The cold gray mist of morning wrapped itself around the abandoned farm, settling over the rooftops and clinging to the wet soil. The air was heavy, the kind that seeped into the bones and carried with it the scent of rot, damp wood, and the fading memory of smoke. Inside the dim wooden shack, Vargo Hoat stirred awake, his breath uneven and his body trembling with discomfort.
A fierce pounding raged inside his skull, each heartbeat tightening like a vice around his temples. His throat burned with a tearing, raw sensation, and when he tried to swallow, it felt as though iron filings scraped along the inside of his neck.
"Gods… damn it…" he muttered, the words rasping like metal grating over stone.
He winced and pressed his palm against his brow. Every small movement sent a sharp pulse of pain through the wound near his ear—freshly stitched, swollen, and still seeping warmth. He instinctively blamed the agony on ale, the cheap bitter brew he had guzzled to drown out the pain of the crude surgery the night before. He refused to consider that fever might be setting in.
He grimaced and forced himself upright with a groan.
"Starting today… I quit drinking," he declared with dramatic resolve, though even he did not believe it.
With a grunt, Vargo slammed his fist against the straw mattress, as if to emphasize his decision. His gaze swept the small shack through a haze of dizziness and fatigue. In the corner, the so-called doctor lay curled in a pile of hay, wrapped in filthy fur, breathing evenly as though he hadn't performed a brutal operation hours earlier.
Standing beside the bed, arms crossed and posture rigid, was Yige—his most reliable subordinate. The silent Dothraki warrior stood watch like a carved statue, his presence steady and immovable. Seeing him eased the creeping anxiety that had clawed its way into Vargo's chest during the night.
For a man who lived by the sword—who betrayed without hesitation, who trusted no oath, no lord, no law—Vargo possessed a rare confidence in Yige. The Dothraki were simple, he often reminded himself. They followed strength. They were loyal like well-trained hounds.
Yet Vargo did not notice the subtle detail: Yige stood not beside him, but between him and the sleeping Corlyon, positioned protectively closer to the doctor. He looked less like a guard for his commander and more like a barrier.
"Water, Yige," Vargo croaked.
The waterskin was handed to him immediately. He uncorked it and attempted to drink as he always did—large gulps, greedy and careless. But the cold liquid hit his throat like knives, and he choked, coughing violently.
"Cough—cough—damn—cough!"
When the fit finally eased, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and forced himself to sip more delicately, like a noble savoring fine wine rather than a mercenary gulping swamp water.
Yige watched him in silence, his expression unreadable.
Vargo's brow furrowed as his gaze drifted across Yige's waist—and then froze.
"Where is your arakh?" he demanded.
The curved Dothraki blade was more than a weapon. It was an extension of a warrior's soul, a symbol of identity and history. Yige had carried his for over a decade, never letting it leave his side.
"Broken," Yige replied, voice flat. "I threw it away."
Vargo snorted, but the motion tugged the wound on his ear, making him suck air sharply through his teeth. Still, he did not question the answer. Yige's simplicity had been proven countless times. If he said he discarded it, then he did.
"I told you before—those fancy toys are only good for slicing throats. Worthless against a real armored knight," Vargo scoffed, waving dismissively.
With a flourish meant to appear generous and commanding, he removed the steel longsword from his own belt and tossed it to Yige.
"Take it," he said. "You might not be used to it, but as my Bloodrider—Vargo Hoat's Bloodrider—you'll train with me."
He emphasized the Dothraki title deliberately, reinforcing dominance. Then, with a crude grin, he added:
"I hear some Khalas share everything with their Bloodriders. Even their wives, eh?"
"Some do," Yige answered.
"Well then!" Vargo barked, grinning wider. "When we get to Harrenhal, I'll find a woman at the Red Mill. After I'm done, you can have a turn!"
He burst into laughter—loud, wheezing, ugly.
Yige said nothing, running a fingertip across the cold metal hilt before fastening the longsword to his waist where his curved blade once hung. The weapon was ill-suited to his hand, to his stance, to his instincts—but he accepted it without protest.
Vargo mistook silence for loyalty, obedience, agreement.
Feeling newly emboldened, he jerked a thumb toward the sleeping doctor.
"Wake that fellow! We ride soon. The sooner we reach Harrenhal, the sooner I get myself a wife!"
In truth, he had far other reasons to hurry. Urswyck, his ambitious second-in-command, would not wait forever for weakness to show. The company was restless. The prisoners were valuable. And he desperately needed Qyburn—the only man he trusted to confirm that his ear would heal.
Once that was done… perhaps he would cut out Corlyon's tongue. A farmer should not speak too freely about noble matters.
The wooden door creaked open, letting in a surge of wet morning air that made Vargo shiver. Outside, the Brave Companions sat mounted, armor damp with dew, horses snorting clouds into the mist. Even the prisoners were ready—bound together on a single horse.
Brienne held her chin high, eyes blazing with restrained fury. Jaime, beside her, sat slumped, golden hair plastered to his cheek with mud and moisture, appearing indifferent, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
Urswyck trotted forward with an exaggerated, oily smile.
"Boss! The Seven bless you, you look much improved!"
His voice dripped with flattery, though his eyes flicked sharply over Vargo's flushed face and trembling hands. His grin widened.
"The raven went out before dawn," he announced loudly. "Straight to Tarth. The Earl will be sending sapphires soon!"
He deliberately ignored Jaime, knowing Vargo disliked discussing the Kingslayer aloud.
Vargo surveyed his men—their readiness, their obedience—and confidence flowed through him like strong liquor.
The farmer doctor might actually have skill, he thought smugly.
Soon, when word spread that he had captured the Kingslayer, even Roose Bolton would be forced to acknowledge him. Harrenhal would be his triumph.
He mounted his striped horse, swaying only slightly, and raised his arm.
"Move out! Back to Harrenhal!" he shouted. "Keep sharp! The fog's cursed thick!"
The company began to ride, hooves squelching through mud, metal clinking softly. Vargo did not look back—did not see the fleeting malice that passed through Urswyck's eyes like a shadow.
Jaime Lannister lifted his head ever so slightly, revealing a single emerald eye behind his dirty hair. He gazed at the last figure to step from the shack—the farmer-doctor.
Corlyon felt the glance and met it. He said nothing, simply drew a gold dragon from his pouch and flicked it into the air. The coin spun, catching the pale morning light.
Jaime's expression shifted—almost imperceptibly. His breath quickened, not with fear, but with something dormant and dangerous. Brienne sensed it too, faintly—like a tremor beneath the earth.
The company rode away, their noise fading into the mist until the farm was silent again.
On the apple trees, corpses swayed like rotting fruit, twisting gently in the wet breeze. Among them was one body more vivid than the rest—deep red, glistening, entirely stripped of skin. Muscle fibers gleamed wetly, exposed to the cold air. The face was unrecognizable, but the blood-drenched leat
her sash still clinging to his waist made it clear:
He had once been the most powerful man on the farm.