"Your wrist!"
"I told you—keep your wrist steady!"
To mask her awkwardness, Brienne ignored Corleone's teasing entirely. She strode forward, snatched the longsword from his hand without a word, and raised it with practiced ease.
Though the fitted lady's gown hugged her muscular frame and made her appear somewhat comical, the moment the sword rested in her grip, Brienne's entire bearing transformed. Her center of gravity settled, her hips rotated subtly, and the power flowed smoothly through her shoulders and into her arms.
"Watch closely," she instructed, her voice low but firm.
Her movements weren't flashy, yet they possessed a stark, powerful beauty. The sword in her hand seemed almost alive. Every swing tore through the air—cleaving, thrusting, rising, falling—precise, fluid, and controlled.
The marks she carved into the wooden stake made Corleone's earlier attempts look childish by comparison, like a toddler waving a stick for play. Her force was perfectly integrated, the momentum channelled from the ground through her core and into the blade without the slightest waste.
Being overshadowed by a woman didn't embarrass Corleone in the slightest. He knew very well that Brienne was no ordinary woman. Her swordsmanship, in truth, stood at the pinnacle of what a female warrior could achieve—and even among men, only the most seasoned knights could rival her skill.
Holding his breath, Corleone watched with focused intensity. His newly awakened Insight Lv1 ability magnified his perception, helping him grasp the key difference between Brienne's style and his own. It was all about core strength and the seamless flow of movement.
After several minutes, Brienne finished the series of simple yet highly practical basic forms. Her breathing was steady—completely unaffected. She tossed the blade back to Corleone as casually as if she were passing a loaf of bread.
"Dothraki favor curved blades," she said, turning to Yigo, who had been watching silently. "They specialize in slashing strikes and fast skirmishing from horseback."
"A longsword, especially a knight's sword, demands precise footwork and structured application of force."
She continued calmly, "I'm not dismissing your guidance, but if a beginner develops incorrect habits, correcting them later is harder than starting anew."
"If he aims to become a true knight, he won't be fighting unarmored peasants or wild animals—he'll face armored enemies."
Yigo's dark expression initially showed displeasure at her interference, but as her reasoning unfolded, it faded. With a grunt, arms folded, he acknowledged her point.
In the Dothraki Grass Sea, mounted warriors with curved blades were unmatched. But having lived in Westeros for over a decade, Yigo knew well how ineffective a curved sword was against plate armor.
Corleone, now holding the sword again, paid them no attention. Instead of rushing to resume practice, he closed his eyes and replayed every detail of Brienne's demonstration in his mind. Only after a long moment did he swing the sword again, imitating the sensation she demonstrated.
The first swings remained clumsy, the force disconnected and awkward. But with each attempt, the rotation of his waist began to drive his arms, and the blade grew heavier, deeper, no longer weak and shallow.
Brienne watched in silence, offering neither interruption nor instruction. A faint gleam of appreciation occasionally flickered in her blue eyes.
For a farmer, Corleone's talent was impressive. He could never compare to her own gifted youth, but among ordinary men, he was naturally talented.
After all, at sixteen, Brienne herself had defeated Ser Humphrey Wagstaff, breaking three of his ribs.
Corleone had started late—too late to become legendary—but with consistent training, he could still become a competent knight.
As she made this private judgment, she noticed Yigo staring at her with a different expression than before. She followed her instincts and glanced his way, only to find a fire burning in his eyes.
Was he mad?
The blatant intensity made her uncomfortable. She nearly spoke, but restrained herself, forcing her gaze back to Corleone.
---
"Hoo—Hah—"
The sun climbed higher. Corleone continued until the morning fog dispersed entirely. When he finally relaxed, his arms throbbed with exhaustion—so heavy he could barely lift them. The sword slipped from his hand with a metallic clang, and he dropped to the ground, panting.
Sweat soaked through his leather armor and inner garments. His chest rose and fell in sharp, burning breaths. After some time, he lifted his head and offered Brienne a tired but sincere smile.
"Thank you, Lady Brienne. Your instruction was… crucial."
Brienne stood tall, her long shadow stretching behind her. She gazed at him quietly. His disheveled appearance, paired with the brightness in his eyes, softened her stern features.
She shook her head slowly. "This is nothing remarkable, Lord Corleone. Anyone trained as a knight could have told you the same."
"I originally thought you wouldn't endure the practice, but your perseverance is admirable. If you continue, I believe you will achieve something."
"Hahaha!"
Her words revived Corleone's spirits instantly, easing even his fatigue. He raised an eyebrow toward Yigo.
"Did you hear that, blood of my blood? I still have hope in swordsmanship."
Yigo shrugged, offering no argument.
The atmosphere turned relaxed. Brienne smiled faintly—then her expression shifted, solemn and conflicted.
After a moment of hesitation, she straightened her posture and spoke:
"I owe you an apology, Lord Corleone. I misjudged you."
"Ser Jaime told me that you paid a great price to persuade Roose Bolton to release me, even giving up the gold, title, and lands promised to you."
With rigid formality, she stepped forward and bowed deeply to Corleone, who was still seated.
"You are a man of honor. Please accept my apology for my previous offense and suspicion."
The sight was peculiar—Brienne, strong and imposing, bowing before a thin, exhausted man on the ground. But her sincerity was undeniable.
Corleone did not refuse, nor did he display false modesty. He simply smiled brightly.
Still seated, he met her gaze and said calmly, "Call me Vito. Vito Corleone."
"And never say sorry, Brienne. Rather than apologizing afterward, I prefer to think carefully before acting."
The words struck her unexpectedly, sending a faint tremor through her.
"What's past is past. Never look back."
Corleone adjusted himself so he appeared less slouched despite his fatigue.
"And don't dwell on mistakes. We arrived as four—we leave as four."
"I told you, Brienne. Corleone never abandons a friend."
His gaze swept across her, then Yigo, deep and meaningful.
"I always go out of my way to help my friends. Likewise, when I or my future family need assistance, I expect my friends to offer theirs."
"Someday—although perhaps that day will never come."
He extended his hand, palm cracked from training, eyes bright and sincere.
Brienne stared, stunned. She recalled declaring to Jaime that Corleone was "not a friend," and her baseless accusations. Guilt tightened in her chest.
Yet Corleone's smile held no calculation, no arrogance, no expectation—only sincerity. That made the weight of her misjudgment feel even heavier.
She clasped his hand—hers far larger—and pulled him to his feet with ease.
"I owe you a debt, Lord Corleone," she said quietly. "In the name of a warrior."
---
"Neigh—!"
Just as Corleone prepared to rest and bathe, the sound of galloping hooves echoed toward them. They turned to see Jaime, refreshed and striking atop his horse. His stubble was gone, his golden hair washed and loose across his shoulders, restoring his dazzling knightly beauty. Only his bandaged right hand spoiled the image, resembling a blue-clawed toy.
"Yo-ho! Ladies!"
Jaime whistled at the sight of Brienne and Corleone clasping hands.
"I must say, your taste in clothing is
atrocious!"
"Pack your bags—we depart at once! When we reach King's Landing, I'll have the royal tailor make you both proper attire!"