Corleone made his way toward the edge of the camp, his medical bag slung over his shoulder. Before he could get far, two members of the Warriors' Group stepped into his path, eyes narrowed and hands on their weapons, clearly instructed to allow no one through.
"This is Captain Vague's order," one of them barked.
Corleone lifted his chin and adopted an air of practiced authority, speaking before they could question him further.
"I am here to treat the Kingslayer's wounds. If he dies before reaching Harrenhal, not a single one of you will see a gold Dragon in reward."
The guards exchanged a glance—equal parts annoyance and resignation—before grudgingly stepping aside. They watched him pass as though forced to swallow something foul.
Damn farmer acting like he owns the place.
If not for Captain Vague's orders, I'd ram my blade right into his back.
Under their sour stares, Corleone sauntered over to Jaime Lannister. He crouched down beside him and began carefully unwrapping the soiled bandages from the severed stump where the knight's hand had once been.
"The treatment has taken effect," Corleone murmured with the tone of a trained professional. "The rot hasn't spread much further. But the necrotic flesh needs to be removed soon. If not, you may lose the entire arm."
His voice was just loud enough for the guards to hear, carefully calculated—not boasting, not meek, but authoritative.
Jaime lowered his head, speaking with a measured weariness. "What good is saving it? Will it let me hold a sword again—fight as I once did?"
He lifted his eyelids, his green eyes flickering with guarded curiosity.
Corleone continued working, his fingers steady. "A clean wound is better than dying of fever before dawn."
Jaime's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
He understood.
Corleone was telling him the time to act would be during the night.
Jaime did not answer immediately. Instead, he sneered—cold, cutting, and full of deliberate contempt.
"Even if you heal me, I won't thank you, boy."
"And when my father pays my ransom, I might demand that Roose Bolton chop off your head. The gold of Casterly Rock may not restore my hand, but it's more than enough to purchase the death of a lowborn farmer pretending to be a physician."
He tilted his head, his voice almost playful.
"How many Dragons would it take for the Lord of the Dreadfort to agree? Five hundred? A thousand?"
Corleone continued wrapping the bandages as though unaffected, though he understood the message clearly.
Jaime was warning him.
Cooperating with him might bring death.
But Corleone knew Jaime Lannister—better than Jaime realized. Better, perhaps, than Tywin Lannister himself.
He lifted his gaze and met Jaime's mocking stare with quiet certainty.
"A lion may be forced into the mud, its golden fur fouled."
"It may kill intruders to protect its den—or carry a burden of blame to prevent a far greater catastrophe."
"But I have never heard of a proud lion breaking an oath it swore."
"And if such a day ever came, it would not be because the lion was base… nor greedy."
"It would be because it faced a nobler choice. One greater than its own honor."
Jaime froze.
The words struck him like a blade pressed into the deepest wound of his soul—the wound he hid behind smirks, arrogance, and mockery.
For years the name "Kingslayer" had poisoned his legacy across Westeros.
Yet no one—not even Eddard Stark, paragon of honor—had understood.
But this common-born healer…
He understands me.
He truly understands me!
Bitterness, relief, rage, grief—all the emotions Jaime had buried burst inside him like a dam splitting apart. He stared at Corleone, lips parting, yet unable to force out a single word.
Nearby, Brienne watched in bafflement. Her simple, straightforward mind could not interpret metaphors about lions and wounds. To her, they were merely talking about injuries and pride.
The guards also stood in confusion, unable to sense the deeper meaning, merely annoyed that the conversation was dragging on.
Then a roar shattered the stillness.
"Hey! You two—Timmon, Pug!"
Uswik stormed toward them, face twisted in irritation.
"Are you blind? Everyone else is exhausted like they've shagged an entire whorehouse! Get over here and push the cart!"
The startled guards hesitated.
"But… the Kingslayer and this woman—"
"I'LL watch them!" Uswik snapped, puffing himself up indignantly. "Gods, this company would be doomed without me!"
Frightened into obedience, the two guards hurried toward the mud-stuck carriage.
Uswik folded his arms, glaring at Corleone and Jaime with a sour expression. Then, without warning, he kicked Corleone hard in the shoulder, sending him stumbling.
"Stop dawdling! Get over here!" he snarled. "I scraped my hand pushing the cart. Take a look at it!"
He strutted to a tree and sat beneath it, pretending injury.
Corleone finished bandaging Jaime, then gave him a meaningful glance and said quietly:
"Tonight, Ser Jaime. Remember to remind me to change your dressing."
He picked up his medical bag and approached Uswik, showing no hint of anger from being kicked. He knelt, opened his supplies, and dabbed a clean cloth with water as if genuinely tending to a wound that did not exist.
Uswik spoke without moving his lips.
"Your treatment worked. The bastard is swaying badly in his saddle."
His voice was low, sharp, urgent.
"But it's not enough. He must meet the Stranger before dawn."
Corleone kept wiping the clean, uninjured palm.
"He no longer trusts me. Just now he ordered the Dothraki to slit my throat. I can't get near him, much less slip anything into his drink."
Uswik cursed.
"Figure something out!"
"Before dawn—one last chance. Put something in his food, his waterskin—anything!"
"And if that fails…"
His eyes hardened with murderous resolve.
"We move early. We cannot let Vague return to Harrenhal alive."
He looked to where the Dothraki warrior—Yigo—kept watch over Captain Vague.
"You," Uswik hissed. "When the fighting starts, get close and kill that savage. He is Vague's most loyal dog. He must die first."
"Me?" Corleone whispered, stunned. "Kill him?"
He pointed to himself.
The Dothraki's arms were thicker than his legs!
"What, you refuse?" Uswik growled. "You took ten gold Dragons—prove your worth. Or I'll kill you right now."
Corleone sneered inwardly.
A perfect setup.
If he succeeded, Uswik gained.
If he failed, Uswik still gained.
But outwardly, Corleone furrowed his brow, adopting the right amount of hesitation.
"If that is your decision… I will try. But when the critical moment comes, I will need your help."
Uswik smirked, satisfied.
He yanked his hand back and suddenly bellowed loudly:
"Get lost! You clumsy idiot! You can't even treat a scratch properly!"
Corleone packed his supplies silently and walked away.
Uswik, meanwhile, sat smirking—pleased with his own cleverness—completely unaware that not far away…
Captain Vague was watching.
And the expression on his face was deadly.