At the edge of the chaotic battlefield, Jaime and Brienne stood back to back.
Jaime's left hand tightened around the dagger, sawing at the tough rope until it finally snapped. Brienne gave a hard pull, and the bindings fell away.
They were free.
But the sight before them left them momentarily at a loss.
The camp had turned into a living hell. Members of the Brave Companions had split into several groups, hacking at one another in blind madness, no distinction between friend and foe.
Firelight leapt wildly, illuminating twisted, savage faces. Blood and severed limbs lay everywhere.
"Which side do we help?" Brienne asked.
Confusion filled her blue eyes. Faced with such utter chaos, even someone as formidable as her did not know where to begin.
Jaime flexed his newly freed left hand, his green eyes sweeping across the battlefield. He snorted.
"Who cares? Just kill whoever's in front of you."
"They're all bandits who deserve the seventh hell anyway. Cleaning them out might even freshen the air in the Riverlands."
Brienne nodded in firm agreement.
Before being kidnapped by this lot, she had seen and slain bandits and scoundrels before. Never once had she felt such disgust toward a group.
The Brave Companions were like every kind of evil in the world rolled into one.
Just as she was about to step into the fray, a burly figure in the melee stumbled and fell, landing right at Brienne's feet.
She looked down.
The two locked eyes, face to face.
"Waaaagh!!!!"
"Waaaagh!!!"
They both roared at the same time, but Brienne's shout was clearly louder and fiercer. She reacted instantly, throwing her powerful arms around his neck and locking in a rear choke.
The man was strong by any measure and thrashed desperately, but to his shock, he could not break free.
This woman's strength was monstrous.
Modern medicine might say it took thirty or forty seconds to choke someone unconscious, but this was a moment where every heartbeat mattered.
As they struggled.
Thud.
A dagger slipped cleanly through the gap in the man's leather armor and sank deep into his heart, ending the fight in an instant.
"Killing requires a weapon, my lady."
Jaime pulled the dagger free, wiped the blood on the corpse's clothes, and raised a brow at the slightly panting Brienne.
"Your method is far too slow."
Instead of gratitude, Brienne stared at the body, then at the dagger in Jaime's hand. Her brows knitted, disapproval written all over her face.
"That had no knightly honor, Kingslayer."
She pursed her lips, bent down, and picked up the longsword the enemy had dropped.
Before Jaime could argue, she let out another roar.
"Waaaagh!!!!"
And charged straight into the battlefield.
Clearly, being tied up for so many days had driven her nearly mad.
"Tch."
Called the Kingslayer, Jaime spat in irritation. He watched her back but did not rush to follow.
Did her head really have room for nothing but honor and duty?
Talking about knightly honor in a place like this?
What a joke.
Just then, a calm voice sounded above him.
"Don't play the hero. Just stay alive, Ser Jaime Lannister."
Jaime snapped his head up.
At some point, Corleone had climbed into a large tree behind him and now looked down from above.
Firelight cast broken shadows across his face, hiding his expression. Only the cold calm in those unfathomable black eyes could be felt.
"When time passes," Corleone continued softly, "being a hero… starts to look a bit foolish, doesn't it?"
His voice was not loud, yet it carried a strange persuasiveness, as if he were stating the simplest truth in the world.
Jaime paused, then let out a short laugh. His gaze shifted toward the distant shadows, his voice clear and resolute.
"I'm afraid I can't agree, Lord Corleone."
"Some things are worth doing even when you know they're foolish, even when you know they're impossible, even when you know you'll lose everything for them…!"
...
Beneath the oak tree, the fight was over.
Vargo Hoat spat out a mouthful of shredded flesh and gasped violently for air. Where his left eye had been was now nothing but a blood-soaked, empty socket.
He had won.
He had killed the traitor, tearing out the man's throat like a beast, but the price was one eye.
He staggered to his feet from Urswyck's corpse, his body dangerously weak. High fever and blood loss left him dizzy, barely able to stand.
Ahead, the camp was still filled with shouts and screams. Everyone had gone mad, slaughtering one another, swinging weapons at whoever stood nearby.
Watching the Brave Companions he had built with his own hands march toward self-destruction, Vargo did not step in to stop the infighting.
In his current state, he could barely protect himself. He no longer had the strength to suppress this rebellion.
Vargo stumbled toward the forest's edge. His gaze swept the ground, and suddenly he spotted his broadsword.
He bent down on instinct, but just as his fingers were about to touch the hilt, a mud-caked boot stamped down on the blade.
At the same time, a sharp, icy edge pressed against his neck, sliding under his chin and forcing his head up.
Following the blade upward, Vargo's lone remaining eye finally saw clearly.
Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer.
Somehow, he had acquired a longsword. His left hand gripped it tightly against Vargo's throat. Dirty hair clung to his forehead, and his eyes held no warmth in the shadows.
His tall frame was thinner after long imprisonment and injury, yet as he stood there, he was like an unbreakable wall.
Vargo froze for a moment.
Then he split into a grin, blood staining his teeth as he mocked him without a care.
"Well now, look at this. Isn't this our noble Ser Jaime Lannister?"
"What, decided you don't want the other hand either?"
His gaze flicked to Jaime's empty right sleeve as he tried to straighten up and project the authority of a captain. His unsteady swaying betrayed just how weak he truly was.
Jaime stood silently, catching the flash of panic that crossed Vargo's single eye.
"I have never seen someone as shameless as you, Vargo Hoat."
His voice was steady, like a sentence passed on a condemned man.
"People curse others and say they should go to the seventh hell, but I truly believe… that place suits you perfectly."
Vargo spat a bloody wad onto the ground. Malice gleamed in his remaining eye as he snarled.
"You're no better than me, Kingslayer!"
"You're a traitor. Your hands are stained with a king's blood. We're the same kind!"
"Go on, stab me! I'll wait for you in hell. There might already be a place saved for you!"
He roared, trying to summon bravado with a curse of mutual destruction.
Jaime saw through the hollow courage at once.
"Unfortunately," he said quietly.
The heir of Casterly Rock shook his head slowly, his tone carrying a solemn resolve, almost tinged with pity.
"I'm not as shameless as you, Vargo Hoat. Even when facing a vile creature like you, I'm willing to give you a fair duel."
Then, to Vargo's disbelief, Jaime actually stepped back and lifted his foot from the broadsword.
"Pick up the sword."
Jaime's voice rose sharply, a command.
"I said, pick up the sword!"
A/N: Don't forget to leave a review, it really means a lot!