Jaime Lannister.
Firstborn of Lord Tywin, knight of the Kingsguard, Kingslayer… and a certain enthusiastic lover of his sister.
If that really was Jaime Lannister with a severed hand, then the person tied beside him could only be Brienne of Tarth, the so-called Beauty.
And the man leading this group…
"I am Steelshanks Walton, ser!"
The rider atop the zorse kept grinning as he spoke. "Anyone sworn to the King in the North knows my name. I'm the captain of Lord Bolton's guards."
"Greetings, Ser Walton."
Hearing that the man served the same liege as his lord, the steward finally relaxed. Even caked in mud, the Kingslayer's golden hair was unmistakable.
But he still made a point of saying, "I'm afraid the apples aren't ripe yet, ser. But we can offer you and your men some food and water."
"These days there have been shadowcats roaming nearby. Traveling after dark may be dangerous. You'd best move on soon…"
The steward spoke with practiced ease. After managing the estate of a landed knight for more than ten years, he knew how to deal with armed strangers. Northern soldiers passing through would always demand something, but as allies, they usually wouldn't go too far.
The war had dragged on for over a year. Ser Finn had been called to Riverrun by Lord Edmure Tully. Someone had to protect the estate in his absence.
As expected, when Walton heard they could provide supplies, his smile brightened.
"Excellent!"
"I told you, Ser Finn is a generous man. We'll rest here tonight and set out tomorrow!"
He shouted over his shoulder, drawing a chorus of strange howls from his men.
The group headed straight for the center of the farm, ignoring the steward's darkening expression.
Savages. Every last one of them.
The steward cursed silently. He had planned to give them some hard bread and send them away, but these men seized the chance to settle in for the night. He wanted to stop them, but they were more than ten armed fighters, and he had only two guards.
The orchard surrounded the whole farm, and Ser Finn's keep was five miles away. There was no time to call for help. He could only watch helplessly as the riders filed in.
"Go. Escort young master Derek back to the castle. Quietly. Don't let these northerners notice."
"Damn it… I never should've brought him here today."
Grinding his teeth, the steward muttered the order to a guard beside him.
The guard nodded and turned toward one of the wooden huts.
But just as the riders passed the steward, Corleone spotted something from up in the tree. The man calling himself Walton suddenly raised a fist, signaling his men.
Something was wrong.
He wasn't Steelshanks Walton at all.
Corleone's eyes widened as memories from the story clicked together.
That man was..
Before he could finish the thought, the hand signal dropped. The riders who had been trotting calmly forward suddenly drew their weapons and struck without warning.
The steward never even lost his look of annoyance. His throat was opened in the very next heartbeat. The guard beside him fell at the same time.
The group scattered with chilling coordination.
The guard who had just begun to run toward Derek heard the commotion behind him. The moment he turned, a warhammer crushed his skull.
The rest of the riders charged into the orchard, cutting down the laborers without hesitation.
"What are you doing, Vargo Hoat!"
Brienne's furious shout echoed through the trees. Her overwhelming sense of justice couldn't accept this madness.
"He agreed to give you food and water! You serve the same King in the North! Why would you slaughter innocent people…"
"Shut your mouth, whore!"
Her answer was a fist smashing into her face.
She fell, armored body thudding against the dirt, dragging the bound Jaime with her. Both landed hard.
The man who had called himself Walton—now exposed as Vargo Hoat—slid off his mount and began kicking them repeatedly, each strike punctuated with curses.
"Stupid bitch! If your precious lord father doesn't pay me a mountain of sapphires, I'll have every soldier in Harrenhal line up for a turn with you!"
He kicked them several more times before stopping.
Then he mounted again, riding right over the steward's corpse as he headed deeper into the orchard, laughing wildly.
"If I say I want apples, then I'll eat the damn apples!"
Hanging from the tree, Corleone stared downward as screams and death spread through the orchard. Panic twisted inside him.
It was exactly as he remembered. That man wasn't Roose Bolton's captain at all, but Vargo Hoat, the infamous leader of the Brave Companions.
His men weren't soldiers, but ruthless criminals. Early in the War of the Five Kings, Hoat had served Lord Tywin Lannister, then betrayed him to swear fealty to Robb Stark and surrender Harrenhal. For that, he'd been named Lord of Harrenhal.
But a dog didn't stop eating filth just because it wore a crown.
He had a title now, yet he was still a bandit to the bone.
This was bad. If the Brave Companions had found this place, no one would survive. Not a single soul in the farm, including Corleone.
His system skill was useful, but it only worked once every seven days. And there were more than a dozen enemies.
While he desperately searched for a way out, Vargo Hoat plucked an apple from a branch and noticed him. The zorse carried him straight toward the tree.
Damn it…
Corleone struggled, but the ropes were too tight. He could only watch as Hoat stopped before him.
"Look what I've found!"
Hoat spoke with exaggerated delight, gazing up at Corleone as if he were a rare delicacy. "A roast suckling pig!"
Two Brave Companions rode over, circling him slowly and eyeing him with interest.
"Looks like he's some troublemaker."
One snickered. "Skin's decent. Shame he's a bit old. Otherwise Utt would be very interested."
The other chimed in, "Save it. Utt only likes children. Anything past twelve and he won't even look at them. Habit he picked up back when he served the Faith, they say."
The first man nodded, drawing a dagger from his saddle. "Then he's useless. Better kill him."
He moved to strike. Hoat made no move to stop him. They'd clearly intended to kill everyone here from the start.
Corleone's mind raced. He prepared to gamble everything, kill at least one attacker with his skill if he had to.
Then Hoat tilted his head, revealing the ear wrapped in bandages.
Corleone caught on immediately and shouted, "W-wait!"
"I'm a doctor, my lord! I can treat your ear!"
Hoat ignored him. To him, this was nothing more than a dying man's last lie. People facing death said anything. He'd seen it all before.
The dagger drew closer. Corleone shouted again, louder this time, desperate.
"Your ear is infected! It's starting to ooze. If you don't disinfect it soon, you'll develop a high fever. You'll be dead within two days!"
The blade was inches away.
Corleone was just about to activate his skill when a flash of white filled his vision. A sharp clang followed. The dagger hit the ground.
Hoat didn't sheath his sword. He grinned and urged his zorse forward until the point of his blade pressed against Corleone's stomach.
"You better not be lying, boy."
"Of course, my lord!"
Corleone exhaled in relief and swore immediately, "I swear to The Seven. If I fail to heal your ear, may I fall into the seven hells!"
"No need for your oaths."
Hoat withdrew the blade and slid it back into its scabbard. He bit into the apple and spoke around the pulp, "If you fail, I'll send you to hell myself. Hahaha!"
He chewed twice, juice running into his beard. Suddenly his expression twisted. He spat the chewed pulp onto the dirt.
"Bleh!"
"Damn thing's not ripe at all!"