The mist rose gently over the Riverlands road as dawn crept across the horizon, veiling the camp in a damp, colorless haze. The air still carried the heavy, metallic smell of blood, and the silence that followed the night's chaos felt unnaturally hollow. The bonfires had long burned out, and the clamor of clashing steel and dying screams had faded into a memory—grim, but final. The rebellion within the Warriors' Group, plotted for so long and executed with brutal decisiveness, had ended.
The sprawling campsite was now a graveyard. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, twisted and broken, their lifeless gazes staring blankly upward. Those who had taken part in the internal slaughter—aside from a pitiful few—had been wiped out, cut down by two figures whose strength bordered on the mythic: Yigo and Brienne. Their blades had shown no hesitation, no mercy.
Not far from the carnage, the Dothraki moved silently through the trees, their leather-clad forms barely making a sound. They drifted from corpse to corpse, crouching to search through pockets and belts. They collected anything of value—coin pouches, daggers, steel, dried meat, and bits of armor that could be repaired or resold. Their expressions remained entirely blank, their movements efficient and practiced, as though they were simply harvesting crops in a season of plenty.
Of course, the Dothraki never farm. Yet this grim task suited them perfectly.
Brienne, meanwhile, knelt beside her sword. One knee pressed into the damp soil, her forehead rested against her gloved hand atop the hilt. Her lips moved silently, reciting prayers she had memorized since childhood—tenets of the Faith of the Seven: the Father's justice, the Mother's mercy. In the midst of death and brutal necessity, she clung to a fragment of purity.
Under a tall oak tree at the center of the camp—one of the few places untouched by blood—Corleone prepared for a different kind of battle.
A small surgical knife glinted faintly in the weak morning light. Corleone held it over a small flame, sterilizing it repeatedly with mechanical precision. Before him sat Ser Jaime Lannister, pale-faced, sweat-soaked, and tense, his severed wrist wrapped in crude bandages applied during the night's urgency. The rough treatment had slowed the decay and stopped the worst of the bleeding, but it was far from enough.
Now, with the camp momentarily safe and the surviving enemies dead, Corleone finally had the time to work properly.
Having practiced first on Vargo Hoat, Corleone's demeanor held a newfound steadiness. Even operating in the open woods, surrounded by corpses and filth, he showed no hesitation. His eyes were calm, his hands unwavering, his breathing even. Nothing about this moment seemed capable of rattling him.
Perhaps fate itself was protecting Jaime. The wound should have been inflamed and festering. Jaime had rolled through mud after losing the hand, contaminating the raw flesh with grime, horse urine, and dung. Any ordinary man would have been feverish, delirious, dying.
But Jaime showed no sign of infection.
Corleone could not explain it. There was no logic, no natural explanation. So he silently surrendered the answer to destiny.
The knife sliced cleanly through blackened necrotic flesh. Piece by piece, he removed every dead fragment, exposing the healthier tissue beneath. His movements were smooth, practiced, almost elegant. He gave his full focus to the work, ignoring the carnage surrounding them.
Only one voice broke the stillness.
"Ugh! Ahh—ahh! Gods—!"
Jaime gasped and groaned through clenched teeth, his face slick with cold sweat. His remaining hand dug desperately into the earth, forcing soil beneath his fingernails. Even his knightly composure couldn't conceal how deeply the pain burrowed into him.
"Relax, Ser," Corleone said without looking up, his tone casual—almost conversational. "Your screams are more shrill than a little girl being tormented by a septon."
He paused thoughtfully.
"Oh, but I suppose septons prefer boys, don't they?"
Jaime's eyes widened, outrage overpowering agony.
"Shut up, Corleone!" he growled, voice trembling.
Corleone continued unfazed.
"Were you ever harassed by a septon as a child? Although, I suppose not. You, after all, are Tywin Lannister's firstborn. Casterly Rock's heir. Who would dare?"
"You insufferable—ahh!" Jaime's words broke into another cry as the knife pressed deeper.
He tried to retaliate with sarcasm, as if words might shield him from the agony. "If the knife were cutting into your flesh, you wouldn't be making jokes so easily. Why don't we switch places and see—ahh!—how you like—"
Corleone cut again—precisely at the moment Jaime tried to speak.
This time, Corleone simply nodded. "You are correct, Ser."
He neatly sliced away another strip of rotten tissue.
"And I must say—enduring this kind of pain without passing out—without even a drop of milk of the poppy? Remarkable. You are far tougher than that pathetic Vargo Hoat."
Despite the pain twisting his face, Jaime felt a surge of pride. Being tortured and mutilated by Vargo Hoat had been one of the greatest humiliations of his life. Hearing himself called stronger than his tormentor brought unexpected comfort.
The surgery continued, punctuated only by strained breathing, low groans, and the subtle rhythm of blade and cloth.
At last, Corleone finished removing the final thread of dead flesh. He cleaned the wound with boiled water, carefully dried it with clean cloth, applied honey to prevent infection, and stitched the opening shut. His needlework was tidy and exact.
Then, with surprising delicacy, he tied the finishing bandage into a neat, decorative bow.
The absurd contrast—blood, pain, corpses… and a dainty bow—hung in the air.
Jaime stared at it, expression torn between disbelief and exhausted amusement.
"Your medical skill is astonishing, Corleone," he admitted, voice hoarse. "In matters of wounds, I daresay you surpass Grand Maester Pycelle himself."
His gaze lingered on Corleone's bare neck—where a maester's chain was conspicuously absent.
"As a farmer, how did you learn such skill?"
Corleone paused while packing his tools. He lifted his head slowly and met Jaime's green eyes, offering a faint, enigmatic smile.
"Everyone has their secrets, Ser Jaime," he replied gently. "Just as I have never questioned your past, never asked why you came here, never pried into… the things you conceal."
He paused, voice soft but firm.
"As a friend, Ser, I hope you will treat this hard-won friendship the same way."
The word struck Jaime harder than any blade.
Friend.
He stared at the ragged, composed man before him—this strange farmer with wisdom in his eyes and steel in his hands. A heavy, unfamiliar emotion welled in Jaime's chest.
He had been surrounded by admirers and flatterers since childhood. As Tywin Lannister's heir, as the golden knight of Casterly Rock, as the youngest man ever to wear the white cloak, he had never lacked people calling themselves his friends.
But he knew better.
They bowed to gold, to power, to legacy—not to him.
For a brief time, after joining the Kingsguard, he believed he had found true comrades. Ser Gerold Hightower. Ser Barristan Selmy. Ser Arthur Dayne—the man who knighted him personally. Brothers in arms. Equals. Warriors who would trust one another with their backs.
But war shattered that bond.
Lewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry fell at the Trident. Ser Arthur and his men died at the Tower of Joy. Only Barristan remained—and after Jaime slew the Mad King, even he turned away, calling him "kingslayer" before the world.
The last bond severed.
Friendship, Jaime realized, was a luxury he never truly possessed.
And now—here, in a filthy camp filled with death—a low-born farmer-doctor looked at him with steady eyes and offered companionship without agenda, without reverence, without deceit.
It felt unreal. Absurd. Impossible.
Yet…
"Vito Corleone," Jaime said softly.
He extended his remaining left hand, exhaustion clinging to him, but sincerity shining through.
"Allow me to reintroduce myself.
"
A breath. A heartbeat.
"Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard."
And for the first time in a long while, he meant it.