Uswik's pupils tightened sharply, like a hunting hound catching the scent of something unfamiliar. His grip on the dagger shifted, and he instinctively swept his gaze around the campfire-lit clearing before lowering his voice.
"What exactly are you trying to say, doctor… Vito Corleone?"
Corleone met his hostile stare without flinching. Instead of evasions, he spoke plainly, voice steady and composed.
"I mean that it's not worth it for you, my lord."
"Not worth it?" Uswik narrowed his eyes, interest piqued despite himself.
"Yes," Corleone said, taking a slow step forward. His tone wasn't loud, but it carried weight. "I heard that the Brave Companions, under Commander Vargo Hoat, traveled from the Free Cities to Westeros—just to seize Harrenhal for Tywin Lannister."
He paused, letting the name settle between them before continuing.
"But Vargo Hoat betrayed the Lannister garrison for the promise of being named Lord of Harrenhal, throwing open the gates for the northern forces."
Uswik gave a dismissive snort. The news had spread through the Riverlands like wildfire. There was nothing surprising about the doctor knowing it. And as a senior member of the Brave Companions, Uswik wasn't bothered by treachery. Their work had never been about honor. They were sellswords—profit, not loyalty, ruled them. Vargo's betrayal had been nudged along by several long-standing members anyway.
Corleone leaned in slightly, his voice acquiring a magnetic pull.
"With all due respect, my lord—who shed the blood? Who took the risks? Who did the dirty work?"
Uswik said nothing, but his jaw twitched.
"And when Lord Bolton distributed rewards," Corleone continued, "all the benefits fell to Vargo Hoat alone."
He shifted his tone—sharper, colder.
"'Lord of Harrenhal'—such a beautiful title, isn't it? The largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms. Vast fertile lands. Influence. Command."
His eyes flicked meaningfully toward Uswik.
"And what did you and your brothers receive? Empty praise? Or the privilege of torturing prisoners on a collapsing farm for amusement?"
Uswik's expression darkened, the blade in his hand tightening. Corleone's words struck the rawest part of him—the resentment he kept buried, even from himself.
The doctor saw it. And pressed harder.
"You, the deputy commander. You, who led men into battle. You, whose loyalty built this company. What do you have to show for it?"
Silence stretched between them.
Then Corleone continued, voice lowering like a devil whispering into the ear of a sinner ready to fall.
"The truth, my lord, is simple. And you already know it. It is not fair."
Uswik did not argue. He simply stared, muscles tense, mind turning.
Seeing the moment of hesitation, Corleone slid the final wedge into place.
"To tell you the truth, my lord… Vargo Hoat's good days are almost over."
Uswik's eyelids twitched.
"What do you mean? Wasn't the surgery a success?"
"Oh, the surgery was perfect," Corleone replied with quiet confidence. "My skill is unmatched. But he was already feverish before I touched him."
He spoke clinically, without emotion.
"I removed necrotic flesh. I stopped the visible decay. But it is like stamping out open flames while the embers still smolder beneath."
He shook his head slightly.
"He reattached his severed ear by himself—an absurd act. Infection was inevitable. And then he drank heavily while fevered. It is a miracle he survived long enough for me to intervene."
Corleone stepped closer, voice dropping lower.
"By tomorrow, his fever will return—worse than before. He will burn, babble, weaken. His vitality will drain away. But with his stubborn constitution, he may live long enough to reach Harrenhal."
"And there…" Uswik muttered. "The maesters."
"Yes. The ones Bolton left behind. And Qyburn." Corleone nodded knowingly. "Under their care, he may yet crawl back from death."
Uswik reacted instantly, roaring without thinking.
"He must not see Qyburn!"
Corleone smiled faintly.
"Exactly."
Then his proposal came—smooth, clean, deadly.
"We must let his life end naturally on the road. And I can control the process perfectly. A little impurity placed on the wound. Nothing noticeable. He will suffer persistent fever, like a gravely injured man. Then, one night, he will drift into death peacefully. Everyone will believe the wounds killed him."
He paused.
"No suspicion. No danger. Just… nature."
Uswik's breathing quickened, temptation glowing hot in his eyes.
"But there is one issue," Corleone added.
"What issue?"
"Fever," Corleone said simply. "When he feels his temperature rising and consciousness fading, even if he does not suspect foul play, he will assume the surgery failed."
"And?" Uswik asked.
"And the first thing he will do," Corleone said calmly, "is have someone twist off my head. I don't intend to die, my lord. And if I do, no one will be able to manage his decline. Our plan will collapse."
Uswik frowned deeply. He didn't care about the doctor's life—except now they were tied together. The doctor had framed it perfectly. His death would destroy Uswik's chance.
A long moment passed.
Finally, Uswik nodded slowly, a cruel smile forming.
"No one touches you until he is nothing but rot. After all… a company cannot be without a doctor."
Corleone inclined his head, satisfied. He had offered a temptation the ambitious could not refuse.
And then—he laid the crown jewel.
"Vargo Hoat will die within three days. And you, my lord—compared to dragging a corpse back to Harrenhal, there is a better choice. A shortcut to power."
He leaned close and whispered:
"The Kingslayer."
Uswik froze, eyes widening.
Corleone continued, voice silky:
"Remember—it was Hoat who cut off Jaime Lannister's sword hand. Not you. You can carry that goodwill directly to Tywin Lannister. For a father whose son has been maimed, that is a priceless offering."
He let the words settle.
"When the Lannister army retakes Harrenhal… who do you think will receive the title?"
The vision unfolded in Uswik's mind—a throne, a castle, land, legitimacy. Power beyond anything a mercenary could dream.
But after a long silence, he spoke cautiously.
"You are truly mad, Vito Corleone. But we only just betrayed Lord Tywin and defected to the King in the North. Will he believe us?"
Corleone stepped back, respectful again.
"Of course, my lord. Such a decision requires thought. Caution is wisdom."
He didn't push further. The spark was lit. More pressure would only trigger suspicion.
They stood in silence, the fire crackling softly between them.
Then Uswik spoke again, voice cold but trembling with ambition.
"Vito Corleone."
He raised the dagger and pointed toward Derrick, bound and trembling by the tree.
"You spoke much. But I have seen no guarantee."
"So prove yourself. Now."
Corleone did not flinch. He had expected this test.
He took the dagger and walked toward Derrick, the flames casting shifting shadows across his calm face.
"This is just business, young master Derrick," he murmured. "And in business, someone must pay."
With a swift movement—not to throat nor heart—he slid the blade into the precise gap between the carotid artery and trachea.
Blood poured. Derrick convulsed. His eyes bulged, mouth opening soundlessly. Then he sagged and went still.
Clean. Efficient. Controlled.
Corleone turned, returned the dagger, and stood as if nothing had ha
ppened.
Uswik studied him, fire reflecting in his eyes.
Then he smiled—a predator recognizing another.
"Very good, Vito Corleone."
"Welcome… to the game of power."