Jaime Lannister.
The eldest son of Lord Tywin. A knight of the Kingsguard. The infamous Kingslayer. A golden-haired legend whose reputation stretched from the Red Keep to the furthest points of the North. And, of course, the man whispered about for sharing a bed with his own sister.
If the prisoner below truly was the one-handed Jaime Lannister, then the tall armored figure bound beside him could only be Brienne of Tarth—mockingly known across the realm as "Beauty."
Corleon watched from the high branch where he was tied, trying to calm his thoughts. The man leading the mounted party introduced himself loudly:
"My name is Walton 'Iron Leg,' ser!"
The rider atop the dappled horse smiled broadly. "Everyone loyal to the King in the North knows me. I am the captain of Lord Bolton's guard."
"Good day, Ser Walton," the steward of the farm replied, visibly relaxing.
After all, it was hard not to recognize Jaime—his shining golden hair was far too distinctive, even matted with mud. If these men were allies of their liege lord, then the situation, though inconvenient, was at least safe.
Still, the steward attempted to set boundaries.
"I regret to say the apples are not ripe yet," he said cautiously, "but we can provide food and water for you and your men."
He gestured around the orchards. "Shadowcats have been prowling lately. Traveling at night may be dangerous. If you move quickly, you can return to the road before dark…"
The steward was no amateur. He had managed the estate of Ser Finn for more than a decade. He understood how to navigate outsiders—especially armed ones.
Northern soldiers marching south often took what they wanted. But allies, at the very least, were expected to restrain themselves.
The war had dragged on for over a year, and since Ser Finn had been called to Riverrun by Lord Edmure, the steward bore full responsibility for protecting his master's lands. He could not afford reckless generosity.
But upon hearing they would receive food and water, "Ser Walton" grinned widely.
"Excellent!"
He turned to his men and shouted, "I told you all—Ser Finn is a generous man! We'll rest here tonight and set off tomorrow!"
A chorus of crude cheers erupted.
The men marched forward without hesitation, pushing past the steward and moving toward the center of the farm as though they owned it.
The steward's expression darkened.
These ruffians…
He had intended to provide hard bread and send them away. Instead, they had seized the opportunity and now demanded lodging as well.
He opened his mouth to argue, but one glance at the fifty armed men before him—and then at the mere two guards he had—froze the words in his throat.
There was no help to call. The orchards stretched several miles, and the castle was far too distant for reinforcements to arrive in time.
He swallowed his anger and whispered urgently to a guard:
"Go. Escort young Master Derek back to the castle immediately. Quietly—and pray these Northmen do not notice."
He clenched his jaw.
"Damn it… I should never have brought him here today."
The guard nodded, slipping away toward a wooden hut.
But before he took more than a few steps, Corleon—still hanging from the apple tree—saw the leader suddenly raise a fist.
A signal.
Corleon froze.
Something is wrong!
He scrambled through his memories—memories from another life—memories of the story he had once read.
And then his eyes widened.
That man is NOT Walton "Iron Leg"!
He had no time to shout.
The hand dropped.
In an instant, the mounted soldiers who had been walking innocently drew their weapons and slashed at the steward and the guard beside him!
Everything happened too fast.
The steward's irritation had not even faded from his face before both he and the guard had their throats cut open, collapsing lifelessly to the dirt.
The remaining guard turned, startled by the noise—but a morningstar crushed his skull before he could scream.
The rest of the armed riders scattered into the orchards, hunting the hired workers like prey.
Shouts turned to screams. Steel glinted among the branches. Horses trampled fleeing men.
"What are you doing, Vargo Hoat!" Brienne shouted furiously.
Her voice trembled with disbelief and outrage.
"He agreed to give you food and water! You swore allegiance to the King in the North—why would you slaughter innocent people!?"
"Shut up, bitch!"
She received a brutal punch across the face, knocking her from her mount. Still bound to Jaime, she dragged him down with her. Both crashed into the mud.
The man posing as Walton dismounted, kicking them ruthlessly as he snarled:
"If your Earl father doesn't bring a mountain of sapphires for your ransom, I'll have every soldier in Harrenhal line up and take a turn with you!"
After several vicious blows, he finally stopped and remounted his horse.
He rode forward, hooves trampling the steward's corpse, laughing madly.
"I am the Earl of Harrenhal! The Earl wants apples—and by the gods, he'll have his damned apples today!"
Corleon hung helplessly, heart racing.
He remembered now.
This was Vargo Hoat—leader of the Brave Companions.
Not soldiers.
Not bannermen.
Bandits. Torturers. Monsters.
They had first served Tywin Lannister, then betrayed him and defected to Robb Stark—receiving Harrenhal as reward. But titles had not changed their nature.
They remained beasts.
No one on the farm would live.
Not the workers.
Not the guards.
Not Jaime.
Not Brienne.
Not Corleon.
His skill—powerful though it was—could only be used once every seven days. And there were more than a dozen nearby foes.
As he struggled, Vargo Hoat plucked an apple, spotted him, and rode closer.
"Look what I found!" Hoat exclaimed mockingly. "A roasted suckling pig!"
Two more riders joined him, circling Corleon with amusement.
"Looks like a fellow who messed up," one remarked. "Fair skin, though. If he were younger, Urswyck might like him."
The other snorted. "Urswyck the freak only likes babes. Won't look at anyone over twelve. Picked up the habit when he was a septon!"
The first man shrugged, drew a dagger, and stepped closer.
"Looks like he's useless, then. Let's kill him."
Neither Hoat nor the other rider objected.
They planned to leave no witnesses.
Corleon clenched his jaw, preparing to activate his skill and at least take one man down with him.
Then he noticed something—the bandaged ear beneath Vargo Hoat's greasy hair.
An infection.
A memory surfaced—one that did not belong to this world, yet was now his.
He shouted desperately:
"Wait! WAIT!"
All three paused.
"I am a healer, my lord! I can treat your ear!"
Hoat did not even look convinced. Men facing death always lied.
The dagger came closer.
Corleon shouted louder:
"Your ear is festering! If it isn't disinfected, you will develop a fever and DIE within two days!"
The blade hovered a breath away from his ribs.
A flash of white light streaked downward.
Clang!
The dagger dropped to the dirt.
Hoat leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing.
"You better not be lying, boy."
He pressed the point of his longsword against Corleon's stomach.
"Otherwise, I'll have Urswyck make an exception…"
"Of course, my lord!" Corleon gasped in relief. "I swear by the Seven—if I cannot heal your ear, may I be cast into the Seven Hells!"
"Yo
u don't need to swear."
Hoat sheathed the blade and bit into the apple.
Juice dribbled down his beard.
Then his expression twisted, and he spat violently.
"Pah!"
"These apples are bloody unripe!"