Corleone walked toward the edge of the camp with his medical bag in hand. Two Brave Companions standing guard stepped in front of him at once, their posture tense.
"This is Captain Vargo's order."
Before they could question him, Corleone lifted his chin, adopting a haughty expression borrowed entirely from the authority of others.
"I'm here to treat the Kingslayer. If he dies on the way to Harrenhal, not a single Golden Dragon will end up in your pockets."
The two guards exchanged a look, grimaced, and grudgingly stepped aside. Their glares followed him like gnats.
A damned farmer, acting high and mighty?
If not for Vargo's orders, we'd gut you right here.
Under their watchful eyes, Corleone strode up to Jaime, crouched down, and started unwrapping the bandages around the mangled stump.
"The treatment worked. The rot hasn't spread much further, but the dead tissue needs to be removed soon. Otherwise you'll lose the entire arm."
He pitched his voice just right—loud enough for the guards to hear, calm and professional in tone.
Jaime kept his head lowered, his voice carrying a deliberate exhaustion.
"And if it's saved? What good will that do me? Will this arm ever hold a sword again… swing it the way it used to?"
He lifted his eyes slightly, a hint of probing in the emerald green.
Corleone worked quickly, speaking with quiet intent.
"At the very least, a clean wound won't throw you into a fever at midnight, only for you to die before dawn…"
Jaime's eyes narrowed.
He understood.
Corleone was telling him the moment would come tonight.
But instead of responding, Jaime breathed a soft, derisive laugh. His voice carried a trace of scrutiny and mockery.
"Even if you heal me, boy, don't expect gratitude."
"And once my father pays the ransom, I might just ask Roose Bolton to take your head. Casterly Rock's gold can't repay the price of my hand, but it can buy a little relief… like watching a nobody farm-doctor bleed out for my amusement."
"Let me guess. How many Golden Dragons would persuade the Lord of the Dreadfort? Five hundred? A thousand?"
Corleone didn't stop working.
Jaime wasn't warning him out of spite. He was warning him because this was simply who Jaime Lannister was—sharp, prideful, and brutally honest when cornered.
And Corleone understood him better than anyone.
Better even than Lord Tywin.
He lifted his gaze, calm and steady, and met Jaime's searching eyes. His voice softened, carrying an uncanny certainty.
"A lion may be forced by circumstance to wallow in filth, staining its golden coat."
"It may kill intruders to defend its den, or bear the weight of terrible accusations to stop a greater disaster."
"But I have never heard of a proud lion willingly breaking the oath it swore. If that day ever came, it wouldn't be because the lion was petty, greedy, or cruel."
"It would only be because the choice before it was something far higher—something that mattered more than its own honor."
Jaime froze.
Corleone's words cut straight through him, as clean and precise as a surgeon's blade.
For years, all of Westeros had spat the name "Kingslayer." No one—not even the righteous Eddard Stark—had ever considered the possibility that Jaime's actions had been anything but selfish betrayal.
But this farmborn doctor…
He understands me.
Gods… he really understands me.
A surge of emotion cracked something brittle inside him. The anger, shame, and self-loathing that had dragged him down for so long buckled under the weight of that unexpected relief.
He stared mutely at Corleone, lips parting but unable to form a single word.
Beside them, Brienne looked utterly lost.
Her simple, straightforward mind could make no sense of talk about wounds, lions, and lofty choices. She couldn't connect it to anything real.
The same bafflement struck the two guards listening in. To them, it was nonsense. Nothing more.
At that moment, Urswyck's furious bellow cracked through the camp.
"Hey! You two, Timeon, Pyg!"
"Are you blind? Everyone else is working like they've plowed through an entire brothel! Get over here and push the damned wagon!"
The two guards hesitated.
"But… the Kingslayer and the woman…"
"I'll watch them!"
Urswyck stormed over, not a speck of mud on his clothes.
"Useless lot. This company's doomed without me."
Seeing his irritation, the guards didn't argue. They sprinted toward the bogged wagon.
Taking their place, Urswyck folded his arms and glared at Corleone and Jaime.
Without warning, he kicked Corleone hard in the shoulder, knocking him off balance.
"Quit dragging your feet. Get over here. I cut my hand pushing the damned cart, so check it."
He marched to a tree and sat down.
Corleone finished binding Jaime's stump with brisk efficiency. Then he raised his brows meaningfully and shot Jaime a look toward Urswyck. His voice dropped lower.
"Tonight, Ser Jaime."
"Remind me to change your dressing."
…
Carrying the medical bag, Corleone walked toward Urswyck.
There was no anger on his face from being kicked. He simply knelt, opened the bag, and pulled out clean cloth and a waterskin, as though tending to an actual wound.
"Your 'treatment' seems to be working. He's shaking in the saddle."
Urswyck scanned the area, his voice barely audible.
"But it's not enough. He needs to meet The Stranger before dawn."
He sounded desperate.
Corleone wet the cloth and wiped Urswyck's perfectly clean palm.
"He doesn't trust me anymore. He already ordered that Dothraki to cut my throat. I can't get near him again, let alone meddle with his wound."
"Damn it."
Urswyck's brow knotted. His whisper came out as a snarl.
"Then think of something!"
"Before sunrise, try one last time. Slip something into his food or water."
"And if that fails…"
A murderous glint sparked in his eyes. He snapped his teeth together.
"We strike first. We can't let Vargo reach Harrenhal alive."
He rambled through his reasoning, assuming Corleone's silence was acceptance.
"You."
Urswyck's gaze flicked toward Iggo, who stood near Vargo like a stone sentinel. His lips twisted into a cruel smirk.
"When the fighting starts, you get close and kill that Dothraki brute."
"He's Vargo's most loyal dog. He dies first."
"Me?"
"Kill him?"
Corleone pointed at himself, stunned.
Are you insane?
His arm is thicker than my thigh!
"Not willing?"
Urswyck sneered.
"You took my ten Golden Dragons. Earn them. Or I'll kill you right now."
Of course.
Corleone almost laughed.
Urswyck wanted him dead either way. This suicide mission just let him kill two obstacles at once—Iggo and Corleone himself.
But Corleone only let a troubled frown cross his face, his voice low and hesitant.
"If that's your decision… I'll try. But in the chaos, help me when I need it."
His apparent obedience pleased Urswyck greatly. A twisted smile stretched across his face.
He yanked his hand back and deliberately snapped, loudly,
"Get out of here! Useless fool. You can't even treat a scratch properly!"
Corleone packed up quietly and walked away.
But Urswyck, savoring his petty triumph, failed to notice the figure watching him from a distance.
Vargo Hoat.
And the look in Vargo's eyes was deadly.
He had seen everything.