Cold morning fog wrapped the farm in a sheet of dull gray.
Vargo Hoat woke with a jolt. His skull throbbed as if someone were pounding iron nails into it, and his throat burned with a raw, tearing sting every time he swallowed.
"Seven hells…"
His curse came out slurred and ragged, like metal scraping stone.
Each heartbeat pulsed against his temples, sharp and brutal, spreading outward until even the torn flesh behind his ear twitched with a deep, angry throb.
"Drank too much last night…"
His first instinct was to blame the cheap, bitter ale he'd drowned himself in. It never occurred to him that the fever had begun to take hold.
After all, he'd needed to drink himself senseless just to endure the agony of the surgery.
"Starting today… no more drink!"
With a groan, he slammed a fist into the hay beneath him and dragged his bleary gaze across the dim wooden hut.
In a far corner, the doctor lay curled under a filthy fur, breathing evenly as if fast asleep.
And standing by his bedside—rigid, alert, and silent—was Iggo.
Seeing the Dothraki eased something in Vargo's chest. For a man who'd spent his life licking blood off the edge of a blade and selling out even Lord Tywin Lannister without blinking, mistrust came as naturally as breath. But Iggo was different.
Dothraki thoughts were simple. They followed strength. Like a trained hound.
Vargo never noticed that Iggo stood between him and Corleone, closer to the doctor than to him. Not shielding Vargo, but subtly separating the two.
"Water, Iggo."
Weak as he was, the request came out thin.
A waterskin was in front of him instantly.
He tore it open and gulped several deep swallows, the cold liquid hitting the back of his throat like a blade scraping raw flesh.
"Gah—cough… cough…"
He gagged violently, hacking until tears pricked at his eyes. When he finally caught his breath, he sipped instead, slow and dainty like some nobleman at court.
Iggo watched him quietly.
Vargo's gaze drifted downward and stopped, frowning.
"Where's your arakh?"
The curved Dothraki blade was a relic from beyond the Sea, something Iggo had carried for over a decade without ever letting it leave his side. He'd once said a Dothraki's arakh was an extension of his arm.
Now it was simply gone.
"Broken."
Iggo's answer was flat. "I threw it away."
"Ha!"
Vargo barked a laugh, then winced as pain stabbed through his ear. He didn't question it, though. Iggo's honesty had been tested time and again. If he said he'd tossed it, then he had tossed it.
"I've always said those fancy curved toys are only good for slicing throats. Against real armored knights, they're useless."
He waved his hand, then unbuckled the steel longsword from his waist and casually tossed it to Iggo.
"Here. Take it."
"You may not handle it well at first, but as my bloodrider, you'll learn fast enough."
He switched to the Dothraki word deliberately, reinforcing their supposed bond.
He even smirked.
"I've heard Dothraki Khalasars share everything with their bloodriders—even their wives, isn't that right?"
"Some Khals do."
"Good!"
Vargo burst into crude laughter.
"When we reach Harrenhal, I'll pick up a wife. After I'm done with her, you can have your turn!"
He laughed harder, pleased with himself.
Iggo brushed his fingers over the cold steel of the longsword and said nothing. He simply hung the weapon at his hip, letting it replace the curved blade that had been his companion for years.
His silence only emboldened Vargo, who mistook it for obedience.
After the surgery and the hangover, weakness pressed against him from the inside. He needed every man loyal and tightly leashed if he wanted to guard against Urswyck's ambition.
He also needed to reach Harrenhal quickly so Qyburn could save his life.
A barefoot farmer pretending to be a doctor was not someone he trusted—not in skill and certainly not in loyalty.
"Wake him up!"
Vargo jerked his chin toward Corleone.
"Hurry up. We need to ride hard before noon. The sooner we get to Harrenhal, the sooner I get my new wife!"
Once Qyburn confirmed his ear was safe, he could rest easy…
and maybe cut out the doctor's tongue just to be sure he didn't run his mouth.
Creak…
The wooden door swung open with an aching groan. Damp fog poured inside, and Vargo shivered as the chill slid down his spine.
Outside, most of the Brave Companions were already mounted. Armor and furs were slick with dew. Their saddlebags bulged with everything they'd pillaged from the farm.
The horses snorted clouds of white breath into the mist.
Even the two prisoners were tied securely onto one saddle.
Brienne sat tall, chin raised, blue eyes locked on Vargo with mute fury. Jaime merely dipped his head. His golden hair hung in damp, muddy strands across his face. He looked indifferent to the world.
Everything seemed unchanged from the day before.
Even Urswyck hurried over with a smile plastered across his face, the picture of obsequious devotion.
"Captain!"
"The Seven bless you, you look much better today!"
His tone was exaggerated, but his eyes flicked quickly over Vargo's flushed cheeks and trembling fingers.
The smile on Urswyck's face grew wider as he announced loudly,
"The raven was released before dawn. Flew straight for Tarth. It won't be long before the lady knight's father sends a mountain of sapphires as ransom!"
Knowing Vargo's tangled feelings toward the Kingslayer, he deliberately ignored Jaime.
Vargo looked over his men. Weapons were packed. Prisoners secured. Even sneaky Urswyck looked obedient.
All of it soothed his unease. Even his fevered weakness felt lighter.
Perhaps this farmer doctor really did know something after all.
Once he returned to Harrenhal and delivered the Kingslayer to the King in the North, Roose Bolton would have to show him proper respect.
The thought made his head swim, warm and heavy, as last night's drink crawled sluggishly back up his skull.
He grinned, showing crooked yellow-black teeth, hauled himself onto his zorse, steadied his swaying body, and swept his arm forward.
"Move out! To Harrenhal!"
"And keep your eyes open, the fog is thick as piss today!"
Under his command, the column creaked into motion. Metal clinked together, hooves sucked at wet mud, and the entire procession seemed swallowed by the gray morning.
Vargo rode proudly at the front, never looking back.
He didn't see the brief flash of cold hatred in Urswyck's eyes.
On horseback, Jaime Lannister lifted his head.
A single eye peeked through the curtain of his filthy hair and fixed on the man stepping from the hut.
Feeling the gaze, Corleone looked up. Their eyes met.
The doctor didn't smile. He simply flicked a Golden Dragon into the air with a casual snap of his fingers.
The coin spun high, catching thin rays of morning light through the fog, bright flashes glinting off the gold.
Jaime's pupils tightened. After a heartbeat, he lowered his gaze again, hiding behind his matted hair.
But Brienne, bound beside him, noticed something.
His breathing, once flat and resigned, had changed—growing just a little sharper.
Not fear. Not weakness.
It was the coiled breath of a lion long caged in chains, scenting prey for the first time in ages, holding himself back from the violent urge to leap.
The column drifted away. Hoofbeats and voices faded into the fog, leaving the farm silent and still.
On the apple trees, ragged bodies hung like ripened fruit. Their corpses swayed gently with the breeze, spinning ever so slightly.
Among them, one stood out—a fresh, slick crimson shape.
His entire skin had been peeled away, clean from head to toe.
The exposed muscle gleamed wet in the cold air. His face was unrecognizable, but the blood-soaked leather belt around his waist made one thing clear.
In life, he had been the most powerful man on this farm.