woman who never flinched in battle, never hesitated when facing steel or fire… was embarrassed.
And Corleone found that absolutely delightful.