After finishing the oatcake and drinking from a small pouch of water, Corleone finally felt strength returning to his body. His breathing steadied, his limbs no longer trembled from exhaustion. Yet instead of rising immediately, he deliberately rested a little longer, refusing to appear eager or desperate before his captors.
Only when he judged the moment right did he stand, stretch slightly, and walk toward Jaime. He crouched beside him, examining the stump where the knight's right hand had been severed.
The air was immediately filled with furious venom.
"Criminal! Accomplice to evil!"
"That man should've died from infection, but you healed him! Do you not understand? If he lives, more innocent people will die!"
The voice came sharp and harsh, like a blade scraping steel. Brienne of Tarth glared at him, her indignation burning hotter than the nearby torchlight.
Corleone didn't even flinch. He lifted Jaime's severed hand with clinical precision and spoke calmly.
"Save the lecture, lady."
He didn't raise his voice, nor did he defend himself with outrage. Instead, he stated plainly, almost coldly:
"Don't try to restrain me from some imaginary moral high ground. I don't have much morality to begin with."
Brienne's face flushed with anger.
"You—shameless!"
"Shameless?" Corleone mused, unconcerned. "That's hardly important, Miss Brienne of Tarth."
He spoke her full name with accuracy, not mockery. Then, in a low voice that carried more weight than a shout, he continued:
"Everything I do is simply to survive."
He met her eyes, unwavering.
"This world has no true innocence. Can you honestly say you've never lied? Never failed? Never done harm?"
Brienne stiffened, stunned by the sudden turn.
Corleone pressed further, his tone steady, almost surgical:
"If I recall correctly, you once swore to protect Renly Baratheon. Yet he was killed—right under your nose."
The blow landed. Brienne froze. Her anger faltered, replaced with something wounded and silent. She opened her mouth, but no words came. Shame washed over her features.
Still, Corleone wasn't truly speaking to her. His real target had been silent all day.
Jaime Lannister.
The Kingslayer—once proud, once deadly, now missing the hand that had made him legendary.
Corleone knew the man was drowning—not in blood, but humiliation.
"You're both fortunate," Corleone went on. "The lion only lost a claw. Better that than your head."
He glanced at Jaime with purposeful meaning.
"At least you have me—this supposed accomplice to evil—working tirelessly to clean your wounds and ensure you survive long enough for your families to pay ransom."
The message was clear.
Brienne heard a reprimand.
Jaime heard a lifeline.
Finally, the man who had sat unmoving for hours twitched—once, then again. Slowly, under the shadows, his emerald eyes lifted. They were dull, clouded over with the weight of defeat.
He stared at Corleone as the other cleaned the wound, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried the hollow tone of a man questioning his existence.
"What is the difference between a lion without claws and fangs… and a dead one?"
Corleone smiled—quietly, knowingly.
Any reaction was better than none.
For Jaime Lannister, loss could wound him, but it could not break him. Not truly. He only needed a spark—guidance, direction, something to fight toward.
Corleone didn't preach. Instead, he carefully lifted the severed hand—cleaned of grime and rot—and examined it like a jeweler inspecting a cracked gemstone.
"Let's see… jagged edges. A hacking wound—poor steel, probably an axe."
He turned the hand, speaking with matter-of-fact assessment.
"Bone fragments, cartilage damage, severe infection… and still no fever. Remarkable physical resilience, Ser Jaime."
At the word Ser, Jaime's eyes flickered—just a fraction, but noticeable.
A recognition of respect.
Jaime tapped the severed hand lightly with his left hand, forcing a bitter smirk.
"If you can reattach it, I promise my father will make you a Grand Maester."
Corleone didn't blink.
"One million gold dragons."
"What?" Jaime stared.
Corleone's expression did not change.
"One million. Pay that, and I will attempt to reattach it."
It wasn't jest. Corleone meant every word. With enough gold, he could enhance his skill—raise his Surgery talent high enough to attempt miracles.
But to Jaime, still raw and humiliated, it sounded like mockery.
"Get away from me! I don't need your treatment!"
The defanged lion snarled, attempting to jerk his arm away. But Corleone pressed directly onto the wound—
Jaime screamed.
Pain tore through him like lightning, his body convulsing.
"What are you—!"
"Pain means the nerves are still functioning," Corleone murmured calmly.
Brienne froze mid-step, her anger collapsing into bewilderment.
"Congratulations, Ser," Corleone added, removing his pressure. "You are temporarily out of mortal danger."
Jaime gasped, sweat dripping, eyes burning with wounded rage.
Corleone ignored his glare and continued wrapping the wound.
"Among the Night's Watch, there is a ranger known as Halfhand Qhorin. Lost half his right palm in battle."
He tied the bandage, voice level.
"But the Night's Watch has stronger resolve than certain Kingsguards. He learned to fight with his left hand—and eventually became better with it."
"That's impossible," Jaime snapped, clinging to pride as if it were armor. "No one becomes better with their off-hand unless they were born left-handed."
Corleone shook his head.
"Nothing is impossible."
He sat back on his heels.
"Halfhand Qhorin's name is known across the North. Ask anyone—they will tell you."
A spark kindled behind Jaime's eyes.
Pride did not die easily.
A man who'd borne the stain of Kingslayer for years would not crumble forever. Show him another who endured hardship—and he would refuse to be lesser.
He stared at Corleone, now not with disdain—but curiosity.
"How do you know so much?"
"Unlike noble folk such as yourself," Corleone replied, adjusting the gauze, "common men must keep their eyes open."
He spoke softly, each word calculated.
"I do not hate my enemies. I approach them. I learn them. I get close enough to understand how to survive them."
Jaime narrowed his eyes.
"You want to resist? With what? You're a farmer who knows a bit of medicine."
"Not me." Corleone tied the final knot and patted his arm. "Us."
"Us?" Jaime scoffed. "Look at us—an amputated Kingsguard, a woman who was nearly raped, and a peasant. As soon as we reach Harrenhal, they'll cut off your head."
"Oh, I know," Corleone said lightly.
He leaned in, voice low.
"But I've learned a truth: women and children may speak carelessly. Men cannot. One wrong word, one careless breath—dead."
He paused, letting the weight settle.
"So, Ser. Let us make a deal."
His tone was calm—yet serious enough to chill the room.
"I will tread carefully. I will clear the obstacles before us. I will bring you and your companion back to King's Landing."
"And afterward, I expect my payment."
Jaime looked to Brienne. She stared back, eyes hard, jaw set.
Her expression said it all.
Do it.
Nothing could make matters worse.
Jaime straightened slightly, the lion stirring within.
"A Lannister always pays his debts," he said, a confident smirk forming. "Help us return to King's Landing, and you shall have enough gold dragons to fill a bathtub."
"But before that, I need to know your plan, Vito Corleone."
Corleone nodded slowly, candlelight splitting his face between shadow and light.
"I cannot reveal all of it. But I can tell you the beginning."
He leaned in.
"The deputy commander. Uswik."
Brienne frowned.
"You intend to help him seize power? Jaime tried bribery. Mercenaries have no honor."
"No," Corleone replied, a thin smile curving his lips.
He reached into his clothes and touched the gold dragon hidden close to his body.
"Uswik will help us
not because he wishes to…"
He met their eyes—slow, certain, razor-sharp.
"But because he will have no choice."
Corleone stood, voice dropping into a quiet promise.
"I will make him an offer he cannot refuse."