Morning mist crept back onto the river road.
The camp reeked of blood. The fires had long since burned out, the shouts and clashes were gone, and it was obvious that the carefully planned internal slaughter had finally come to an end.
Already stunned by the sudden outbreak of violence, and then caught in the indiscriminate killing by two overwhelming combatants, Iggo and Brienne, almost none of the Brave Companions who had been dragged into last night's melee were left alive.
In the woods, silent Dothraki moved swiftly between the trees, occasionally bending down to strip useful items from the corpses.
Coin pouches, weapons, and some dry rations that were still good.
His movements were efficient, his face completely blank, as if he were harvesting a field of ripe grain.
Of course, Dothraki never farmed.
Nearby, Brienne knelt on one knee with her sword planted in the ground. Her forehead rested against the back of her hand, lips moving in a quiet murmur. It was probably prayers to the Father, the Mother, or some other passage from the teachings of The Seven.
At the center of the camp, beneath a relatively clean oak tree.
Corleone held the small knife he normally used for surgery, repeatedly scorching the blade over the flame before focusing on Jaime Lannister's severed wrist.
Limited by the conditions, and with the Brave Companions watching like hawks, the earlier treatment had been crude. All he had been able to do was slow the spread of tissue death and stop the bleeding as roughly as possible.
Now, in this rare moment of calm, Corleone could finally use his real skill.
After his experiment on Vargo Hoat, his mindset had become unshakably steady. Even performing surgery in an environment crawling with filth, his heart didn't waver in the slightest.
Perhaps some unseen force had decided that Ser Jaime Lannister was not meant to die yet.
After all, once his hand had been chopped off, he had rolled in mud and filth, even come into contact with things like horse urine and excrement. And yet, the wound showed no sign of infection at all.
Corleone couldn't explain it with science. He could only attribute it to a miracle of fate.
The blade precisely cut into the blackened, rotting flesh, removing tissue that could no longer be saved.
His movements were methodical and steady. Every lift of the hand, every cut, carried a natural confidence. His expression was focused, as if the scattered corpses around him didn't exist at all.
Only one person silently bore the pain.
"Ah! Aahhh!"
"Ugh! Hahhh!"
Cold sweat drenched Jaime's forehead. Even clenching his teeth, he couldn't stop the exaggerated cries tearing from his throat.
His remaining hand dug hard into the mud beneath him, grit packed beneath his fingernails.
"Relax, ser."
Corleone didn't even look up. His voice was calm, as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. "You're screaming louder than a little girl being molested by a septon."
"Oh, right. I forgot. Septons don't like little girls."
"Were you harassed by septons when you were young, Ser Jaime? Though, come to think of it, you're Tywin Lannister's eldest son. Casterly Rock is practically yours. Who would've dared?"
"Shut up, Corleone!"
As Corleone kept slicing into his flesh while casually mocking him, Jaime sucked in air through clenched teeth and growled.
This bastard was a chatterbox. How had he not noticed sooner?
"The knife isn't cutting you, is it? Of course you can stand there running your mouth. How about we switch places and see how you like it… Aahhh!"
Jaime reflexively snapped back, trying to fight the pain with sarcasm. Corleone answered him with another cut, the timing maddeningly precise.
"That's true, ser."
He neatly removed a small piece of rotten flesh. This time, Corleone didn't tease him. Instead, he spoke with genuine sincerity. "Enduring this kind of pain without anesthetic, and not even passing out. I have to say, you really are a tough bastard."
"At least compared to Vargo Hoat."
Hearing that, Jaime's face, twisted in pain, broke into a grin.
Losing his hand to Vargo Hoat was the greatest humiliation of his life. Hearing Corleone say he was better than that man made his chest feel strangely light.
They fell silent after that. The surgery continued, broken only by the occasional cry of pain.
When the last bit of dead flesh was removed and the wound was perfectly stitched closed, Corleone cleaned it again with boiled water and a clean cloth. Then he spread honey over it and finished the bandaging.
His hands were gentle and precise. At the end, he even tied a surprisingly neat bow.
The scene, once filled with tragedy and agony, suddenly took on an absurd, almost comical edge.
Jaime stared at the awkward bow on his wrist. Sweat poured down his face, barely hiding the strange look in his eyes.
Still, he pulled his lips into a smile, crooked though it was.
"Your medical skill… it's astonishing, Corleone. Just in terms of treating wounds, I'd say even Pycelle, that old bastard, is a step below you."
He spoke with genuine conviction. His gaze drifted to Corleone's empty neck, where there was no metal chain to mark formal learning. Curiosity got the better of him.
"As a farmer, how did you learn something like this?"
Corleone paused slightly while packing away his tools. He looked up and met Jaime's green eyes, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips.
"Everyone in this world has their secrets, Ser Jaime."
"Just as I've never questioned your past. Never asked why you ended up here. Never dug into the secrets that belong to you."
"As friends, ser, I hope you can treat this hard-won friendship the same way."
Friends?
Jaime froze.
He looked at the man before him. His clothes were ragged, yet his expression was calm, his eyes seemingly bottomless. A flood of complicated emotions surged through Jaime's chest.
He had never met a commoner so clear-headed, so measured, whose words carried such quiet wisdom and weight.
Nor had he ever truly felt someone sincerely wanting to be his friend.
Did he have friends?
Perhaps he did. As Tywin Lannister's eldest son, once the heir to Casterly Rock, a knight of the Kingsguard, Jaime had never lacked friends growing up.
But he knew better than anyone that those flattering smiles and warm embraces were aimed at the gold beneath Casterly Rock, at his father's terrifying power.
After joining the Kingsguard, he had briefly gained something closer to real friendship.
Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull. Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold. Even Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, who had knighted him with his own hand.
He had brothers of the oath. He had tasted that rare bond of equals, people who trusted each other sincerely, who could even turn their backs to one another without fear.
Or rather, comrades.
But that friendship didn't last.
Just a few years later, war erupted. One by one, his sworn brothers fell in battle.
Lewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry died at The Trident. Ser Arthur and two companions fell at the Tower of Joy.
Of the seven Kingsguard, only he and Barristan survived. And because he slew the Mad King, he was branded forever as the Kingslayer.
From that day on, Barristan refused to associate with him. In public, he even took the lead in calling Jaime Kingslayer, severing the last fragile thread between them as white-cloaked brothers.
Friends?
Born into the richest family in the Seven Kingdoms, possessing everything, friendship was a luxury Jaime Lannister could never afford.
And yet, here, in a place thick with the stench of blood and filth, a low-born, mysterious farmer-doctor looked at him with those unfathomable black eyes and calmly asked him for an equal friendship.
It was absurd, wasn't it?
"Vito Corleone."
Jaime opened his mouth and looked at him seriously. Exhausted in both body and mind, he tugged his lips into a smile that wasn't pretty, but was sincere enough. Then he extended his only remaining left hand.
"Allow me to introduce myself."
"Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister."