Thanks to Urswyck's brilliant efficiency, the sun had fully set before the wagon was finally declared immovable. The Brave Companions had no choice but to make camp right there on the muddy Riverlands road.
The fires crackled, spitting sparks into the dark, while the air filled with the stink of sweat, cheap ale, and half-burnt meat.
Vargo Hoat slumped beneath a crooked tree just beyond the firelight, wrapped in a stolen blanket. The flames painted his flushed, feverish face an unhealthy red.
His dull eyes drifted across the rowdy camp, lingering on Urswyck's false grin before sliding toward Iggo's silent, vigilant presence beside him.
"Is everything set?"
"I told Zollo and the others. The moment they hear someone shout 'Long live the Brave Companions,' they charge in and cut down Urswyck and his men."
Iggo nodded once, then added plainly, "I didn't tell the rest. They can't be trusted."
Vargo's lips curled in satisfaction.
"Always reliable, aren't you? Once we deal with these problems and make it back to Harrenhal, you'll be my lieutenant. Whatever I have, you'll have."
His generous promise earned only silence.
Vargo felt a pinch of awkwardness. Iggo had many strengths, but flattery wasn't one of them. Loyal and dependable, yes. But a little charm wouldn't hurt.
Urswyck, for instance—say something like this to him, and he'd immediately ramble about:
"Boss, my respect for you flows longer than the Blackwater Rush, swells greater than the floods of the Green Fork…"
Annoying, yes, but at least it filled the air.
Iggo's silence was… effective. But a man could miss a bit of empty noise.
…
The noise around the fire grew louder. The Brave Companions drank and jeered, with a few fringe members already drunk enough to start singing.
Urswyck laughed loudly as he clinked cups with the men, but his eyes never left Vargo's direction.
The instant he saw Vargo and Iggo whispering together, his heart lurched.
They're planning something.
They have to be.
He raised a stolen cup of farm wine to his lips, pretending to sip, and quietly spat it out behind him.
Then, subtle as shadow, he signaled Rorge.
Rorge staggered forward, weaving through the crowd like a drunk man. He made a show of fumbling with his belt as if about to piss against a tree. Instead, he veered directly toward Corleone, who stood alone at the outskirts, leaning against the trunk in solitude.
As he passed, Rorge "accidentally" rammed into him.
"Watch where you're going, idiot!"
His slurred roar drew no suspicion. But in that brief collision, he pressed a small dagger into Corleone's hand.
"Hold this."
He leaned in close, breath suddenly clear and sober.
"When you hear 'Long live the Brave Companions,' get to that Dothraki brute and kill him."
The cold metal in Corleone's palm made him stiffen.
Long live the Brave Companions…?
So the captain and lieutenant did have matching signals?
But he masked his surprise, letting the dagger slide into his wide ragged sleeve. He forced a fearful smile.
"Please… look out for me, Ser Rorge. I might not be able to handle him…"
"The Seven will bless you, boy."
Rorge snorted. Now that Corleone was considered disposable, his tone had turned downright dismissive. He clapped Corleone's shoulder with fake friendliness, then reeled away, disappearing back into the laughing crowd.
The bonfire roared higher. Drunken songs twisted into strange, off-key wailing. Lewd jokes scattered like sparks.
But neither faction drank much. Both sides watched each other with hidden malice, masking their tension beneath a thin veneer of celebration.
Vargo felt his strength draining with the fever. He knew the time had come for his final gambit.
"Urswyck!"
His voice wasn't loud, but every head turned.
Urswyck's laughter snapped off. He twitched, then forced his grin back into place. He waved for the others to continue and rose with practiced ease, one hand brushing the hilt at his belt.
"Boss, you called?"
Vargo didn't scold him. Instead he pointed toward a bare old oak at the edge of the camp.
"Over there. It's quieter."
Urswyck's eyes darted to Iggo, then to the divided camps of men. After a brief hesitation, he nodded.
"Sure thing, boss."
He put on a drunken sway and followed Vargo into the shadows. Iggo stepped to follow, but Vargo lifted a hand, stopping him.
The night air was frigid outside the fire's reach. Vargo shivered and wrapped his cloak tighter, leaning back against the rough bark of the naked oak.
Urswyck stopped a few paces away, arms crossed, face arranged in a look of concern while his eyes glinted with calculation.
He was clearly weighing the odds of killing Vargo right then and there.
But after a moment, he gave up the idea.
Vargo's skill with a blade was notorious. Even weakened, he wasn't a man easily killed head-on.
"Urswyck…"
After catching his breath, Vargo spoke at last, voice hoarse but surprisingly earnest.
"Remember the Stepstones? The storm nearly fed us to the sharks. And later in Qohor, you took an arrow for me when we raided that ship of silks."
The smile on Urswyck's face faltered. Old memories stirred. He said nothing, waiting.
"We fought our way from Essos to Westeros, my brother," Vargo said.
"For what?"
"Just to stand on solid ground at last. To have a place to belong."
"And now we have it. Harrenhal. Roose Bolton named me lord, but that title was earned by all of us, together."
He paused, watching Urswyck closely.
"Boss, you still remember all that?"
Urswyck stepped forward, slipping easily into his usual performance.
"Taking that arrow was nothing. Without you, we'd all still be rotting in some Essosi gutter!"
"To speak plainly, boss, my respect flows like the Blackwater Rush, it—"
"Enough."
Vargo had to look away to hide his exasperation.
He steadied himself, then drove on.
"The King in the North keeps winning. Most of the Riverlands is his. The war favors him now. We chose correctly."
"But Roose Bolton… do you think that flayed bastard will let us keep Harrenhal peacefully?"
"I've seen how he talks to Lord Tywin. If I die…"
His voice hardened.
"How long do you think the Brave Companions will last? Bolton will throw you to the lions the moment Tywin demands retribution."
Urswyck's brow creased.
And Vargo saw it.
The doubt.
The calculation.
So Corleone had been right.
If the North wins, Urswyck gains nothing.
If the Lannisters win, Urswyck gains even less.
Slowly, carefully, Vargo dangled the final bait.
"Don't be a fool, old friend."
"If I make it back to Harrenhal, the castle stays ours. Gold, women, power—everything I have, you'll share."
"Harrenhal…"
Urswyck whispered the name, eyes gleaming with naked greed.
The greatest castle in the Seven Kingdoms. Worth more than any title.
He hesitated for a long time, mind racing.
At last, he let the grin return to his face.
"You're right, boss. As I said… my respect for you runs like the Blackwater Rush. The Brave Companions are nothing without you."
He extended his arm.
Relief flooded Vargo's features. He clasped Urswyck's forearm firmly.
He had done it.
No blood spilled, no danger, no mutiny.
He had solved the crisis with words alone.
He truly was a brilliant leader.
He opened his mouth to suggest they return to the fire and celebrate together.
Then a scream tore through the camp.
…
"LONG LIVE THE BRAVE COMPANIONS!!!!"