Thanks to Uswik's meddling, the carriage that had sunk into the deep Riverlands mud never moved again that day. By the time the sun dipped beneath the distant treeline, the Warriors' Group had no choice but to make camp beside the wet and miserable road.
A bonfire crackled in the damp air, spitting sparks into the night. The smell of charred meat mixed with the stench of sweat and cheap ale, creating a heavy fog of noise and odor. Laughter, curses, drinking songs, and the clatter of tin mugs echoed through the camp.
Vargo Hoat—known among his men as Vague—sat crookedly beneath a gnarled tree slightly away from the fire, wrapped in a stolen blanket. Fever flushed his face an unhealthy red, and in the shifting firelight his eyes appeared dull and cloudy. He watched his subordinates with hazy suspicion, his gaze lingering on Uswik's ever-present fake smile before drifting to Yigo, who stood silently at his side like a dark statue—unwavering, loyal, and dangerous.
"Have you informed everyone?" Vague whispered.
Yigo nodded, speaking in his usual blunt tone. "I told Zorro and the other two. As soon as they hear someone shout, 'Long Live the Warriors' Group,' they are to act immediately and kill Uswik and his men."
He paused.
"I didn't tell the others. They cannot be trusted."
Vague allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile.
"You are still the most reliable one," he murmured. "Don't worry. Once we deal with the trouble along this road and return to Harrenhal, you will be second-in-command. Everything I have, you will have."
But Yigo said nothing.
Silence stretched between them, awkward and heavy. Vague shifted uncomfortably. The Dothraki warrior excelled in loyalty, discipline, and efficiency, but he never flattered, never smiled, never praised. In some ways, he was the perfect subordinate—yet Vague always felt something missing.
Take Uswik, for example. If Vague offered him such a promise, the man would drown him in ridiculous compliments:
"Boss, my admiration for you is as endless as the Blackwater River,"
or
"It overflows like the Green Fork—unstoppable!"
But then again, if Yigo ever behaved that way, Vague would trust him far less.
Around the bonfire, the rowdy voices grew louder. Men laughed, shoved, wrestled, and clinked cups. A few peripheral members were already drunk, singing off-key songs that sounded like dying goats.
Uswik laughed along with them, tapping cups with the men beside him—yet the corner of his eye never stopped watching Vague. Seeing the leader speak quietly with Yigo, his heart skipped. He couldn't hear the conversation, but instinct twisted sharply within him.
He couldn't wait any longer.
He lifted a cup of stolen wine to his lips and pretended to drink, but discreetly spat the liquid to the ground. Then he flicked a subtle wink to Rorger, who stood at the edge of the crowd.
Rorger understood immediately. Staggering like a drunk, he moved through the men, unbuckling his belt as if preparing to relieve himself. His path led him toward Corleone—a fringe member who leaned quietly against a tree, excluded from the celebrations.
As Rorger passed him, he bumped Corleone's shoulder roughly.
"Watch where you're going, fool!" he growled loudly, swaying like a man drowning in ale.
But in that moment of contact, his hand pressed a small dagger into Corleone's palm.
"Hold this," he whispered sharply, tone suddenly sober.
Then, lips close to Corleone's ear, he hissed:
"When you hear someone shout 'Long Live the Warriors' Group,' get close to that Dothraki savage and kill him."
Corleone stiffened, the cold steel burning against his skin. Had he misheard?
Long Live the Warriors' Group?
That was exactly the same signal he had heard whispered earlier—only from the opposite faction.
He forced a nervous smile and stuffed the dagger into the wide cuff of his worn sleeve.
"When the time comes, Lord Rorger, watch my back. I may not be a match for that one…"
"The Seven will protect you," Rorger snapped dismissively. He clapped Corleone's shoulder—then, with drunken swagger restored, stumbled back into the noisy crowd.
The bonfire flames rose higher, shadows dancing wildly across the clearing. Singing turned crude, laughter turned mean, and insults grew louder. Yet beneath the noise, unease simmered.
Because while the expendable men drank, the real players barely touched their cups. Uswik's men watched Vague's loyalists. Vague's loyalists watched Uswik's. Yigo watched everyone.
No one trusted anyone.
---
Vague felt his strength leaking away, drained by fever and exhaustion. He needed to act. This might be his final chance.
"Uswik!"
The call wasn't loud, yet it sliced through the chaos like a blade. Uswik froze mid-laugh. His head turned, and his false smile twitched before stretching wider—too wide.
He set down his cup, gestured for his men to continue without him, and rose slowly. His hand rested near the hilt of his sword, casual but ready. He walked toward Vague.
"Boss, what are your orders?"
Vague didn't accuse him, didn't scold, didn't threaten. Instead, he lifted a weak hand and pointed toward a bare oak tree at the camp's perimeter.
"Let's talk over there. It's quieter."
Uswik's eyes narrowed. He glanced at Yigo, then at the subtly divided men near the fire. After a moment, he nodded.
"Alright, Boss."
He followed Vague, pretending to stagger, faking drunkenness. Yigo attempted to follow, but Vague raised his hand, stopping him.
Away from the fire, the night wind cut cold across Vague's feverish skin. He leaned against the rough bark of the old oak, breathing heavily. Uswik stopped a few paces away, arms folded, wearing an expression of concern that didn't reach his eyes.
He looked like a man calculating how likely he was to succeed in murder.
But despite Vague's weakened state, Uswik still didn't dare. Vargo Hoat had led killers for more than ten years. His sword skill was respected—and feared. Even dying, he was dangerous.
"Uswik…"
After a quiet moment, Vague spoke again. His voice was hoarse, weary, yet sincere.
"Do you remember the Stepstones? When the storm almost fed us to the sharks? Or in Qohor, when we stole that silk ship—you took an arrow meant for me. You almost died."
Uswik's smirk faltered. A long-buried memory stirred in his eyes.
"We fought our way from Essos to Westeros together, my brother," Vague continued softly. "What was it for? Wasn't it so we could finally carve out a place to call our own?"
"Harrenhal," he whispered. "Bolton may have appointed me Earl, but I never considered it mine alone. It was earned by all of us."
Uswik hesitated—then stepped forward, slipping reflexively into flattery.
"Boss! Of course I remember. Taking that arrow was my duty! Without your leadership, we would've rotted in the gutters of the Free Cities!"
"To be honest, my respect for you is as endless as the Blackwater Ri—"
"Enough."
Vague cut him off.
He inhaled, then spoke in a low, urgent tone:
"The King in the North keeps winning. Most of the Riverlands now belong to him. We chose the right side."
"But Roose Bolton? That flayer…" Vague leaned forward. "Do you truly believe he will allow us to sit comfortably as lords?"
"I've seen the signs. He is dealing with Tywin Lannister behind our backs. If I die—how long do you think our Warriors' Group will survive? Bolton will sacrifice you to appease the Lannisters."
Uswik's brows tightened. He couldn't deny it.
In that case, should he seek favor with Tywin by offering the kingslayer? But if the North won… would he keep Harrenhal?
His certainty wavered.
Vague saw it—and pressed harder.
"As long as I return to Harrenhal, it remains ours. Power, women, gold—everything I have, you will have."
"Harrenhal…" Uswik murmured, eyes widening with greed.
After long contemplation, he smiled again.
"Boss, how could the Warriors' Group thrive without you?"
He stepped forward and extended his arm.
Vague exhaled in relief and clasped it.
He had done it—prevented rebellion without bloodshed.
But just
as he prepared to suggest returning to the fire—
A scream split the night.
A fierce, triumphant, unmistakable cry:
"LONG LIVE THE WARRIORS' GROUP!!!"