Walking on the soft soil of the farm, every step met Ronin with an uncomfortable, gooey stickiness. Whenever he lifted his foot, he could hear a faint, wet squelch.

He couldn't tell whether what clung to his boot was damp mud or plasma that had long since cooled, solidified, and seeped into the soil.

The fruit trees surrounding them were laden with the bodies of the hired laborers who had once toiled alongside him in Sir Finn's orchard.

Those dark shapes hanging from the branches swayed slightly in the night breeze, resembling ripe fruit clustered on the trees.

Ronin didn’t dare glance around. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, acting like a complete stranger whose heart was utterly unmoved by the tragic fate of his kind.

His status within the Brave Companions hadn’t changed much just because he treated Vergo; he was still a prisoner who could be executed at any moment, spared only because he was temporarily useful.

But even this minor usefulness was nowhere near enough to grant him any freedom of movement.

Perhaps once Vergo—currently lying drunk and fast asleep in the wooden cabin—woke up, Ronin would be inexplicably hanged on an apple tree like the rest.

Ronin halted at the edge of the woods, and the man escorting him jutted out his chin.

“Go on in, healer.”

Rorge the Noseless was slightly hunched, bulky, and covered in black hair, appearing more menacing than anyone else in the Brave Companions.

But appearances could sometimes be deceiving; this fellow happened to be the most polite among this entire party of sellswords.

When Ronin made a request to meet Urswyck, the man agreed immediately without asking a single question, saving him a significant amount of trouble.

“Thank you very much for bringing me here, my lord.”

Ronin bowed sincerely.

“Don’t mention it.”

Rolger grinned and placed a large, hairy hand on his shoulder. “I never refuse a healer’s request. After all, no one can guarantee they won’t ever get injured, can they?”

“Go on, Urswyck is in there. But I suggest you wait until he’s finished before speaking. That fellow never likes to be disturbed when he’s enjoying himself.”

As he spoke, his smile grew wider, and his vicious face even showed a hint of goodwill.

“I will remember your kindness, Lord Rorge.”

Ronin’s lips curved upward slightly, and he returned the smile with a small nod.

He didn’t waste another word. Taking a deep breath, he walked alone into the dim woods, trying his best to tread lightly.

Although he had rehearsed his arguments countless times in preparation for this meeting, he still couldn't help but feel a bit nervous inside.

After rounding a few apple trees, a small, relatively open clearing appeared ahead.

In the center of the clearing, a lump of pale, fleshy fat was tied to a thick tree trunk.

The boy looked to be between ten and thirteen years old, but his enormous physique made him resemble a deformed adult.

Ronin recognized him instantly: Sir Finn’s only son, Derek.

Not far in front of him, Urswyck was completely absorbed in his little “game.”

Young Master Derek—fatter than a pig—had been stripped naked from the waist up and tied to the tree, resembling a hog awaiting slaughter.

Urswyck wasn’t using a blade, but a sharpened wooden stick, methodically poking and stabbing the boy’s greasy flesh, causing blood mixed with fat to ooze out.

Listening to the muffled screams and pleas for mercy, a hint of morbid satisfaction spread across the man's face.

“As a healer, Lord Urswyck, please allow me to offer you a professional suggestion.”

Ignoring Rolger’s furious gaze at being disturbed, Ronin boldly stepped forward and spoke: “Your efficiency is too low this way, and he could easily go into shock from blood loss or pain, losing consciousness too early. That would ruin the fun.”

Urswyck froze, not even having time to feel offended. He had tortured many people, but this was the first time someone had offered him professional advice on how to torment a victim.

“…What was that?”

He almost thought he’d misheard, frowning as he sized up Ronin.

Ronin shrugged, pointed to the scattered wounds on Derek’s body, and stated calmly: “While shallow cuts are painful, heavy bleeding dilutes the sensation of pain and easily triggers shock.”

“Destroying areas with dense nerve endings, such as the fingertips or armpits, certainly generates intense pain, but the effect isn’t long-lasting.”

As he spoke, he seemed to gradually step closer. “If you want a more sustained and profound reaction…”

“I suggest you avoid major blood vessels and organs, and try piercing muscle groups in non-load-bearing areas, such as the front of the thigh or the upper arm. Control the depth to half an inch to an inch, making sure to avoid the femoral and brachial arteries.”

“This will cause continuous, searing pain and functional impairment, without being immediately fatal.”

His calm, detailed explanation made Urswyck—an experienced torturer—feel a strange chill.

But this chill quickly gave way to excitement and curiosity, as if he had found a “kindred spirit,” or even a true “expert.”

“Damn it… healer, you’re truly a monster!”

He withdrew the wooden stick, staring intently at Ronin, his eyes filled with surprise, admiration, and eagerness. “I love it! Keep going!”

“Please hand me a dagger.”

Ronin stepped up to Urswyck, holding out a steady hand, speaking as calmly as if discussing a surgery.

Raising an eyebrow, Urswyck quickly pulled a small knife from his clothes and handed it over.

Taking the knife, Ronin approached the plump boy tied to the tree, looked into his eyes—filled with despair and hatred—and spoke softly.

“I don’t hate you, lord Derek.”

“Though you always enjoyed whipping us alongside the steward, using your weight of over three hundred pounds to press down on the hired laborers and ride us like horses."

"Do you remember how you once crushed two people to death, and three others were also crippled because of it?”

Seeing Derek’s eyes grow confused and frightened, Ronin shook his head, almost regretful.

It appeared the boy didn’t remember.

But that was normal; his intelligence was clearly lower than average—probably a result of inbreeding. It was rumored that Sir Finn's first wife was his cousin.

“I don’t hate you,” Ronin repeated. “Everything I’m about to do has nothing to do with revenge. This is merely a necessary business transaction.”

“Of course, not every business deal can benefit everyone; someone must make a sacrifice.”

“Like you.”

Splat~~~~

The dagger plunged into Derek’s thigh, twisted, and pulled out cleanly, carefully avoiding all major blood vessels.

Derek let out a sharp, agonizing howl. His body convulsed violently, but his consciousness remained painfully clear as he endured the continuous, searing torture.

“See?”

“This way, he can suffer for a long time, but he won’t die instantly.”

Turning around, Ronin handed the bloody knife back to the stunned Urswyck, his tone instructional—like a medical demonstration.

“This is the control and efficiency I was just describing.”

Urswyck was completely stunned.

The bloody dagger was right there in Ronin’s hand, and the fat boy was still convulsing and screaming; the pain on his face was unmistakable.

Professional.

Utterly professional.

“Teach me!”

Urswyck licked his lips, eyes alight with hunger for knowledge and the thrill of violence. “Healer, I must learn this!”

Ronin’s lips curved upward.

Step one—establishing a sense of kinship—was complete.

“You may call me Ronin, Lord Urswyck. Rest assured, I will teach you everything.”

He smiled as he placed the bloody dagger back into the man’s hand, then shifted the topic, his calm smile carrying a strange, compelling persuasion:

“However, torturing an insignificant fat kid is a minor skill.”

“Don’t you want to apply this kind of ‘precision’ and ‘control’ to a grander objective?”

“Such as… deciding who is truly qualified to sit forever on the seat of the lord of Harrenhal?”

Uswyck’s pupils constricted.

He gripped the dagger, vigilantly swept his gaze around the area, then lowered his voice.

“What exactly are you trying to say, healer?”

Facing that unfriendly stare, Ronin didn’t hide anything. He replied calmly, his tone very direct, “I feel it isn’t worth it for you, my lord.”

“Not worth it?” Urswyck narrowed his eyes with interest.

“Yes. Not worth it.”

Ronin stepped forward. “I’ve heard the Brave Companions, under the leadership of Lord Vargo Hoat, came all the way from the Free Cities to Westeros and helped seize Harrenhal for Tywin Lannister.”

“But Lord Vargo betrayed the Lannister garrison for the title of Lord of Harrenhal, and opened the gates to the northern army.”

Urswyck snorted. No surprise—those events had spread across the Riverlands. And as a member of the Brave Companions, he didn’t mind betrayal. In truth, many of the old hands had pushed Vargo toward it. They were sellswords, not knights. Honor didn’t feed anyone; profit did.

“With all due respect, my lord,” Ronin went on, his voice steady, almost persuasive. “The dirty work, the risky work—you all did that together as brothers, didn’t you?”

“But when Lord Bolton handed out rewards, everything went to Lord Vargo alone.”

He shifted his tone—sharper now.

“‘Lord of Harrenhal.’ Quite the title, isn’t it? The largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms. A sprawling, fertile domain.”

“And you? The deputy leader of the group? And all the men who shed blood at his side?”

“Just a few empty praises? And now here you are, amusing yourself by tormenting a child on some run-down farm?”

“Is that fair?”

The words hit their mark. Urswyck’s expression darkened, his fingers tightening around the dagger, but he didn’t refute a word.

Seeing him waver, Ronin pressed on. “To be frank, my lord, our illustrious Lord of Harrenhal… his good days are numbered.”

“What do you mean?” Urswyck’s eyelid twitched, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Wasn’t the surgery successful?”

“Oh, it was.” Ronin met his sharp gaze without flinching. “My skill is impeccable.”

“Then why—”

“He already had a fever before the surgery even began.”

Ronin shrugged, explaining plainly. “I removed most of the necrotic flesh. It bought him time. But it’s like smothering a fire while the embers are still glowing.”

“His medical knowledge is nonexistent. He tried to reattach his own ear and caused a severe infection. Then he drank heavily while feverish. He may as well have stabbed himself.”

Ronin stepped closer and whispered in a low voice. “By tomorrow, the fever will flare again. It would be even worse than earlier. He’ll burn, ramble, weaken with every hour.”

“But with his stubborn constitution, he might last until Harrenhal, where there are Lord Bolton's maesters and that Qyburn. If they take over, they might just drag him back from death.”

“He must not reach Harrenhal!” The words burst out of Urswyck before he could stop them.

“Exactly.” Ronin nodded. Then, smoothly, he laid out the solution. “We can let it end ‘naturally’ on the road. I can guide the process. For example, applying something… unclean to the wound. Discreetly.”

“He’ll develop a steady, deteriorating fever like any fatally wounded man… and one night, he’ll peacefully pass away in his sleep. Everyone will believe he died from his injuries. No one will suspect us.”

“It’s just that... there is one problem.”

“What problem?” Urswyck’s breathing quickened. He leaned in, eager for the answer.

“Fever,” Ronin said again.

“When Lord Vargo realizes his fever is returning and his mind is fogging, even if he doesn’t suspect me of foul play, he’ll still think the surgery failed.”

“And the first thing he’ll do is have someone cut off my head.”

Saying this, he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I don't want to die.”

“And once I die, no one will be able to precisely control his dying process, and all our plans will fall apart.”

Urswyck frowned deeply. To be honest, he didn’t care whether Ronin lived or died—but he also understood that if this plan was to succeed, the healer was crucial.

It had to be admitted—Ronin’s move was very clever. By openly showing his weakness, he tied their interests together. Ronin’s survival now directly affected whether Urswyck’s ambitions could be realised.

“I understand,” Urswyck finally said after a long pause. A sinister grin formed on his face. “I'll make sure no one touches you until that guy is completely dead.”

“A company can’t do without a healer, after all.”

Having received the assurance, Ronin nodded with satisfaction. As he had said before, he would offer Urswyck a condition he couldn't refuse.

For an ambitious deputy leader, what kind of condition could he not refuse?

Of course—getting rid of the old leader and taking his place.

"Leader Vargo will die of a high fever within three days. As for you, my lord—"

Seeing the iron was hot, Ronin struck again. He gave a faint smile. “Compared to returning his corpse to Harrenhal, you have a better choice. A shortcut to the pinnacle of power.”

“The Kingslayer.”

Uswyck’s eyes flew open. He stared at Ronin in disbelief.

But Ronin didn’t pause. He continued, patiently laying out the vision.

“Remember—Lord Vargo took Jaime Lannister's hand. Not you, my lord. You can take that ‘goodwill’ and go directly to Tywin Lannister.”

“Think about it. For Lord Tywin, who just lost his son’s sword hand, this would be a huge favor. Once his army retakes Harrenhal, who do you think he’ll reward with the title of the lord of Harrenhal?”

As Ronin finished, the idea detonated in Urswyck’s mind.

The risk was immense. But so was the reward.

A direct alliance with the Lannisters and a secure claim to Harrenhal!

He looked at Ronin as if seeing him for the first time. After a long silence, he said, almost to himself, “You really are a madman, healer.”

“It’s Ronin, my lord. Ronin Graves.” Ronin smiled faintly.

“Ronin it is.” Urswyck nodded thoughtfully. “But we only just betrayed Lord Tywin and defected to the North. Would he believe our loyalty?”

"I need some time to think about it carefully."

"Of course, my lord. Caution is a virtue. A decision like this deserves careful thought."

Ronin shifted back to a restrained posture. He didn’t push. Being overly aggressive here would only raise suspicion.

He had already planted the seed. No further force was needed.

The two were silent for a long time, each turning possibilities over in their heads. Eventually, Urswyck spoke again.

“Ronin Graves.”

His voice was cold, though laced with excitement.

He lifted the dagger and lazily pointed the tip at the tied-up Derek. “You’ve said a lot. But I’ve received no guarantee.”

“So…”

“Prove your resolve. Right now.”

“Use that ‘control’ and ‘efficiency’ you preached. Send this fat pig on his way. Let me see your hand.”

Ronin didn’t blink. No ripple of emotion crossed his face. He had expected this.

In this world where the strong prey on the weak—especially among men like these—nothing cemented trust like shared bloodshed.

“Learning is everywhere, my lord.”

He took the dagger and walked toward Derek. The firelight wavered over his features, leaving half his face in soft shadow. His eyes were steady and cold.

Strangely, even though this was the first time he was killing a man, he felt no weight. It was no different from the first time he held a scalpel. He had been praised then for his nerves.

“This is just business, Lord Derek,” he murmured.

He repeated once more: "In a transaction, someone always has to pay the price."

The moment his words fell, Ronin moved.

He didn’t aim for the heart or throat. Instead, with a small flick of his wrist, the dagger slipped precisely into the narrow space between Derek’s left carotid artery and trachea.

Pfft!

Derek’s heavy body seized. His mouth opened soundlessly; blood poured down his neck in a hot sheet.

His pupils dilated. His limbs twitched. Then his head sagged. It was over in seconds—clean, efficient, clinical.

Ronin turned and handed the dagger back to Urswyck.

Urswyck accepted the warm blade, studying the healer’s calm, indifferent eyes in the firelight. Slowly, a wicked yet approving smile spread across his face.

“Very good, Ronin Graves.”

“Welcome to the game of power.”