Autumn in the Riverlands was always mud.
Even with the sun burning away the morning fog, the main road remained a churned mess of soaking sludge, dragging at every step the horses took.
By the time the sun climbed overhead, a wagon overloaded with stolen goods sank so deep into the mire that the entire column ground to a halt once again.
Seizing the moment, Corleone began changing Vargo Hoat's bandages under the watchful eyes of two Brave Companions.
Vargo slumped between two trees. One was an oak. The other… was also an oak.
The afternoon turned stifling and dull.
Down the road, Urswyck barked orders at the men struggling to lift the wagon free. Their shouted chants rang weakly in the damp air.
Hearing them, Vargo shivered. The dizziness washed over him again, stronger than before.
He felt something slipping away inside him—like sand draining through his fingers, impossible to stop.
The helplessness scared him more than any blade.
"Zollo!" Vargo rasped at his most trusted brute.
"Tell those fools to move faster! Stop dragging their feet like a whore after twenty customers!"
He wanted nothing more than to be behind Harrenhal's solid walls, where only Qyburn's treatment made him feel remotely safe.
The fat Zollo lumbered off with a grunt, leaving only Iggo and Corleone at Vargo's side.
Bloodshot eyes fixed on Corleone, Vargo lowered his voice, though his fury still leaked through.
"Why do I feel worse? What's wrong with my wound, doctor?"
"It isn't healing well, my lord."
Corleone stripped away the soiled bandage with practiced ease. The edges were streaked with a yellow-green stain.
He didn't hide the truth. His tone was crisp, professional, honest.
"The infection is severe. Far worse than expected."
"You useless quack!"
Vargo lunged forward in rage, grabbing Corleone by the collar.
"Are you even treating me properly?"
Corleone let just the right amount of exhaustion and hurt rise to the surface.
"My lord, I swear by The Seven, I've done everything I can."
"But you forced necrotic flesh back into the wound. And you drank while burning with fever. That's practically inviting The Stranger to your bedside."
"All I can do now is slow the infection."
"Slow it? You swore you could cure me!"
Vargo's cold laugh twisted into something murderous. He jabbed a finger toward Corleone and roared at Iggo,
"I've had enough!"
"Kill this charlatan! Now!"
Iggo did not hesitate. Silent and efficient, he drew the longsword Vargo had given him and stepped forward, subtly placing himself between Corleone and his enraged captain.
"Boss!"
Urswyck's voice cut through the tension at the perfect moment.
He had been watching carefully, and the instant he saw Vargo reach for his sword, he abandoned the struggling wagon and hurried over, plastering on a mask of concern.
"How are you feeling, my lord?"
"You look terrible. Perhaps you should rest?"
Vargo ignored the words entirely and snarled again,
"Kill him, Iggo!"
Iggo raised his blade and Urswyck stepped between him and Corleone, hands spread as if pleading for peace.
"Don't, boss! You still need a doctor. Even if he's not very good, he's better than any of us. Kill him now and what happens when your wound worsens on the road?"
He leaned closer, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper.
"If you ask me… wait until we reach Harrenhal. Let Qyburn take over. Then we can peel this fraud alive at our leisure."
He spoke with such earnest devotion, as though he genuinely cared for Vargo's wellbeing.
But his words only deepened Vargo's suspicion. His gaze darted between Corleone and Urswyck, confusion bleeding into fury.
Urswyck—who delighted in cruelty—was suddenly desperate to protect this quack?
The fever swirled through Vargo's skull, thickening into a red haze of betrayal.
"How long… is that damned wagon going to take?"
Grinding his teeth, Vargo forced himself away from the killing edge of his temper.
Urswyck winced theatrically.
"It's sunk deep! The mud's gripping the wheel tighter than that Tarth woman's maidenhood. Could take a while. Maybe until nightfall—"
"Then why the hell… are you standing here talking!"
Vargo's roar cracked like a whip.
"Get back there! Or do you plan for us to spend the winter in this gods-forsaken forest?"
Urswyck froze, fingers tightening around his sword hilt—then forced out a grin.
"I'm going, boss!"
He could no longer stall.
As he turned away, he shot Corleone a long, pointed look—take care of yourself.
Corleone inclined his head ever so slightly.
Unfortunately for him, Vargo saw it clearly.
His certainty solidified like ice.
This damned quack had already joined hands with Urswyck.
What were they planning?
Vargo narrowed his eyes, lips curling into a chilling smile.
"So then, doctor…"
His voice dropped low.
"What do you think I should do now?"
"My recommendation, my lord?"
Corleone met his gaze without fear and spoke with firm sincerity—an answer Vargo had not anticipated.
"You should abandon the heavy baggage and take only me and Iggo. Ride hard for Harrenhal."
"The infection is advancing too quickly. If we hurry, we may still reach proper treatment in time to stop it."
Vargo said nothing. His stare grew colder by the second.
He had expected Corleone to follow Urswyck's suggestion and stall for time.
Instead…
He wants to separate me from the others?
So he and Urswyck can split the loot behind my back?
Pathetic.
Not even the courage to start a proper rebellion—just petty greed.
He was convinced now.
But killing Corleone outright would force a confrontation with Urswyck. Cornering a dog always risked a bite.
A new idea slowly formed in Vargo's mind.
He stopped looking at Corleone altogether, as though the man were already dead, and waved a hand dismissively.
"Your medical skill is clearly useless."
"Get out of my sight."
He jabbed toward the prisoners.
"Maybe you can try treating the Kingslayer. If you kill him… ha!"
Corleone quietly packed up his tools. He hesitated, as if wanting to speak, but chose silence.
Under Iggo's watchful eye, he turned toward Jaime and Brienne. The shadows beneath the trees hid half his face—and the faint curve at the corner of his mouth.
A doomed man cannot be persuaded.
As a doctor, he'd given Vargo the best possible advice. If the patient refused to listen, there was nothing left to do.
The doctor-patient struggle was always messy—Westeros was no exception.
Under the oaks, Vargo watched Corleone's back retreat into the shifting shade. Cold light flickered in his eyes.
After a moment's thought, he jerked his chin at Iggo.
The Dothraki bent down so Vargo could whisper in his ear.
"Keep your eyes on that quack. And…"
"Quietly alert Zollo, Timeon, and Pyg."
"Tonight, find a chance to kill Urswyck—and those three new recruits."