The battlefield lay in chaos beneath a sky thick with smoke and drifting sparks. Screams, steel, and the crackle of burning canvas blended into a maddening symphony. At the edge of this blood-soaked camp, Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth stood back-to-back, their expressions hardened by exhaustion and disbelief.
Jaime's left hand tightened around the dagger he had stolen moments earlier. With a sharp twist and a powerful pull, the blade sliced through the ropes at his wrists. The coarse fibers snapped, and freedom rushed back into his limbs. Brienne shook her shoulders, shrugging off the loosened bindings before tearing them away completely.
They were free—finally free—but neither celebrated. Instead, both stared at the horrifying sight unfolding around them.
The camp had devolved into a butcher's yard. The Warriors' Group, once united by greed and brutality, had fractured into warring factions. Men who had eaten together now tore each other apart with axes, swords, and bare hands. Blood slicked the ground, and severed limbs lay scattered like discarded firewood. Flames from fallen torches cast wild shadows over twisted, contorted faces filled with rage and madness.
Brienne's sapphire eyes widened, stunned by the scene. For a moment—even with all her formidable strength, training, and resolve—she hesitated.
"Whose side should we take?" she asked, her voice low but steady.
Jaime flexed his stiffened fingers, feeling the ache of circulation returning. His emerald eyes swept across the carnage, and he snorted in disdain.
"Who cares?" he replied. "Kill whoever comes near you. They're all murderers and beasts who deserve to rot in the Seven Hells. Perhaps once they're all dead, the Riverlands will finally breathe clean air again."
Brienne considered his words and found no reason to disagree. Before they'd been captured, she had crossed paths with bandits, thieves, and killers. She had fought them before, but none had ever filled her with the same deep disgust as these men. The Warriors' Group seemed to embody the very worst of human nature—cruelty without purpose, violence without honor.
She inhaled deeply, preparing to charge into the fray—
Then a massive, brawny body stumbled backward during the fighting and collapsed directly at her feet.
Brienne looked down sharply. Their eyes locked—two stunned expressions meeting in shared recognition and fury.
"WAAAAGH!"
"WAAAAGH!"
Both shouted at the same time, though Brienne's voice thundered louder, deeper, and far more intimidating. She lunged, wrapping her powerful arms around the man's throat, locking her forearm beneath his chin and squeezing with the force of a smith's vice.
The man thrashed violently, kicking, clawing, and twisting, shocked to discover that he couldn't break free. His face turned purple, veins bursting against his skin. Brienne gritted her teeth and tightened her grip, but time was slipping—battle waited for no one.
Modern healers might claim that choking a man unconscious takes half a minute, perhaps longer. But here, every second meant life or death.
Just as the struggle reached its peak—
Pffft—
A dagger slid effortlessly between the gaps of the man's leather armor and sank deep into his heart. His body jerked once and went limp.
Jaime withdrew the dagger and wiped the blade clean on the dead man's tunic. He raised an eyebrow at Brienne, who was catching her breath, cheeks flushed with exertion.
"Killing requires a weapon, my lady," he said dryly. "Your method is unnecessarily slow."
Brienne frowned, disapproval etched clearly across her features. She looked at the corpse, then at Jaime, then at the bloodied dagger in his hand.
"That is not chivalrous, kingslayer," she said sharply.
She bent and retrieved the longsword the dead man had dropped, weighing it with a satisfied grip. Before Jaime could respond, she let out a booming roar—"WAAAGH!"—and charged headlong into the battlefield like a force of nature unleashed.
Jaime clicked his tongue, irritated by the title she'd thrown at him like an insult.
Kingslayer.
He hated the word, hated the judgment woven into it. Watching her vanish into the fray, he shook his head.
Could the woman think of nothing besides honor and duty?
Speaking of chivalry here, in this den of savages—was that not the true foolishness?
Before he could dwell further, a calm voice drifted from above.
"Don't try to be a hero while you still draw breath, Ser Jaime Lannister. Stay alive."
Jaime snapped his gaze upward. Corleone sat perched in the branches of a large tree behind him, watching the battlefield with an unsettling stillness. Shadows from the fire danced across his face, obscuring his expression, but his black eyes gleamed—deep, unreadable, ancient.
"After enough time has passed," Corleone murmured, "heroes start to look rather foolish, don't they?"
Jaime hesitated—just a heartbeat—before scoffing and turning his gaze back toward the fighting.
"I cannot agree, Lord Corleone," he declared. His voice carried a sharp, unshakable certainty. "Some things, even if they are foolish… even if they are doomed… even if the cost is everything—must still be done."
Meanwhile, beneath the towering oak tree, another battle reached its conclusion.
Vargo Hoat staggered backward, blood streaming down his ruined face. Where his left eye had once glared coldly, there remained only an empty, mangled socket. He spat out a chunk of flesh—his opponent's flesh—panting like a starving beast. But he had won. He had killed the traitor Uswyck by biting through his throat like a feral animal.
Victory, however, came at a price.
He wavered, barely able to stand. Fever burned through him, and blood seeped steadily from his many wounds. His thoughts drifted in and out, blurred and foggy. The camp ahead still roared with screams and steel, men tearing into their own comrades in a frenzy.
Watching the organization he had built crumble into madness before his eyes, Vargo Hoat did not step forward to intervene. He turned instead—because even surviving the next minute heaved like an impossible effort.
He stumbled toward the treeline, vision swimming. His lone eye scanned the ground—and suddenly stopped.
There—half-buried in dirt—lay his broadsword.
His fingers twitched. Instinct compelled him to reach down for it. But just as his fingertips brushed the hilt—
A boot slammed down onto the blade, pinning it to the earth.
A second later, cold steel kissed his throat, forcing his chin upward. Vargo Hoat froze, breath hitching as his gaze travelled up the weapon to the man wielding it.
Jaime Lannister.
Dirty golden hair hung over his eyes. His face was gaunt from starvation and imprisonment, but his posture—straight, unyielding—made him look like a solid wall of iron. He held the sword with his single remaining hand, its edge pressed firmly against Vargo's neck.
Vargo blinked once, then grinned—a red, bloody smile twisting across his face.
"Well, well… look at this," he rasped. "Our honored Ser Jaime Lannister."
His gaze dipped to Jaime's empty right sleeve.
"What? Don't tell me you're eager to lose the other hand as well?"
He tried to stand tall, to project command—but his body swayed, weak and broken.
Jaime said nothing. He stared, seeing the flicker of fear buried in Vargo's lone eye.
"I have never encountered a man as shameless as you, Vargo Hoat," Jaime said. His voice was calm—too calm—like a judge delivering a final sentence. "People say the Seven Hells await the wicked. But I believe that place was built specifically for you."
Vargo spat a mouthful of bloody saliva and snarled.
"You are no better than I am, kingslayer! You betrayed your king. We are the same! Stab me! Go on! I'll be waiting for you in hell—perhaps they've already prepared a seat for you!"
He shouted, trying to wrap himself in false bravado.
But Jaime saw the trembling beneath it.
"Too bad," Jaime answered softly.
He stepped back—removing his boot from the broadsword.
Vargo stared, stunned.
"I am not as dishonorable as you," Jaime continued. "Even for a creature like you, I will offer a chance for fair combat."
Then Jaime pointed his sword at the we
apon on the ground.
"Pick up the sword."
Vargo didn't move.
Jaime's voice cracked like thunder—
"I said pick up the sword!"
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