Autumn in the Riverlands was always unforgiving, and today was no exception. Even though the sun had finally burned away the stubborn morning fog, the River Road remained a ribbon of sticky, sucking mud that clung to hooves and boots alike. Every step the horses took landed with a wet, heavy thud, and the riders felt the strain through their saddles. The air was thick with moisture, carrying the faint, unpleasant smell of decaying leaves and stagnant water.
Just as the sun reached its highest point, disaster struck again. The wheel of a carriage heavy with stolen loot slid into a deep patch of mud and became firmly wedged. The horses snorted and pawed at the ground, but the wheel refused to budge. The troop was forced to halt—yet again—and frustration rippled through the ranks.
Corleone used the pause to tend to Vargo Hoat's bandages, working under the watchful eyes of two members of the Brave Companions. Vargo was propped up awkwardly between two trees—both oaks, though that hardly mattered. His breathing was strained, his skin pallid beneath a sheen of sweat, and his lips trembled with fever. The afternoon weighed heavily on the camp, smothering any energy that remained. Down the road, Uswik bellowed at his subordinates as they strained to free the wagon wheel. Their work chants drifted weakly across the wet air, sounding more like whimpers than motivation.
The sound made Vargo shiver involuntarily. A wave of dizziness washed through him, stronger than before. Something inside him felt as if it were slipping away—like sand running between clenched fingers. The sensation terrified him. He had faced blades, ambushes, and beasts without fear, but this helplessness—this inability to command his own body—filled him with dread.
"Zorro!" Vargo rasped, his voice rough and unsteady. His gaze fixed on his trusted henchman. "Go tell them to move faster, and stop acting like whores who've taken twenty customers in a row—their legs too weak to stand!"
He longed desperately to return to Harrenhal. Only within those thick, blackened walls—and under Qyburn's dubious but reassuring care—could he feel the illusion of safety again. Zorro nodded obediently and hurried away, leaving only Yigo and Corleone beside their deteriorating commander.
Vargo's eyes—bloodshot, wild, and filled with resentment—locked onto Corleone. His voice dropped, vibrating with suppressed rage. "Why am I getting worse? Tell me, doctor. What is happening to me?"
"The healing is far from ideal, my lord," Corleone replied, unwrapping the bandages with practiced precision. The cloth was soaked with a ghastly yellow-green discharge, thick and foul-smelling. He did not sugarcoat his words. "The infection is severe—far more aggressive than anticipated."
"You quack!" Vargo snarled. He lurched forward, propelled by anger more than strength, and seized Corleone by the collar. "Did you even try to treat me properly?!"
Corleone let exhaustion flicker across his expression, just enough to appear genuine. "My lord, I swear by the Seven, I have done everything within my power."
He met Vargo's glare steadily and added, "But you forced the necrotic flesh back into the wound and drank strong liquor despite your fever. That is a direct invitation for the Stranger's hand."
He paused, then concluded soberly, "All I can do now is slow the spread of the infection. Nothing more."
"Slow it down?" Vargo spat. "You swore you could cure me!"
The hatred in his eyes sharpened into murderous clarity. He pointed a trembling, rigid finger at Corleone and barked at Yigo, "I've had enough! Kill this quack—now!"
Yigo did not hesitate. He drew the longsword Vargo himself had gifted him, stepping forward with smooth, efficient motion. In a subtle shift of position, he placed himself between Corleone and Vargo—not to protect Corleone, but to strike cleanly when ordered.
"Boss!!!"
Uswik's voice rang out, carrying just enough urgency to interrupt the killing blow. He abandoned his struggling men at the wagon and rushed over, a strained, almost oily smile plastered onto his face.
"How are you feeling?" he asked with exaggerated concern. "You look terrible—perhaps you should rest a little longer?"
Vargo ignored him completely, eyes still fixed on Corleone. "Kill him, Yigo!"
Yigo began to raise his arm, but Uswik quickly stepped between them, blocking the space and holding up both hands as if pleading for reason.
"Don't, Boss!" he insisted. "Your wound still needs a doctor. Even if this one isn't much good, he's better than all of us put together. If you kill him now, what happens when your condition gets worse on the road?"
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper meant only for Vargo—though everyone heard the tone. "If you ask me, wait until we reach Harrenhal. Let Maester Qyburn take over. Then we can skin him slowly."
Uswik sounded earnest—too earnest. And that is precisely what unsettled Vargo.
This man, who was usually vicious, opportunistic, and utterly self-serving… suddenly wanted to defend a doctor? The idea was absurd. Suspicion flared instantly. His gaze darted between Corleone and Uswik—confusion, betrayal, and fever mixing into something volatile.
Combined with the delirium pounding through his skull, rage surged through him like wildfire.
"How much longer… will the carriage take?" Vargo growled, forcing himself not to explode again.
Uswik grimaced dramatically and shook his head. "The wheel is stuck too deep. The mud's sucking it in tighter than that old maid from Tarth. It may take until nightfall—maybe longer…"
"Then what the hell are you standing here for?!" Vargo roared. "Go help! Do you want us to spend the winter in this miserable forest?!"
Uswik stiffened at the rebuke, fingers tightening around his sword hilt. Then he forced a grin.
"I'm going now, Boss!"
He turned and left, though not before giving Corleone a long, meaningful look—one that said clearly, Watch yourself.
Corleone responded with the faintest nod, hardly visible—yet Vargo saw it. And that was enough.
The conclusion formed instantly in his fever-hazed mind.
The quack and Uswik were colluding.
But for what? Were they planning rebellion? Seizing spoils? Something else entirely?
Vargo narrowed his eyes, his lips curling in a cold, knowing smirk.
Fools. They lacked the courage to rebel openly. They were thinking only of petty gain.
Still, he couldn't simply kill Corleone—not yet. Doing so would force Uswik's hand, create open conflict, and risk driving his men into factional chaos. No, he needed something more calculated.
He waved his hand dismissively, as though Corleone were already irrelevant.
"It seems your medical skills have reached their limit. Get out of my sight—stop hovering."
He pointed toward the captives, Jaime and Brienne. "Perhaps your mediocre skills can be used on the kingslayer. And if you happen to kill him… ha!"
Corleone calmly packed his tools, then hesitated as though wanting to speak—before deciding against it. Under Yigo's silent watch, he walked toward the prisoners. The dappled shadows from the oak branches fell across his face, concealing the faint upward curve of his lips.
Good advice was wasted on a doomed man.
He had given Vargo the best medical counsel possible. If the patient refused to listen, the responsibility was no longer his.
Vargo watched Corleone depart, eyes glittering with cold calculation. After a moment, he leaned toward Yigo and murmured, "Keep a close eye on that quack. And quietly inform Zorro, Timmon, and Pug that tonight, they are to find a chance to kill Uswik and those three newcomers."
The order was soft, but the intent was steel.
Plots layered upon plots.
No loyalty, no trust—only shifting survival.
And as the mud sucked at the wheels, and fever gnawed at flesh, and blades lingered always within reach…
Every man in the troop walked beside death, each with his own ulterior motive.