Their voices echoed across the muddy road of the Riverlands. The Brave Companions bellowed the song at the top of their lungs, twisting the lyrics into something vulgar and crude, howling with laughter at their own filth.
Vargo Hoat led the charge, roaring along despite the throb at his torn ear and the fog clouding his skull. Looting the farm and the promise of a hefty ransom had put him in fine spirits.
The air practically hummed with celebration.
Every horse carried silverware, food, clothing, and whatever else they'd plundered along the way. To them, war wasn't suffering. War was a feast the gods had laid before them.
Behind the rowdy escort, the noise wormed its way into Jaime Lannister's ears. He lifted his head slightly, his voice dry and mocking.
"If Robert Baratheon were still alive, he'd fit right in with these louts."
"The great king so fat he could barely mount a horse, always singing this tune after whoring or drinking."
Even with a hand gone, his pride trampled and his honor dragged through the mud like filth, Jaime's tongue remained as sharp as ever.
Brienne frowned. Captive or not, she clung fiercely to her sense of duty. She still bristled whenever someone mocked a dead king.
"His Grace was a powerful warrior," she insisted stiffly. "He defeated Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in single combat and won the war."
"Heh. If I hadn't killed the Mad King, he would've inherited a pile of ashes."
Jaime snorted. Brienne blinked in confusion, and he quickly veered away from the subject, muttering,
"A king who ends up too drunk to stand, gutted by a boar in the woods. Quite fitting, isn't it?"
"Just like us. The glorious Kingsguard and the Maid of Tarth, dragged like animals by this rabble."
"We're here because we were outnumbered, Kingslayer," Brienne said. "That isn't shameful."
"Oh, outnumbered…"
Jaime tilted his head back, voice suddenly wistful.
"Barristan, that old knight, once rode alone into ten thousand enemies and cut off Maelys the Monstrous' head."
"If I hadn't rotted in Riverrun all this time, if my sword arm wasn't weak and rusted… these rats wouldn't stand a chance even if they came at me together."
He clenched his jaw, frustration simmering under his skin.
Even as the youngest Kingsguard knight in history, Jaime had never doubted his own skill.
Brienne almost responded with a cutting remark, but when her eyes fell on the stump of Jaime's missing hand—cut off because he had tried to save her—she swallowed her words.
She took a slow breath and glanced toward the front of the column.
At the calm figure riding ahead.
"You shouldn't have worked with him," she said quietly. "That man Corleone… he could have remained innocent. Yet he chose to aid these people. He betrayed his farm and his lord."
"Traitors shouldn't be trusted."
"Trusted?"
Jaime let out a soft laugh.
"Here, trust is rarer than Valyrian Steel. And don't forget, my dear lady, you're sitting behind the Kingslayer himself."
But he glanced forward again.
"I don't need to trust him."
"I just need to know what he wants. And I'm certain he wants far more than survival."
"This morning… just standing there, he looked more like a lion than any Lannister I've ever known. He even reminded me of…"
He stopped mid-sentence as Iggo rode toward them.
"Shut your mouths," Iggo barked. "You, and you, cow. Unless you want to be dragged behind the horses."
Before Jaime could retort, Iggo rammed the end of his scabbard into Jaime's ribs.
"Ugh…" Jaime bent forward with a hiss of pain but refused to make another sound.
Brienne glared at Iggo, fury sparking in her eyes.
But before she could speak, another voice cut her off.
"Hey! Easy, you Dothraki brute!"
Urswyck barreled over, shoving Iggo's horse aside.
"Don't damage him! Whether it's the King in the North or Lord Tywin Lannister, they want the Kingslayer alive. Alive means Golden Dragons, remember? Dead means nothing!"
Iggo shot Urswyck a cold look, hand resting on his sword.
"Then keep a closer eye on the prisoners. If they run, I'll cut out your tongue to feed the horses."
The insult was blatant.
Urswyck's face darkened. His fingers brushed his dagger.
"What's that supposed to mean? Trying to cause trouble, Iggo?"
At once the nearby riders split into two groups, circling them. Just as Corleone had predicted, Urswyck's side held Rorge, Biter, and the newer recruits, while Iggo's flank held the older members loyal to the Brave Companions' original core.
The tension prickled like a storm ready to burst.
"Shut your damned mouths!"
Vargo Hoat reined his zorse around. His fever-reddened eyes glared between the two groups.
"Keep riding! Anyone who starts a fight, I'll carve out his tongue and drink with it later!"
He had sensed the division forming within the company. He knew Urswyck's ambition simmered just beneath the surface.
But his priority now was simple: reach Harrenhal alive.
Iggo snorted and kicked his mount forward, reclaiming the position between Corleone and Vargo, loyal dog once more.
Urswyck licked his lips, watching Vargo's wavering posture with growing hunger. But reason held him back. Not yet.
The riders separated and pushed onward.
Brienne leaned toward Jaime.
"Are you well?"
Jaime lifted his head slowly.
There was no anger in his eyes. No resentment.
Through the tangle of his filthy hair, Brienne saw something she hadn't seen in a long time.
Fire.
He bared his teeth in a feral grin.
"Well?"
"My dear Brienne, I'm better than I've been in months."
She stared in confusion.
But Jaime said nothing more. He only shifted his wrist, sliding a small curved blade into his sleeve. The cold touch of steel felt like spring sunlight on frozen skin.
It woke the lion inside him.
Instinctively, he looked ahead.
"Is it you, Vito Corleone?"
The thought struck him, absurd and impossible. Corleone was a lowborn farmer, a man who scraped by with a little medical skill.
Yet Jaime could find no other explanation for why a Dothraki warrior would intervene to help him.
Then, as he looked up, his heart lurched.
Corleone had turned in the saddle.
He was already watching Jaime.
Those dark eyes were calm and fathomless, as if he could see straight into Jaime's rising hunger for freedom.
Corleone raised a single finger to his lips.
A quiet gesture.
Hush.
Then he inclined himself in a short, elegant bow atop his ragged horse. It lasted only a moment, like a flicker of flame in the mist.
Before Jaime could react, Corleone faced forward again, swaying with the rhythm of the march as if nothing had happened.
The illusion faded.
But Jaime's grip on the hidden blade tightened, knuckles white.
That bow.
That confidence.
That presence.
He had seen lords, ministers, and knights all his life, but none of them carried themselves with such unshakable poise.
"Of course…"
He drew a deep breath, exhilaration sparking beneath his skin.
"Vito Corleone…"
"You're more of a lion than half the Lannisters I've ever known."