reincarnated in GOT with a down graded Cheat engine.

The morning after the raid carried with it a strange stillness—neither peace nor mourning, but something in between. Bogwater was breathing again, though the air felt heavier than before. Smoke from a few ruined homes still drifted above the trees.

Inside a small, sturdy house on the village's northern edge, Levi sat slouched at a plain wooden table. It was a house that hadn't been his a week ago. But now, like it or not, it was home.

No candles were lit, but the light of dawn filtered through the gaps in the shuttered window. Outside, muted voices spoke in low tones. Somewhere, a shovel struck dirt.

Levi glanced down at his bandaged left arm. The linen was stiff and brown with dried blood, and his fingers were still numb from time to time. He flexed them gently—barely a twitch—and let out a breath.

The adrenaline had long faded. Now came the weight.

He rubbed his eyes and sat straighter. "Come on," he muttered to himself. "One thing at a time."

With a focus born not of confidence but necessity, he activated the one tool that truly set him apart.

[CHEAT ENGINE: ACTIVE]

Silver Stags: 1,084

Food: - Lizard Meat - Hard Cheese - Swampberries - Hard Bread - Barrels of Ale

Weapons: - Bows (0) - Crossbows (0) - Spears (0) - Pikes (0) - Maces (0) - Swords (0)

Resources: - Carved Wood (57) - Mossy Stone Slab (31)

Materials: - Iron (0) - Wheat (0)

Levi frowned. The silver had gone up since the last time he checked. People had begun bartering and buying. Whether it was from the refugees, guards, or leftover bandits—it didn't matter. The counter tracked what he owned. And now it showed him exactly how valuable he'd become.

Still no weapons. No iron. No wheat. No real defenses.

And no time to rest.

He opened a drawer beside him, took out a small burlap sack, and began to fill it—not with gold, not with illusions, but with what he could conjure.

Three loaves of hard bread

Two wheels of cheese

A few chunks of dried lizard meat, tougher than jerky

A single barrel of ale—summoned one cup at a time and siphoned into a real cask days ago

Enough swampberries to add a hint of sweetness to bitter lives

He had practiced spawning slowly, over time, to avoid suspicion. Now he was ready to give it away.

Not for power. Not for glory.

But because it was his damn fault. He could've prepared sooner. Should've.

He tied the sack and stood, arm aching, legs still sore from yesterday's run and fight. He took a moment by the door, hand on the frame, breathing slow.

Today wasn't about recovery. It was about responsibility.

He stepped outside. The air was cold and damp, and heads turned as he crossed the dirt path toward the gathering near the center of the village.

Children were quiet. Refugees sat huddled beneath blankets. And among the crowd, men and women wore the wary look of survivors—not yet healed, not yet angry, but close.

Levi paused in front of them, sack over his good shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said.

He didn't shout. He didn't try to explain.

One by one, he handed out bread, meat, cheese. A bowl of swampberries here, a cup of ale there. Not enough to rebuild trust, but enough to feed it.

He met their eyes as he passed. Farmers. Elders. Children. Some looked down. Others nodded quietly. No one cheered.

And that was fine.

This wasn't a celebration.

It was a promise.

"This won't happen again," he said to a woman holding her injured son. "Not ever."