Mud splashed beneath the hooves of dozens of horses as the ragged column trudged across the soaked roads of the Riverlands. Overhead, low clouds hung heavy like wet wool, promising more rain but delivering only a dull, oppressive gray. From the center of the motley procession came singing—loud, crude, and off-key.
"This bear, bear, bear!"
"All black and brown, covered in fur!"
"Bear! Bear!"
The lyrics deteriorated further with every verse, slurred and butchered by the rowdy members of the Brave Companions. Their voices rose in drunken enthusiasm, transforming a bawdy tavern song into something even more vulgar. The melody staggered, but the laughter was real.
At the front rode Vargo Hoat, perched crookedly atop his zebra, swaying slightly from pain and hangover. His half-severed ear throbbed beneath a stained bandage, and fever simmered behind his eyes—but the farm they had sacked, and the ransom they were about to extract, filled him with coarse satisfaction. Silver gleamed from saddlebags, while bundles of cloth, stolen jewelry, and tools jostled against horse flanks. For these men, war was not hardship—it was hunting season, and the gods themselves were pouring wine.
Behind them, Jaime Lannister lifted his head at the sound of the singing. His once-golden hair hung in dirty ropes, and his clothes smelled of sweat, mud, and horse piss. His right arm ended in rough, rag-wrapped bandages where his hand had been hacked off. But even disarmed, even disgraced, his voice carried the familiar edge of mocking arrogance.
"If Robert Baratheon were alive," he murmured, "he'd fit in marvelously with this lot. Too fat to mount a horse, yet eager to sing this song after whoring or drinking himself senseless."
His tone was low, but every syllable held that unmistakable Lannister cynicism. Losing his hand, being marched through filth, enduring humiliation—none of it had broken the habit.
Riding beside him, Brienne of Tarth stiffened. She was bruised, exhausted, and bound, but clung stubbornly to her knightly ideals. Any insult toward a dead king—especially one she believed noble—felt like a stain she must scrub away.
"His Majesty Robert was a mighty warrior," she said firmly. "He defeated Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in single combat. He won the war."
Jaime snorted. "If I hadn't slit the Mad King's throat first, all he'd have won was a pyre and a crown of ashes."
Brienne turned toward him sharply, suspicion in her eyes—but Jaime shifted before she could press him.
"A king," he continued languidly, "who died drunk and disemboweled by a boar. Poetic, isn't it?" He let the words drip with irony. "Just like us. The noble Kingsguard and the Maid of Tarth—reduced to prisoners of these filth-smeared savages."
Brienne held his gaze. "We were outnumbered. There is no shame in that, kingslayer."
"Oh, outnumbered," Jaime repeated thoughtfully. "Once, Ser Barristan alone carved through ten thousand men and took the head of 'Savage' Maris. If my sword arm hadn't rusted during my stay in Harrenhal, these fools wouldn't stand a chance—even all at once."
He spoke through gritted teeth, resentment coiling within him like a waking serpent.
Brienne opened her mouth to challenge him—but her eyes drifted to his mutilated wrist. The memory of his hand falling because he spoke to save her silenced her. She inhaled slowly, steadying herself, and her gaze shifted forward—toward a calm figure riding ahead.
"You shouldn't have cooperated with him," she whispered. "That man, Corleone… he could have been innocent. But now he abets criminals, betrays his farm, his lord. Traitors should never be trusted."
"Trust?" Jaime chuckled, shaking his head. "Trust here is rarer than Valyrian steel, my lady. And lest you forget, you're tied behind a kingslayer."
Yet his eyes drifted ahead toward Corleone.
"I don't need to trust him," Jaime murmured. "I only need to understand what he wants. And I am quite certain he wants far more than staying alive."
He paused, voice softening with grudging astonishment.
"This morning, standing there… he looked more like a lion than any Lannister. He reminded me of—"
Before he could finish, Yigo turned sharply in his saddle and snarled, "Shut your mouth. No talking. And you, cow—unless you want to learn how it feels to be dragged behind a horse."
Without warning, he slammed the butt of his sword sheath into Jaime's ribs. Jaime hissed in pain, folding slightly—but refused to cry out.
Brienne glared, fury burning in her eyes.
But another voice interrupted:
"Hey! Go easy, you Dothraki brute!"
It was Uswik, riding up and shoving Yigo's horse aside.
"Don't break him!" Uswik snapped. "The King in the North and Tywin Lannister both want the kingslayer alive. A dead one gets us nothing. A living one is gold."
Yigo stared coldly at him. "Then watch your captives. If the gold runs off, I'll cut out your tongue and feed it to the horses."
In an instant, the company split—two factions forming like storm clouds. Behind Uswik stood Rorger, Fang, and other newer recruits. Yigo was flanked by seven or eight hardened veterans of the Brave Companions. Hands drifted toward hilts. Horses sidestepped nervously. The air turned sharp and brittle.
Then Vargo Hoat's roar cracked across the road like a whip.
"All of you shut the hell up!"
He twisted in the saddle, eyes bloodshot, voice raw and slurred.
"We keep moving! Any man who starts a fight—I'll cut out his tongue and drink with it!"
The threat landed. Slowly, the men backed off. Yigo snorted and returned to the front, resuming his place near Corleone with exaggerated loyalty. Uswik simmered, lips tight, eyes craving a moment not yet ripe. But he held himself in check.
The column stretched out again, marching onward. Rain misted, sweat stung eyes, saddles creaked. Jaime rode in silence, shoulders tight, breath shallow.
Brienne leaned toward him. "Are you alright?"
Jaime slowly lifted his head. Brienne expected bitterness or pain—but instead she saw something fierce, alive, electric. His emerald eyes gleamed beneath tangled hair. His lips curled into a feral smile.
"Alright?" he whispered. "My dear Brienne—I am better than alright."
Her confusion grew—but Jaime didn't elaborate. Instead, he flexed his left wrist and slid a small curved dagger into his sleeve. The metal was cold and smooth, and the touch ignited something in him—something sleeping, something dangerous.
His gaze flicked forward again.
Corleone.
Could it be? Impossible. Absurd. A farmer? A makeshift healer? A man with no banner, no lineage, no armor? And yet…
Just then, Corleone turned slightly in his saddle and looked directly at Jaime.
Their eyes locked.
Corleone raised a finger to his lips.
Shh.
Then—gracefully, elegantly, impossibly—he bowed from the saddle, a movement so refined Jaime had seen it only in royal courts and among old blood.
And then—it was gone. Corleone faced forward again, silent, plain, unremarkable. As though Jaime had imagined the entire thing.
But Jaime's pulse thundered. His fingers tightened on the dagger until his knuckles whitened.
That bearing. That poise. That quiet command.
"Indeed," Jaime breathed. "Vito Corleone."
Compared to his own kin—with their van
ity, incompetence, and entitlement—this man looked more like a true lion than any Lannister he had ever known.