The cold morning mist wrapped the farm in a shroud of grey.
Vargo Hoat woke from his sleep, feeling a splitting headache and a burning sensation like tearing in his throat.
"Fuck..."
He cursed vaguely, his voice hoarse like scraping iron.
Every heartbeat tugged at the blood vessels in his temples, making them throb, and the wound at the base of his ear pulsed with pain.
"Drank too much yesterday..."
He instinctively blamed all his discomfort on the excessive consumption of cheap ale the night before, not attributing his symptoms to a fever.
After all, to resist the unbearable pain of the surgery, he had to drink himself into a stupor.
"Starting today... no more drinking!!!"
Slamming his fist onto the straw pallet beneath him, Vargo Hoat swept his cloudy gaze across the dim wooden hut.
In the corner, the doctor was curled up in a pile of hay, wrapped in a dirty fur, breathing steadily as if deep asleep.
His most trusted subordinate, Iggo, stood by the bed with arms crossed and back straight, very dutiful.
Seeing this silent Dothraki warrior, the unease rising in Vargo's heart due to his weakness settled slightly.
A man like him, who lived on the edge of a knife and dared to betray even Lord Tywin Lannister, kept a third of his guard up even when suckling at his mother's breast. But he had a strange trust in Iggo.
After all, the Dothraki's thought process was simply too pure. They only followed the strong, like a tamed hound.
However, Vargo didn't notice that Iggo's position was right between him and Corleone, and subtly closer to Corleone's direction.
Rather than guarding the Lord of Harrenhal, he looked more like a wall, intentionally or unintentionally separating Vargo from the sleeping Corleone.
"Water, Iggo."
Vargo spoke weakly, and a waterskin was immediately brought to him.
Uncorking it, he gulped down several mouthfuls as usual. The cold liquid rushed into his throat, but it irritated his windpipe like razor blades scraping through, causing raw pain.
"Urgh... cough cough cough..."
Before he could swallow much, he couldn't help but retch, followed by severe coughing.
After coughing for a while, Vargo wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and raised the waterskin again. This time, he swallowed in very small sips, looking as refined as a true noble.
Beside him, Iggo didn't speak, just watched him silently.
His gaze inadvertently swept across Iggo's waist, and Vargo's thick eyebrows knitted together.
"Where is your arakh?"
That Dothraki curved sword was brought over by Iggo from across the Narrow Sea. He had carried it for over a decade, never leaving his side. Iggo once admitted himself that a Dothraki's arakh was like an extension of their arm, but now it was gone.
"Broken."
Iggo answered, his voice steady, his face still devoid of any expression. "I threw it away."
"Hah!"
Vargo sneered, but immediately pulled at the wound on his ear, causing him to hiss in pain.
However, he didn't have any doubts. Iggo's honesty and straightforwardness had long stood the test of time. Since he said he threw it away, he must have thrown it away.
"I fucking told you before, those fancy toys of yours are only good for slitting throats. Useless against a fully armored knight!"
Vargo waved his hand, then generously unbuckled the steel longsword from his waist and tossed it to Iggo with feigned magnanimity. "Here, take it!"
"Maybe you're not used to it, but as my, Vargo Hoat's, 'Bloodrider,' just practice swordsmanship with me from now on!"
He deliberately used the Dothraki term, trying to reinforce the master-servant relationship between himself and Iggo.
He even teased actively, "I heard you Dothraki share everything with your Bloodriders, even your wives, right?"
"Some Khals do that."
"Good!"
Hearing this, Vargo Hoat grinned widely. "When we get to Harrenhal, I'll find a wife at the 'Red Mill.' After I'm done enjoying her, you can have a go!"
"Hahahaha!!!!"
Watching Vargo's boisterous manner, Iggo's fingers brushed over the cold hilt of the sword. He didn't speak.
He simply hung this weapon, which was completely incompatible with his fighting style, at his waist, replacing the position of the curved sword that had accompanied him for many years.
However, this silence was mistaken by Vargo as acquiescence, and his smile grew even brighter.
He said this deliberately. After all, having just undergone surgery and suffering from a hangover, he could become weak at any moment.
At this time, he had to gather all those loyal to him to prevent that ambitious Urswyck from suddenly causing trouble.
He also had to get back to Harrenhal as soon as possible and let Qyburn treat him properly.
A barefoot doctor he stumbled upon by chance, whether in terms of skill or loyalty, clearly couldn't gain Vargo's trust.
"Wake that guy up!"
He stopped caring about the weapon issue, pointed his thumb at Corleone, and urged, "Move fast. We need to cover a few more leagues before noon. Let's get ourselves some wives sooner!"
Only by returning to Harrenhal and having Qyburn confirm his ear was fine could he truly be at ease. Then... perhaps he could consider cutting out the tongue of this farmer-turned-doctor to prevent him from blabbing.
---
Creeaaaak~~~~
The wooden door was pushed open, emitting a tooth-aching groan. Damp, cold mist poured into the room, making Vargo shiver involuntarily.
Outside, most of the Brave Companions were already mounted. Fine beads of water condensed on their armor and fur coats. Their horses were laden with valuable goods looted from the farm.
The horses snorted, their white breath merging into the thick fog.
Even the two prisoners had long been tied securely to the same horse.
Brienne held her head high, her blue eyes staring straight at Vargo, burning with silent rage. Jaime, on the other hand, kept his eyes lowered. His long golden hair was plastered to his cheeks by dew and mud, seemingly indifferent to everything happening around him.
Everything seemed the same as yesterday, without any change.
Even Deputy Commander Urswyck, upon seeing Vargo emerge, immediately trotted over with a fawning smile on his face, looking somewhat comical.
"Boss!"
"Seven blessings, you look much better!"
His voice was exaggerated, but his gaze quickly swept over Vargo's slightly sickly flushed face and faintly trembling fingers.
Urswyck's smile grew even brighter as he reported loudly:
"The ravens were sent out before dawn, straight to Tarth. I believe it won't be long before that big woman's Lord father offers a mountain of sapphires as ransom!"
Knowing Vargo's complex feelings toward the "Kingslayer," he deliberately ignored Jaime.
Hearing this, Vargo Hoat looked around at his team. Equipment packed, prisoners under control, even Urswyck, the wild dog always sniffing around in the dark, was acting so submissive now.
All of this made him relax completely. It seemed even his physical weakness had lessened significantly.
Seems this farmer doctor really has some skill!
Wait until we get to Harrenhal and the King in the North gets the news that I captured the Kingslayer. By then, that guy Roose Bolton will have to look at me with new respect!
Thinking this, the alcohol from last night's hangover rushed to his head again, temporarily suppressing his physical discomfort.
He grinned, revealing his crooked yellow-black teeth. taking two steps forward, he mounted his zebra, tried to steady his swaying body, and waved his arm triumphantly:
"Move out! Back to Harrenhal!"
"Damn, this fog is thick. Keep your eyes peeled, all of you!"
Under the commander's order, the team began to move slowly. The clashing of metal and the sound of hooves trampling mud seemed particularly dull.
Vargo Hoat took the lead, maintaining his unshakable leader's posture. He didn't look back, nor did he see the flash of sinister malice in Urswyck's eyes.
On horseback, the tightly bound Jaime Lannister looked up slightly. Through his dirty hair, an emerald eye like a lion's revealed itself, looking at the person who walked out of the wooden hut last.
Sensing his gaze, Corleone looked up as well, their sights meeting in the air.
The farmer doctor didn't respond. He simply calmly took a Gold Dragon from his tunic, flicked his finger, and the gold tumbled up and down in the air, reflecting the morning light piercing through the mist.
The one-armed knight's pupils constricted slightly. After a moment of silence, he lowered his head again, re-hiding himself behind that dirty golden hair.
Only Brienne beside him vaguely sensed that her companion's breathing, originally calm as stagnant water, seemed to become slightly rapid.
It wasn't fear or weakness. It was more like a lion that had been imprisoned for a long time, lurking in the shadows, finally catching the scent of prey, suppressing the restless anticipation in its heart.
The team gradually moved away, the hoofbeats and noise dissipating, leaving only the deathly silent farm.
On the scattered apple trees, the hanging corpses swayed and rotated gently in the morning breeze, like ripe fruits.
And among all the fruits, the most striking one was a corpse that appeared fresh and wetly crimson all over.
Clearly, he had been flayed completely from head to toe.
The muscle fibers exposed to the damp air were clearly visible. Although the face was unrecognizable, the bloodstained leather sash at the waist showed that he was once the most powerful man on this farm.