Chapter 1: The Lion with a Broken Claw
"Damn peasant! You dare secretly count the apples on Lord Finn's tree—clearly plotting to steal them!"
"I'm innocent, my lord! Everyone knows I can't even count!"
"Bullshit! Still talking back? Five lashes as punishment!"
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
"Aaah—wait, my lord, that was the sixth!"
"Hah! Slippery bastard. And you still claim you can't count?"
The words fell, followed by another round of whipping.
Only after beating him for a good while—until the man lost consciousness—did the farm overseer finally set down his whip, satisfied.
"Hang this wretch up. Let all those ungrateful peasants see what happens!"
"Yes, sir!"
---
"Where the hell… am I…?"
In a haze, Armando slowly came to, his head and body wracked with searing pain.
The last thing he remembered was finally surviving eight brutal years of combined undergraduate and postgraduate study, earning his medical license, and standing at the threshold of a brilliant future.
Then, on his very first day seeing patients, a runaway hundred-ton truck plowed straight into the clinic…
"Damn it…"
He shook his head—and a flood of memories that weren't his own surged into his mind.
The Riverlands. Picking apples. Being paid copper coins. Visiting brothels… shit!
I've transmigrated into the cursed Middle Ages!
Forcing open his swollen eyelids, Armando cursed inwardly and lifted his head, only to realize his hands were tightly bound and he was hanging high from an apple tree.
With his training as a surgical resident, he could tell at once that his body bore dozens of injuries of varying severity. The pain made him suck in cold breaths again and again.
He scanned his surroundings. Below him stood a sparse crowd of a dozen or so people—men and women alike—clad in patched, tattered clothes, all pointing and whispering.
"That wretched Armando! Lord Finn giving us work is already a blessing beyond measure, and he not only shows no gratitude, he even dares try to steal the lord's apples!"
"Exactly! If we anger the lord and he docks our wages this month, we'll all starve!"
"May the Stranger take him away and appease Lord Finn's wrath. May the Mother show mercy and bless the apples in the lord's lands with a bountiful harvest."
"That's right! It's because of vermin like Armando that the last batch of apples was so sour and bitter. The harvest was terrible—Young Master Derek even grew thin. It broke my heart!"
"Everyone, work hard! Let's raise the young master plump and fair, to repay Lord Finn's kindness!"
"Oooh—haah!!!"
Amid the fervent cheers, the farmhands dispersed in high spirits and returned to their backbreaking labor.
From start to finish, not a single person showed even a trace of sympathy for what Armando had suffered.
"Fuck… your mother…"
Their numb indifference chilled Armando to the bone. But in his weakened state, he couldn't even curse properly—he could only gape, gasping hoarsely, "Hh… hh…"
Ignorant fools!
By the Seven, the original owner of this body had absolutely no intention of stealing anything—he'd merely been standing under the tree, counting for fun!
And that so-called Lord Finn was no benevolent master at all, but a miser beyond compare.
A strong laborer like Armando earned only ninety-one copper coins for an entire month's work—less than two silver stags.
And that was for more than fourteen hours of labor every single day, without a single day off.
Even in the fertile Riverlands, that meager pay barely bought him stale black bread and a small bowl of watery porridge each day.
And yet, astonishingly, the original Armando would still scrimp every half year—sometimes even skipping meals—just to visit a brothel. Such iron will was truly rare.
Kindness?
To hell with that so-called kindness!
Still, no matter how furious he felt, Armando knew perfectly well that trying to explain class struggle between landlords and peasants to these people—long crushed by exploitation—would be like playing the lute to a cow.
So he simply adjusted his breathing, trying to recover a bit of strength, and began thinking seriously about how to survive in this absurdly feudal world.
Just then, a translucent panel suddenly appeared before his eyes.
[Name: Armando]
[Profession: Doctor]
[Skill: Surgical Operation Lv.2]
[Available Skill Draws: 0]
[Notice: Skill draws may be obtained through recharging. Rules as follows—
Lv.1 (Apprentice): 10 Gold Dragons per draw
Lv.2 (Veteran): 100 Gold Dragons per draw
Lv.3 (Expert): 1,000 Gold Dragons per draw
Lv.4 (Master): 10,000 Gold Dragons per draw
Lv.5 (Grandmaster): 1,000,000 Gold Dragons per draw]
A cheat system!
Armando's eyes lit up—only to dim again in the very next moment.
Even the lowest, apprentice-tier draw cost ten gold dragons.
Where the hell was a penniless farmhand like him supposed to find that kind of money?
What did ten gold dragons even mean?
At a wage of ninety-one copper coins per month, even if he didn't eat or drink a single thing, he'd need to work for over a hundred years just to afford one draw.
And with each tier, the cost multiplied tenfold. From Lv.4 to Lv.5, it jumped a full hundred times—one million gold dragons.
That was completely insane.
It basically meant that even if Armando worked nonstop from the time humans were still monkeys all the way into the twenty-first century, he still wouldn't scrape together that much money.
Isn't this just sentencing me to death?!
You f***ing dog system, I—
[Ding~~~ Detecting first-time system activation.]
[A free, unrestricted draw has been granted!]
...
Godfather!
Bro admits his voice was a little loud just now—there were people outside—bro'll kowtow to you right here!
"Begin the draw!"
Armando commanded silently. The system interface immediately began spinning at high speed, countless multicolored cards flashing and tumbling before his eyes.
After a long, dizzying moment, a single card finally emerged.
A jet-black card, shimmering with iridescent colors.
[Skill: Fate's Wager (Unrestricted · Non-upgradable)]
[A gold dragon that cannot be used as currency will always remain in your pocket.]
[When an enemy initiates an attack against you, you may forcibly activate "Fate's Wager."]
[If the opponent chooses to continue the attack, you will completely negate the next instance of damage and gain the right to execute the enemy.]
[Cooldown: 7 days]
PS: I bet your gun is empty.
---
Da… da…
Da… da… da…
Just as Armando was absorbed in studying his cheat skill, a rapid thunder of hooves approached from afar.
They made no effort to rein in their mounts, trampling straight through the fields and crushing countless stalks of wheat. Whoever they were, they clearly meant trouble.
"What are you staring at? Get back to work!"
The same overseer who had beaten Armando earlier barked angrily at the farmhands, then motioned to two subordinates and strode forward.
"Stop there, knights! This is the land of Ser Finn. Control your horses—you're ruining the crops!"
"Hrrrreee—!"
His shout seemed to have some effect. Once the riders crossed the fields, they reined in their mounts a short distance away.
At their head was a tall, gaunt man with a goatee, a necklace of coins strung together hanging around his neck.
His mount was particularly eye-catching—a black-and-white striped zebra.
Hanging from the tree, Armando saw it clearly and couldn't help but feel astonished. Zebras were notoriously vicious creatures—virtually impossible to domesticate even in his previous life.
Under everyone's gaze, the man nudged his mount forward, swaying lazily until he stopped before the overseer. His expression was casual, almost flippant—though one ear was wrapped in blood-stained bandages, lending him a slightly ridiculous look.
"Apologies. My men lack manners," he said lightly. "We're just passing through and a bit thirsty. Thought we might ask for a few apples."
He glanced around, then grinned.
"Ser Finn, was it? I've heard the name before. Who does he swear fealty to again?"
"Lord Edmure Tully, my lord," the overseer replied.
Hearing the calm tone, the overseer relaxed slightly—though not completely—and added cautiously, "The apples aren't ripe yet."
After all, the group numbered more than a dozen men, every one of them fierce-looking and ill-tempered.
At his answer, the gaunt man's smile widened deliberately, and he raised his voice.
"Oh! Then my memory hasn't failed me!"
"We are knights sworn to Roose Bolton, acting under the command of His Grace Robb Stark, King in the North—here to escort the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, back to Riverrun!"
His voice carried far.
Even Armando, hanging in the distance, heard every word clearly.
His heart skipped.
Roose Bolton.
Robb Stark.
Jaime Lannister.
These names were far too familiar.
Earlier, in the confusion of transmigration, he hadn't thought much about it—but now it was unmistakable.
He had crossed over into the world of A Song of Ice and Fire.
And if his guess was right… this was still the War of the Five Kings.
Before Armando could fully process that realization, the gaunt man waved his hand, signaling several subordinates to move aside.
They revealed a horse behind them—on whose back were two figures bound tightly together.
One wore armor, broad-shouldered and imposing, with a rough, round face and blazing blue eyes filled with perpetual fury. Though battered, it was still clear—
She was a woman.
The other figure was gaunt and slumped, head hanging low in utter misery. Filthy, tangled hair framed his face, making him look exactly like a wounded male lion.
And most importantly—
Around his neck hung a rope.
And dangling from that rope was no jewel, no ornament—
But a severed hand.