Chapter 9: Fruit and the Flayed Man
Cold morning fog shrouded the farm, wrapping everything in a dull, ashen haze.
Vargo Hoat awoke from his sleep with a splitting headache and a burning sensation tearing through his throat.
"Fuck this…"
He cursed hoarsely, his voice rasping like metal grinding against stone.
Each heartbeat sent blood pounding against his temples, and with it came sharp, throbbing pain from the wound behind his ear.
"I drank way too much last night…"
By instinct, he blamed all of his discomfort on the excessive amounts of cheap ale he'd downed the night before, never once considering the possibility of a fever.
After all, to endure the unbearable agony of the surgery, he'd had no choice but to drink himself senseless.
"Starting today… I'm quitting drinking!!!"
He clenched his right hand and slammed it down hard into the hay beneath him. His clouded gaze swept across the dim interior of the hut.
In the corner, the doctor lay curled up in a pile of straw, wrapped in a filthy pelt, breathing evenly—apparently still asleep.
At the bedside stood Iggo, arms crossed, back straight, keeping watch with unwavering diligence.
Seeing the silent Dothraki warrior eased the unease that had crept into Vargo's heart with his weakness.
A man who lived by the blade, who had even dared to betray Tywin Lannister, was cautious by nature—suspicious from the moment he was suckling at his mother's breast. Yet toward Iggo, he harbored a peculiar trust.
After all, the Dothraki mind was simple. They followed only strength—like a well-trained hunting hound.
What Vargo failed to notice was that Iggo's position placed him squarely between Vargo and the sleeping doctor, subtly angled closer to the latter.
Rather than guarding the Lord of Harrenhal, he seemed more like a wall—deliberately or otherwise—separating Vargo from Odin.
"Water, Iggo."
Vargo spoke weakly. A waterskin was immediately brought to him.
He uncorked it and drank greedily, gulping down several mouthfuls as usual. The cool liquid flooded his throat—only to scorch it like a blade scraping flesh.
"Ugh—! Cough, cough…!"
He retched violently, wracked by a fit of savage coughing before he could swallow more than a few gulps.
After coughing for a long while, Vargo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and raised the waterskin again—this time sipping carefully, small mouthfuls, almost refined, like a true noble.
Iggo said nothing, merely watching.
When Vargo's gaze drifted to Iggo's waist, his thick brows knit together.
"Where's your arakh?"
That curved Dothraki blade had crossed the Narrow Sea with Iggo and had never left his side in over a decade. Iggo himself had once said that a Dothraki's arakh was an extension of his arm—yet now it was nowhere to be seen.
"It broke," Iggo replied calmly, his expression unchanged.
"I threw it away."
"Ha!"
Vargo snorted—only to immediately aggravate the wound on his ear, drawing in a sharp breath of pain.
Still, he harbored no suspicion. Iggo's blunt honesty had long since proven itself. If he said he'd thrown it away, then he had.
"I've said it a thousand fucking times—those fancy toys of yours are only good for slitting throats! Against a fully armored knight, they're worth shit!"
Waving a hand dismissively, Vargo then unbuckled the finely crafted steel longsword from his waist and tossed it to Iggo with exaggerated generosity.
"Here. Take it!"
"You might not be used to it, but as my bloodrider, you can practice swordplay with me from now on!"
He deliberately used the Dothraki term, trying to reinforce their bond of lord and subordinate.
With a leering grin, he added jokingly, "I hear you Dothraki share everything with your bloodriders—even your wives. That true?"
"Some khals do," Iggo answered.
"Then perfect!"
Vargo Hoat burst into laughter.
"When we get to Harrenhal, I'll grab myself a wife from the Red Mill! After I'm done with her, you can have your turn!"
"Hahahahaha!"
Watching Vargo's booming laughter, Iggo's fingers brushed against the cold steel of the sword hilt.
He said nothing.
He merely hung the weapon—so ill-suited to his own fighting style—at his waist, letting it replace the curved blade that had accompanied him for so many years.
That silence, however, was mistaken by Vargo for tacit acceptance, and his grin only grew wider.
He had said those things on purpose. Having just undergone surgery and still reeling from a night of heavy drinking, he knew his body could weaken at any moment.
At a time like this, he needed to pull everyone loyal to him closer—to guard against that overly ambitious Urswyck suddenly making a move.
More importantly, he needed to return to Harrenhal as quickly as possible and let Qyburn treat him properly. A barefoot doctor picked up by chance—no matter how skilled—was simply not someone Vargo trusted, either in ability or loyalty.
"Wake that bastard up!"
He stopped worrying about weapons and jabbed his thumb toward Odin, barking impatiently.
"Move it. We need to put a few more miles behind us before noon—and find ourselves a wife sooner rather than later!"
Only after returning to Harrenhal and having Qyburn confirm that his ear was truly safe would Vargo be able to relax completely.
And then… perhaps he could consider cutting out this farmer-doctor's tongue, just to make sure he didn't go around talking.
---
Creeeak—
The wooden door swung open with a teeth-grinding groan. Cold, damp fog poured into the hut, making Vargo shiver involuntarily.
Outside, most of the Brave Companions were already mounted. Fine droplets clung to their armor and fur-lined cloaks, while the saddles were laden with valuables looted from the farm.
The horses snorted, clouds of white breath dissolving into the thick mist.
Even the two captives had already been tightly bound together on a single horse.
Brienne held her head high, blue eyes fixed on Vargo, silent fury burning within them.
Jaime, meanwhile, kept his gaze lowered. His golden hair was plastered to his cheeks with dew and mud, utterly indifferent to everything happening around him.
Everything looked the same as yesterday.
Unchanged.
Even Deputy Commander Urswyck, upon seeing Vargo emerge, hurried over with a fawning smile plastered on his face, looking faintly ridiculous.
"Boss!"
"Seven save us—you look much better today!"
His voice was exaggerated, but his eyes flicked quickly over Vargo's unnaturally flushed complexion and the slight tremor in his fingers.
Urswyck's smile grew even broader as he reported loudly:
"The raven was sent before dawn, straight to Tarth! It won't be long before that big woman's father piles sapphires as high as hills for her ransom!"
Knowing full well Vargo's complicated feelings toward the Kingslayer, he deliberately avoided mentioning Jaime at all.
Vargo Hoat surveyed his men.
Their gear was ready.
The captives were under control.
Even Urswyck—that mangy hound who was always sniffing around in the shadows—was behaving with perfect obedience.
All of it finally put him at ease. Even the weakness in his body seemed to lessen.
Looks like that farmer-doctor really does know a thing or two.
Once they reached Harrenhal, when the King in the North learned that he had captured the Kingslayer, even Roose Bolton would have to look at him in a different light.
As these thoughts swirled in his head, the lingering alcohol from the night before surged up again, temporarily suppressing the discomfort in his body.
Vargo grinned, revealing crooked, yellow-black teeth. He took two steps forward, swung himself onto his zebra, and struggled to steady his slightly swaying frame before throwing out his arm with swagger.
"Move out! Back to Harrenhal!"
"Bloody hell, this fog's thick—keep your eyes sharp!"
At the captain's command, the column began to move. The clatter of metal and the squelch of hooves in mud sounded dull and heavy in the mist.
Vargo Hoat rode at the front, maintaining his unshakable air of command. He never looked back—and thus never saw the brief flash of malice that flickered through Urswyck's eyes.
On horseback, Jaime Lannister, bound tightly, lifted his head just slightly. Through dirty strands of hair, one lion-green eye watched the final figure step out of the hut.
Sensing the gaze, Odin looked up as well.
Their eyes met in the fog.
The farmer-doctor gave no sign of acknowledgment. He merely drew a gold dragon from his cloak, flicked it lightly with a finger, and sent the coin spinning through the air—gold flashing as it caught the pale morning light filtering through the mist.
The one-armed knight's pupils tightened.
After a moment of silence, he lowered his head again, hiding himself once more behind the curtain of filthy blond hair.
But Brienne noticed something.
Jaime's breathing—once as flat and still as dead water—had begun to quicken, ever so slightly.
It was not fear.
Nor weakness.
It was the restrained agitation of a lion long caged in shadow—finally scenting prey, forcing himself to hold back the surge of anticipation.
The column gradually disappeared into the fog. The sounds of hooves and shouting faded away, leaving behind a farm steeped in silence.
On the sparse apple trees, bodies swayed gently in the morning breeze, turning slowly—like fruit that had finally ripened.
And among all those fruits, one corpse stood out above the rest.
Its entire body gleamed with a fresh, damp crimson.
Its skin had been flayed cleanly, from head to toe.
Muscle fibers lay exposed to the moist air. Though the face was no longer recognizable, the bloodstained leather sash around its waist made one thing clear:
This had once been the most powerful man on the farm.