Corleone watched as Jaime shed the gloom that had clung to him for days. In an instant, he seemed to transform back into the arrogant, carefree, and swaggering golden lion—the eldest son of House Lannister. Corleone couldn't help but shake his head with a helpless laugh and jab at him with playful sarcasm.
"You look awfully refreshed today, Lannister," he teased. "What happened? Did Roose Bolton arrange a full service for you to restore your spirits?"
He continued before Jaime could respond.
"I've heard there are several impressive brothels inside Harrenhal. I've visited before—twice in fact—and their skills are quite admirable."
He wasn't bragging. His predecessor really had spent months being frugal, eating poorly, going without comfort, just to save enough coins for a brothel visit. Even if it was only the lowest tier, it was still a luxury. That was just how men were—save where you could, but spend where it mattered. Starve if necessary, but never deny yourself the few pleasures worth paying for.
"After working half a year to earn a few coins, someone else earns the same amount just by opening and closing their legs," Corleone muttered internally. "Who can you complain to about that?"
"No, no, no, my dear Vito," Jaime interrupted, shaking his head vigorously. His grin was childish, smug, and irritatingly pleased with himself.
His emerald eyes drifted toward Brienne, who was awkwardly fidgeting in the dress she was forced to wear. Jaime winked and intentionally raised his voice so the entire training ground could hear him.
"My experience was far more delightful than those dull services," he announced dramatically. "Yesterday, I enjoyed a truly unforgettable mandarin-duck bath with a certain high-born lady!"
He smacked his lips in exaggerated appreciation.
"The sensation, tsk tsk… indescribably marvelous! All the exhaustion and misfortune of the journey washed away in an instant!"
Brienne's cheeks flushed crimson the moment the words left his mouth. Corleone instantly remembered that this scene existed in the original plot—but definitely not in such a vulgar form. Jaime was clearly exaggerating for sport, deliberately teasing the earnest and stoic woman of Tarth.
"Shut your filthy mouth, Jaime!" Brienne snapped, stepping forward with clenched fists. She looked ready to drag him from his horse and beat him into the mud.
More surprising, however, was that she had not called him "Kingslayer" once—not since the beginning of the morning.
Nearby, Yigo narrowed his eyes, his hand tightening around the hilt of the sword at his waist. His gaze flicked between Jaime and Brienne. The Dothraki warrior seemed to be debating whether he should follow tradition and challenge the blond man to a duel—winner claims the woman. But after considering it for a moment, he released the hilt and exhaled slowly.
Defeating a cripple would bring no glory. And winning by killing him would hardly impress the tall, powerful, bear-like woman he admired.
Jaime, meanwhile, laughed triumphantly, reveling in Brienne's flustered expression, as though he had won a glorious battle. Corleone chuckled as well, tossing in a few sarcastic remarks at the right moments. Somehow, the training ground—usually filled with bloodshed, tension, and scheming—felt relaxed and harmonious for once.
But that fleeting peace shattered beneath a roar of furious curses.
"You damned bastard! You sewer rat!" a voice bellowed. "I've finally caught you, you mangy dog!"
"Drag him to the stables!"
"I'll cut off his troublesome little thing and toss it into the trough! Let the warhorses chew it up and swallow it whole!"
Everyone turned at once. Roose Bolton's personal guard captain—Worton the Iron Leg—was marching across the training grounds with several soldiers in tow. They dragged a bound figure through the dirt. The man thrashed weakly, muffled cries escaping through a gag, but his wrists and ankles were tightly bound with coarse rope.
Corleone instinctively averted his gaze.
In wartime—especially under Bolton rule—brutality, torment, and private executions were routine. It wasn't his business. Interfering now, when they were preparing to leave, would be foolish.
But just as he began to turn away, Insight Lv1 triggered.
Corleone's eyes widened.
"Rorger!"
Jaime leaned closer. "Rorger? The surviving member of the Warriors' Group? Didn't you settle him in a room? How did Bolton's men get him?"
"Who knows?" Corleone muttered darkly. "This is their territory. Maybe they count every hair inside your underpants."
Jaime snorted. "Who wears underpants if they're proper? They're too restrictive."
Then he pressed further, voice dropping to a scheming whisper.
"That's your spoils of war. What do you say? Are we going to retrieve him?"
Corleone frowned, thinking rapidly. Rorger was useful, yes—but challenging Bolton's men right before departure was dangerously reckless.
After two seconds of internal struggle, he shook his head reluctantly.
"Forget it, Jaime. We're leaving soon. We can't afford—HOLY SHIT!"
"I get it!" Jaime shouted before Corleone could finish. With a reckless grin, he dug his heels into the horse's flanks.
"Hah!"
The warhorse neighed sharply and surged forward, mud spraying beneath its pounding hooves.
"Oh my god…" Corleone swore as Jaime charged ahead. "What the hell is he doing?! What does 'I get it' even mean?!"
But once Jaime acted, could Corleone truly abandon him?
"Damn it! Go!"
He sprinted after him.
Brienne and Yigo exchanged bewildered looks, but seeing both men move, they followed as well. Shockingly, Brienne—despite her dress—overtook both of them and even grabbed a rake from beside the stables as she ran.
A true warrior indeed.
Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
The thunder of approaching hooves echoed across the grounds.
Worton, kicking Rorger in the ribs between orders, turned in annoyance—only to freeze.
A massive warhorse bore down on him, barely three meters away, ridden by the golden-haired Kingslayer, who wore a terrifyingly gleeful smile.
"Isn't that my damned horse?!" Worton thought wildly—then terror swallowed all other thoughts.
Even seasoned warriors could not steel themselves against a charging warhorse at full speed. His legs turned to jelly. He could smell the beast's sweat and leather. His scalp tingled with primal fear.
"Gods above!" he cried, stumbling and falling backward into the mud.
"Leoooooo—!"
Jaime tugged sharply on the reins. The warhorse reared, hooves slashing at the air, then slammed down into the earth less than half a meter from Worton's face, showering him in wet dirt.
The iron horseshoes glinted dangerously, close enough to crush his skull with the slightest shift.
Worton blinked up, dazed, trembling, as Jaime looked down on him, resting lazily on the horse's neck,
brow raised, voice dripping with mocking charm.
"Yo," he said smoothly. "Did I frighten you, my dear lady?"