"...Exquisite."
Roose Bolton remained silent for a long time before slowly speaking, giving this evaluation.
He leaned forward, gazing at Corleone as if re-evaluating this young man in tattered farmer's clothes.
After watching for over a minute, Roose took a slight breath. On his pale face appeared an extremely rare expression, one that could almost be called "appreciation."
"Vito Corleone, you possess a dangerous and fascinating mind."
It could be said that the Lord of the Dreadfort had never praised someone like this. There was even a hint of... greed in his eyes as he looked at Corleone.
Yes, greed.
If such a person could be used by House Bolton, kept by his side to strategize...
"What do you want?"
The greed in his eyes flashed and disappeared. Roose spoke, his tone even carrying a hint of negotiation. "As a business transaction, besides the pass I promised earlier, I assume you have already decided on your desired reward."
"What do you want, Vito Corleone."
He repeated Corleone's name again, pressing continuously, "Gold? Or land?"
"If you are willing, I can carve out a piece of land within the Dreadfort's territory and grant you a title."
"Even... perhaps something bigger in the future."
Roose knocked on the table, his language full of temptation. It was both a probe and a recruitment offer.
Meeting his gaze, Corleone sat up completely straight.
The aura of [Majesty Lv2] radiated unreservedly at this moment. That strong composure and confidence made it seem as if he were the master here.
He smiled slightly. There was no fawning or smugness in that smile as he spoke calmly: "I want..."
"To take a hot bath first."
---
Morning.
The chill had not yet been fully dispelled by the sun. On the training grounds of Harrenhal, the monotonous sound of striking already echoed.
Thwack~~~ Thwack~~~~~
Corleone gripped an iron longsword with both hands, chopping at the hardwood stake in front of him again and again.
He had long since shed those signature tattered linen clothes and changed into a fitting set of leather armor. Although still appearing thin, the mental outlook he displayed was vastly different from the dying farmer under the apple tree.
Sweat slid down his forehead, his chest heaving constantly.
The Dothraki warrior stood silently with arms crossed, occasionally spitting out brief instructions in stiff Westerosi:
"Twist waist!"
"Sink wrist, like holding reins on horse."
Iggo spoke simply, yet Corleone felt every chop was extremely strenuous.
But he couldn't ask Iggo to articulate more clearly. After all, the guy was... in a sense, illiterate.
He could only grit his teeth and try hard to adjust, feeling the force transmit from the soles of his feet to the blade with each chop, attempting to find the correct way to exert strength.
The training continued for quite a while. Only when both palms were numb from the shock and the webbing between his thumbs and forefingers throbbed with pain did he have to stop, leaning on the sword to pant.
With a thought, the system panel appeared before his eyes.
[Name: Vito Corleone]
[Class: Doctor]
[Skills: Surgery Lv2, Majesty Lv2, Insight Lv1]
[No-Level Skill: Gambit of Fate]
[Current Draw Attempts: 0 (Rechargeable)]
No changes whatsoever.
The skill entries he craved, like [Basic Swordsmanship] or [One-Handed Weapon Mastery], didn't even show a shadow.
"Phew~~~~"
Exhaling a long breath, he shook his head, forcing himself to calm down.
"Rest a bit first."
He said to Iggo, but also told himself: Haste makes waste.
Despite his desperate desire for martial power, and despite having a hundred or so Gold Dragons looted from the Brave Companions in his pocket, he couldn't pin his hopes entirely on that unpredictable lottery system.
As for drawing...
Corleone, full of auxiliary skills, really couldn't guarantee what skill the system would draw next. If it came up with something like [Baking] or [Wine Tasting], he would truly want to cry without tears.
Saving the excess Gold Dragons, self-learning a combat skill through hard training, and then using Gold Dragons to upgrade it was undoubtedly the safer choice.
Walking to the trough by the stables and sitting down, he took the waterskin Iggo handed over and gulped down a few mouthfuls of cold water.
"Blood of my blood." Wiping the corner of his mouth, he looked up at the warrior from the grassland beside him, his tone carrying a trace of expectation.
"In your opinion, training like this, how long will it take for me to defeat a well-trained soldier head-on?"
Iggo was silent for a moment first. There was no intention of being euphemistic on his dark face: "Very hard."
This Dothraki warrior was truly not good with words, let alone flattery. He just answered honestly in a muffled voice: "You have some talent on the path of battle, and your eyes are sharp, Blood of my blood."
"But... your body is set. Strength is weak. Muscles have no memory. Tendons and bones lack toughness."
"In Dothraki lands, boys usually ride horses and participate in fighting and hunting at ten."
"Ten years old..."
Corleone murmured, repeating it. He knew Iggo had put it quite mildly, but he still felt a bit helpless.
In his previous life at this age, he was still worrying about exams for junior high school. Yet children in this world were already holding sharp blades, struggling to survive in blood and fire.
"You actually do not need to push yourself so hard, Blood of my blood."
Seeing the unconcealable fatigue on Corleone's face, Iggo couldn't help adding, "The gods granted you an immortal body. Even an arakh cannot harm you in the slightest. On the battlefield, you are already undefeated."
Hearing this, Corleone just responded with a mysterious, faint smile and didn't explain.
He knew Iggo was referring to the earlier "Gambit of Fate," where he had taken a full-force strike unharmed.
That power transcending rules was deeply imprinted in the Dothraki warrior's mind. He firmly believed his "Blood of my blood" bore divine grace.
But ultimately, Corleone couldn't explain the absolute defense rule of once every seven days to Iggo. He could only let the other imagine him as some invulnerable existence.
Sometimes, maintaining mystery was a power in itself.
"Continue!"
Resting for a moment, feeling the soreness in his arms ease slightly, Corleone slapped his knee and stood up. Throwing the empty waterskin to Iggo, determination returned to his eyes.
Who cares? I don't need to train my swordsmanship to the level of Jaime or Brienne. As long as I reach the entry-level of Lv1, I can definitely upgrade it to be stronger than everyone else.
Don't forget, I have cheats!
"If I don't swing three hundred full times today, no dinner!"
He growled low to encourage himself, walked back to the wooden stake, and gripped the heavy iron longsword with both hands again.
Just as Corleone adjusted his breathing and continued to beat the training stake, footsteps sounded from behind, gradually approaching.
"Your sequence of exerting force is wrong."
"Power starts from feet pushing ground, transmits to waist and hips, uses twist to send kinetic energy to shoulders and back, finally arm swings out with momentum!"
Corleone paused, turning back in astonishment.
He saw Brienne, tall and strong as a bear, standing not far behind him.
Her face still wore that habitual serious expression. However, utterly incongruous with this seriousness was that she was wearing a pale blue, exquisitely embroidered lady's gown!
This dress was obviously prepared for some petite noble lady. Worn on Brienne, it was suffocatingly tight. The sleeves were short by a large section, revealing sturdy forearms. The hem also hung awkwardly mid-calf, completely exposing her huge feet.
She looked... like a mammoth forcibly stuffed into fine porcelain, full of absurd comedy.
Corleone stared for two seconds, then the corners of his mouth uncontrollably curled up. Holding back laughter, he teased, "Where did Roose Bolton get such a dress? It must have been hard for him, hahaha..."
Hearing this, Brienne's cheeks actually flushed slightly. This made Corleone want to laugh even more.
This woman, who never frowned even when slaughtering on the battlefield, was actually shy.