"You may call me Vito, my friend."
The farmer-knight and the weary farmer clasped hands firmly, sealing a friendship that—at least for this brief moment—seemed to transcend class, suspicion, and past grievances. Corleone felt the warmth of the handshake linger slightly, while Jaime—watching beside him—allowed himself a faint, amused smile.
But the peace did not last.
A sudden burst of raised voices shattered the calm. Both Corleone and Jaime instinctively turned toward the commotion, only to find Brienne and Yigo locked in a heated argument beside the body of a collapsed man.
The figure sprawled on the ground was large and muscular, with a face so misshapen and noseless that it looked as though someone had carved it with a dull knife. Yet his chest still rose and fell faintly—alive, but barely.
"I hit him first!" Brienne declared, straightening to her full imposing height, her voice rumbling with certainty.
"I smashed his collarbone with my sword hilt," she continued, pointing accusingly. "That blow took the fight out of him. Therefore, the right to execute him belongs to me!"
Across from her, Yigo stood stiffly with arms folded, expression as unyielding as a stone pillar.
"Incorrect," he countered. "With your attack, he only staggered. It was I who came from behind and struck him here." He tapped the back of his own skull with a thick finger. "Only then did he fall like a slaughtered sheep. Therefore, he is mine."
Brienne bristled. "I distinctly remember landing the decisive strike first!"
"My memory is never wrong," Yigo replied coldly. "You are mistaken, woman. Among the Dothraki, women remember nothing—not even who they were coupling with moments before."
Brienne's jaw clenched. "You crude barbarian! Your brain must be the size of a walnut. I will say it again—he is mine!"
The two continued bickering relentlessly, like hounds snarling over a bone that neither truly needed, but both refused to surrender. The scene would have been comical if not for the tension simmering beneath it.
Jaime and Corleone exchanged a long-suffering glance—equal parts helplessness and amusement—and stepped forward.
"Yigo," Corleone said quietly.
Though the word was soft, the Dothraki immediately halted midsentence and stepped back half a pace to stand beside Corleone, silent and obedient.
Jaime placed his hand gently on Brienne's rigid arm, attempting to calm her, but she shrugged him off with force.
"I hit him first!" she snapped. "The knight's code is clear—the right of disposal belongs to the one who struck the blow!"
Corleone had originally been inclined to concede the matter as trivial. But as his eyes fell upon the man's mutilated face more clearly, something flickered in his expression.
"This man," Corleone said, voice calm but firm. "Give him to me. He is important. He played a significant role in our previous operation."
Jaime raised an eyebrow, surprised, but quickly nodded and turned to Brienne.
"Give him to him, Brienne," he urged. "He saved our lives."
Brienne turned sharply, ready to argue—until her eyes landed on Jaime's bandaged stump, wrapped with a ridiculous little bow. Her words dissolved on her tongue.
Corleone bowed slightly in gratitude, then instructed, "Yigo—take him. Alive."
Yigo obeyed without hesitation, hoisting the unconscious man and slinging him over a horse like a sack of grain—rough, but efficient.
"It's time to move," Corleone announced, clapping his hands in an attempt to disperse the tension. "We still need to reach King's Landing and collect my well-earned reward—preferably a bathtub full of gold dragons!"
Jaime chuckled, but the humor faded quickly as he turned to Corleone, curiosity sharpening his gaze.
"So, Vito," he asked, "how exactly do you plan to get me through the Northern blockade ahead?"
"You do know we're between Riverrun and Harrenhal—Roose Bolton's territory—with thousands of Northern soldiers in front of us?"
Before Corleone could reply, Brienne cut in with righteous indignation.
"I will take you to King's Landing, kingslayer! If necessary, I shall carve a path with my sword. That is my mission!"
She spoke with fierce conviction, as though attempting to re-establish her claim, her purpose, her usefulness.
Corleone regarded her with a level, almost pitying stare.
"One person against thousands?" he said coolly. "That is courageous, Lady Brienne. But courage alone won't get us five leagues before we die."
Brienne interpreted this as insult rather than caution.
"At least I can swear to protect the kingslayer with my life," she snapped. "I would never trust a man whose mouth drips only with talk of profit and gold dragons!"
Corleone's gaze sharpened.
Her character, he acknowledged silently, was admirable—but her stubbornness bordered on foolishness.
"And what about you, Brienne of Tarth?" he asked quietly, but with lethal precision.
"You swore to protect Renly Baratheon. He died."
Brienne flinched.
"Then you swore to Lady Catelyn Tully that you would escort Ser Jaime to King's Landing to exchange him for her daughters. And what was the result?"
He leaned in, voice cutting clean as steel.
"If not for me—this man who talks of profit—you would now be bound like livestock, dragged to Harrenhal to be traded for coin."
"What protects your vows? Your sword—or merely your mouth?"
The words struck like arrows straight into the rawest wound in her soul.
Brienne's hand flew to her sword hilt.
"How dare you!"
"Stop, Brienne!" Jaime barked, gripping her wrist. "Drawing steel against the man who saved us—is that chivalry?"
Her chest rose and fell violently, eyes wet with a storm of rage, humiliation, and helplessness—a perfect pie chart of misery.
She tore her arm free and dropped heavily to the ground, hugging her knees like an oversized, sulking child, refusing to look at anyone.
Jaime sighed, neither comforting nor scolding her further, and returned his attention to Corleone.
Corleone ignored Brienne's dramatics.
"After Vargo Hoat captured you," he asked Jaime, "where did he plan to take you for a reward?"
Jaime frowned, then realization dawned.
"You mean… Harrenhal?"
Brienne shot upright like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
"I knew it!" she shouted, pointing defiantly. "You plan to take us to Roose Bolton for gold! You are no different from Vargo Hoat!"
Corleone didn't even bother to look offended.
Dealing with fools, he thought, was always harder than dealing with villains.
"If ransom were my goal," he said calmly, "delivering you and Jaime to Lord Tywin would fetch ten times the price Bolton could offer."
Brienne faltered, speechless, before muttering weakly, "Then why—?"
"We have no choice," Corleone replied. "Avoiding Harrenhal means circling around the lake. Three times the distance. Three times the danger. Even if we reached King's Landing alive, the war might already be over."
He fixed Brienne with a level stare.
"Either trust me… or leave now. Return alone to Riverrun and tell Lady Catelyn you lost her final bargaining chip."
Brienne exploded.
She seized Jaime's arm and tried to drag him away.
"Come with me, kingslayer! This farmer is mad—we will die if we follow him!"
But Jaime braced himself and did not move, despite her superior strength.
Brienne turned, confused, only to feel Jaime's remaining hand close gently around her arm.
"I trust him, Brienne," Jaime said quietly.
"He is my friend."
"Just like you."
The words struck harder than any blade.
Brienne froze—eye
s wide, breath caught—then violently tore her arm free as though burned.
"He is not my friend, kingslayer," she said coldly.
"And neither are you."