Morning broke. A thin mist began to rise again over the River Road.
The camp was shrouded in the heavy stench of blood. The bonfires had long gone out, and the shouts of killing were no more. Clearly, the long-planned internal strife had ended.
Utterly bewildered by the sudden battle, and then subjected to the indiscriminate slaughter by Iggo and Brienne—two warriors of extraordinary combat power—almost none of the Brave Companions caught in the melee last night survived.
In the woods, the silent Dothraki moved swiftly, occasionally bending down to loot useful items from the corpses.
Coin purses, weapons, edible rations.
His movements were highly efficient, his face devoid of any expression, as if he were merely harvesting ripe crops.
Of course, Dothraki never farmed.
Brienne, on the other hand, knelt on one knee beside him, leaning on her sword, her forehead resting on the back of her hand. She was murmuring something, likely prayers from the Faith of the Seven involving the "Father" and the "Mother."
In the center of the camp, under a relatively clean oak tree.
Corleone held his small surgical knife, repeatedly searing it over a flame, then focused intently on treating Jaime Lannister's severed wrist.
Previously, due to limited conditions and the watchful eyes of the Brave Companions, the bandaging and treatment had been very rough—just trying to slow down tissue necrosis at the wound and brutally stop the bleeding.
Now, in this rare moment of calm, Corleone could finally display his true skills.
After the "experiment" on Vargo Hoat, Corleone's mindset had become incredibly steady. Even performing surgery in this germ-filled environment caused no ripples in his heart.
Perhaps some unseen force decreed that Ser Jaime Lannister should not die yet.
After all, having his hand chopped off, rolling in mud, and coming into contact with filth like horse urine and feces, the wound showed no signs of infection whatsoever.
Corleone truly couldn't explain this with science and could only attribute it to a miracle of fate.
The blade precisely cut open the blackened, festering flesh, removing the irreversible necrotic tissue.
His movements were methodical, exuding a sense of natural grace. His expression was focused, seemingly oblivious to the scattered corpses around him.
Only a certain someone silently endured the pain.
"Urgh! Aah!!!!!"
"Woo! Hoo hoo!!!"
Cold sweat covered Jaime's forehead. Even with his teeth clenched tight, he couldn't help but let out exaggerated cries of pain.
His remaining good hand dug deep into the soil beneath him, sand filling his fingernails.
"Relax, Ser."
Corleone didn't look up, his voice as steady as if discussing the weather. "Your screams are shriller than a little girl molested by a Septon."
"Oh, I almost forgot. Septons don't like little girls."
"Were you harassed by a Septon in your youth, Ser Jaime? Sigh, listen to me rambling. You are the eldest son of Tywin Lannister, Casterly Rock is your home. Who would have the gall?"
"Shut up, Corleone!"
Seeing Corleone cutting his flesh with a knife while constantly teasing him, Jaime sucked in a breath through his teeth and growled low.
This guy is a chatterbox! Why didn't I see it earlier!
"The knife isn't cutting you, of course you can make sarcastic remarks. How about we switch places and try... Aagh!!!!!"
Jaime retorted habitually, trying to fight the pain with sarcasm. However, Corleone made another cut, timing it precisely.
"Indeed, Ser."
Deftly slicing off a small piece of rotten flesh, Corleone didn't tease this time. Instead, he praised sincerely, "To endure such pain without anesthesia and not faint from it... I have to say, you are truly a tough man."
"At least compared to that Vargo Hoat, much tougher."
Hearing this, Jaime, who had been grimacing in pain, suddenly smiled happily.
Having his hand chopped off by Vargo Hoat was arguably the biggest loss he had suffered in his life. Hearing Corleone say he was stronger than that guy made him feel extremely gratified.
Neither spoke again. The surgery continued amidst silence and occasional cries of pain.
When the last bit of rotten flesh was removed and the needle and thread had perfectly sutured the wound, Corleone cleaned it again with boiled water and a clean cloth, applied honey, and performed the final bandaging.
His movements were gentle and professional. Finally, he even deftly tied a rather exquisite bow.
The scene, originally tragic and painful, instantly took on a hint of absurd comedy.
Jaime looked at the jarring bow on his wrist, the sweat on his face unable to hide his weird expression.
But he still grinned, though the smile looked a bit twisted.
"Your medical skills... are surprisingly good, Corleone. Just in terms of wound treatment, I feel even that old fossil Pycelle is inferior to you."
Jaime affirmed sincerely. His gaze fell on Corleone's bare neck, where no metal chain symbolizing knowledge hung, and he couldn't help asking curiously:
"As a farmer, how did you learn this skill?"
Corleone, who was packing up his medical tools, paused slightly. He looked up, meeting Jaime's emerald eyes, a meaningful smile appearing on his face.
"Everyone in this world has their secrets, Ser Jaime."
"Just as I never asked about your past, never asked why you ended up here, and never dug into the... secrets that belong to you."
"As a friend, Ser, I hope you can treat this hard-won friendship the same way."
Friend?
Jaime was stunned.
Looking at this "farmer" in ragged clothes but with a calm face and bottomless eyes, an extremely complex feeling welled up in his heart.
He had never met a commoner so articulate, whose words were filled with wisdom and power.
Nor had he ever truly felt someone sincerely wanting to be "friends" with him.
Did he have friends?
Presumably yes. As the eldest son of Tywin Lannister, the former heir to Casterly Rock, and a Kingsguard, various dazzling titles ensured Jaime never lacked "friends" surrounding him since childhood.
But he knew better than anyone that those fawning smiles and enthusiastic hugs were merely for the gold mines of Casterly Rock behind him, for his father's awe-inspiring power.
After joining the Kingsguard, he had briefly gained some friendships.
Ser Gerold Hightower, the "White Bull"; Ser Barristan Selmy, the "Bold"; and even Ser Arthur Dayne, the "Sword of the Morning," who had personally knighted him.
He had his sworn brothers, truly enjoying that hard-won friendship where he could treat them as equals and even entrust his back to them.
Or rather, comrades-in-arms.
However, this friendship didn't last long.
Only a few years later, war broke out. Sworn brothers left and died one by one.
Lewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry died at the Trident. Ser Arthur and two others died at the Tower of Joy.
Of the seven Kingsguard, only he and Barristan survived. However, because he killed the Mad King, he bore the name "Kingslayer" from then on.
Since then, Barristan refused to associate with him, even taking the lead in calling Jaime "Kingslayer" in public, severing the last shred of their brotherhood as White Cloaks.
Friends?
He was born into the wealthiest family in the Seven Kingdoms, possessing everything, yet friendship was incredibly luxurious to Jaime.
And now, in this place reeking of blood and feces, a lowly farmer-doctor of unknown origin was looking at him with those bottomless black eyes, calmly asking for an equal "friendship."
This was too absurd, wasn't it?
"Vito Corleone."
Jaime opened his mouth, looking at the other seriously. Exhausted in body and mind, he pulled the corners of his mouth into a smile that wasn't pretty but was sincere enough, then extended his remaining left hand.
"Allow me to introduce myself."
"Kingsguard—Jaime Lannister."