Chapter 2: The Brave Companions
Jaime Lannister.
Lord Tywin's eldest son. A knight of the Kingsguard. The Kingslayer. A notorious "sister-collision specialist"…
In short, if that filthy, broken man really was Jaime Lannister with one hand severed, then the person bound to him could only be "the Beauty," Brienne of Tarth.
As for the leader of this so-called knightly band…
"My name is Walton, my lord!"
The man astride the zebra continued with an easy smile.
"Anyone sworn to the King in the North knows me. I'm the captain of Lord Bolton's household guard."
"Greetings, Ser Walton."
Hearing that the newcomers were aligned with his own lord, the farm overseer finally relaxed completely.
After all, the Kingslayer's signature golden hair was far too recognizable—even caked in filth, there was no mistaking it.
Still, he added cautiously,
"Unfortunately, ser, the apples aren't ripe yet. That said, we can provide food and water for you and your men."
"These days there have been shadow lynxes prowling nearby. Traveling at night may not be safe—you'd best move on as soon as possible…"
The overseer was an experienced man. Having managed estates for landed knights for over a decade, he believed he could handle these outsiders well enough.
Northern savages marching south for war would certainly pluck every feather they could—but as allies, they shouldn't go too far.
The war had already dragged on for over a year. Ser Finn himself had been summoned to Riverrun by Lord Edmure, and it was up to him to safeguard the estate.
Sure enough, when he heard that food and water were available, "Ser Walton" broke into a satisfied grin.
"Excellent!"
"I told you all—Ser Finn is a generous man. We'll rest here tonight and set off again tomorrow!"
He turned and shouted to his men, drawing a chorus of whoops and jeers in response.
The group excitedly headed toward the center of the farm, completely ignoring the overseer's steadily darkening expression.
Damnable thugs.
The overseer cursed inwardly. He'd only meant to give them some hard bread and send them on their way—he never expected them to seize the opportunity and decide to spend the night indoors!
He wanted to stop them, but there were more than a dozen fully armed men, while he had only two guards at his side.
Worse still, the farm was surrounded by orchards and lay at least five miles from Ser Finn's castle. There was no time to call for help.
He could only watch helplessly as they filed in.
"Go—escort young lord Derek back to the castle. Quietly. Don't let those northern bastards notice."
"Damn it… I never should've agreed to bring him to the farm today."
Gritting his teeth, the overseer turned his head slightly and whispered the order to one of the guards.
The guard nodded and turned toward a nearby wooden cottage.
But just as the group passed the overseer and his two men, Armando—hanging high above—noticed something.
At the front of the column, "Walton" suddenly raised his fist and made a sharp hand signal.
No.
He isn't Steelshanks Walton.
Armando desperately searched his memory of the story he once knew, his eyes widening in shock.
That man was—
Before he could finish the thought, the raised hand dropped.
In the next instant, the orderly marching line exploded into violence.
Weapons were drawn without warning, blades flashing as they struck down the overseer and the guards beside him.
It happened so fast that the irritation hadn't even faded from the overseer's face before his throat was slit.
He and his guards collapsed to the ground together, lifeless.
At the same time, the group scattered with terrifying coordination.
The guard who had just run ahead heard the commotion and turned his head—
Only for a spiked mace to smash his skull to pieces.
The others spurred their horses straight into the orchard, ruthlessly hunting down every farmhand still at work.
"What do you think you're doing, Vargo Hoat?!"
Brienne's furious shout rang out at once.
Her sense of justice simply couldn't accept that these men could be this utterly depraved.
"He already agreed to give you food and water! You all swear fealty to the King in the North—why are you slaughtering innocent people like this?!"
"Shut up, whore!"
Her answer was a merciless punch straight to the face.
She fell from her horse, crashing to the ground. Her already filthy armor was smeared with fresh mud—and the bound Jaime tumbled down with her.
The man who had called himself Walton—now exposed as Vargo Hoat—leapt down as well, lifting his boot and kicking the two of them over and over again, curses spilling nonstop from his mouth.
"Damn bitch! If your father doesn't pile sapphires as high as a mountain for your ransom, I'll have every soldier in Harrenhal line up and have their turn with you!"
After several savage kicks, he finally stopped.
He swung back into the saddle, his horse's hooves trampling the overseer's corpse as he rode toward the orchard, bursting into wild laughter.
"I'm the Lord of Harrenhal now! And if a lord says he wants apples, then today I will eat those damn apples!"
---
Hanging from the tree, Armando watched as shouts and screams echoed endlessly through the orchard. His heart sank into sheer panic.
Just as in the story he remembered, that man was never Roose Bolton's guard captain.
He was the infamous leader of the Brave Companions—Vargo Hoat.
And every one of his men was a vicious, bloodthirsty bandit.
At the start of the War of the Five Kings, Hoat had first been taken in by Lord Tywin Lannister. Later, he betrayed his employer and swore allegiance to King Robb Stark, surrendering Harrenhal in exchange for a title—thus becoming its lord.
But as the saying goes, a dog never stops eating shit.
Even with a title and lands, he was still a bandit to the bone.
It was over.
Once these people set their sights on the farm, no one would be left alive—including him.
That system skill might be powerful, but it could only be used once every seven days—and there were more than a dozen of them!
As Armando desperately searched for a way out, Vargo Hoat plucked an apple from a tree—and finally noticed him.
Mounted on his zebra, Hoat rode straight toward him.
Damn it…
Armando struggled frantically, but the ropes binding his wrists were far too tight. He could only watch helplessly as Hoat stopped beneath him.
"Well, well, what have we got here?"
Hoat craned his neck up, staring at Armando as if he'd found a particularly amusing toy.
"A roast suckling pig!"
Two members of the Brave Companions rode over as well, circling Armando slowly, eyeing him with interest.
"Looks like someone who got himself punished," one of them chuckled.
"Skin's not bad either—just a bit old. If he were younger, I bet Utt would be very interested."
The other laughed.
"Forget it. That freak only likes little ones. Anyone over twelve doesn't even catch his eye. Heard he picked up the habit back when he was a septon."
The first man nodded and casually drew a dagger from his saddle.
"Looks useless. Let's just kill him."
He moved in without hesitation. Neither Vargo Hoat nor the others made any attempt to stop him.
They'd intended to silence everyone from the very beginning.
Armando's heart was pounding. Just as he was about to gamble everything—activate the skill and take one of them with him—
Vargo Hoat tilted his head slightly, revealing the ear wrapped in blood-stained bandages.
Armando's eyes lit up.
"W–wait!!!"
"I'm a physician, my lord! I can treat your ear!"
Hoat didn't even bother listening. To him, this was nothing more than a dying man's final struggle.
When facing death, people would say any desperate lie—he'd seen it countless times.
As the dagger drew closer, Armando abandoned all subtlety and shouted at the top of his lungs:
"Your ear has already started to fester! If it's not disinfected, you'll develop a high fever—and you'll be dead within two days!"
The dagger was nearly upon him.
Just as Armando prepared to trigger his skill, a flash of white light burst before his eyes—
Clang!
The dagger fell to the ground.
"You'd better not be lying, boy."
Vargo Hoat didn't sheathe his sword. He rode closer, the razor-sharp tip pressing against Armando's stomach.
"Otherwise, I'll let Utt make an exception…"
"Of course, my lord!"
Only then did Armando finally breathe out in relief.
"I swear by the Seven—if I can't cure your ear, may I fall into the seven hells!"
"No need for oaths."
Vargo Hoat slid his blade back into its scabbard, took a bite of the apple, and spoke through a mouthful of pulp.
"If you fail, I'll personally send you to hell. Hahaha!"
He chewed a few times, juice dripping down his beard—then his expression suddenly changed.
"Pah!"
He spat the mangled apple onto the ground.
"Goddamn it… it's not ripe after all!"