"The bear, the bear, the bear!"
"All black and brown and covered in hair!"
"The bear! The bear!"
"Oh come, they said, oh come to the fair!"
"The fair? said he, but I'm a bear!"
"All black and brown, and covered in hair!"
"He smelled the scent on the summer air!"
"He sniffed and roared and smelled it there! The honey on the summer air... Hahahaha!!!"
Rough singing echoed along the muddy roads of the Riverlands. The lyrics had been mangled beyond recognition by the Brave Companions, filled with lewd words.
Vargo Hoat rode at the front, leading the song with his raspy voice. Although the wound on his ear still throbbed faintly and his head was dizzy, the spoils from plundering the farm and the massive ransom soon to be in hand put him in a good mood.
The air was filled with a merry atmosphere.
Beside everyone's saddle hung looted goods and some silverware, proving that on their journey to capture the Kingslayer, they had obtained quite a few "trophies" on the side.
To them, war did not seem like suffering, but a gluttonous feast bestowed by the gods.
Behind them, the boisterous singing bored into Jaime Lannister's ears. Originally hanging his head low, he couldn't help but look up slightly and mock, "If Robert Baratheon were still alive, he would definitely fit right in with this bunch."
"The king who was so fat he could barely mount a horse always loved singing this song after whoring or getting drunk."
His voice was low, but it always carried a trace of cynical mockery.
Even with a hand cut off, his past pride and honor thrown into the mud and trampled like garbage or a stray dog, and even tricked into drinking a large pot of horse piss, he still couldn't change this habit of speaking.
Hearing this, Brienne frowned.
Though captured, she adhered to her inner chivalry at all times and felt uncomfortable with any mockery of the late king.
"King Robert was a mighty warrior."
Brienne defended stiffly, "He defeated Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in single combat and won the war!"
"Heh, if I hadn't killed the Mad King back then, all he would have gotten was a ruin..."
Jaime instinctively curled his lip in disdain at this rhetoric.
Seeing Brienne cast a puzzled look at him, he froze for a moment, then hurriedly changed the subject, mocking:
"A king, whose end was being gutted by a boar while drunk in the forest."
"Truly ironic, isn't it?"
"Just like us. The noble Kingsguard and the Maid of Tarth, now prisoners of this scum."
"We ended up like this because we were outnumbered. It is not shameful, Kingslayer!"
"Yes, outnumbered."
Jaime sighed thoughtfully, "Back in the day, that old fellow Barristan could charge alone into an army of ten thousand and cut off the head of Maelys the Monstrous."
"If it weren't for being locked in Riverrun for too long, my sword skills and bones rusting, these guys could all come at me at once and wouldn't stand a chance!"
He gritted his teeth, his eyes full of unwillingness.
As the youngest Kingsguard in history, Jaime never doubted his own excellence.
Hearing this, Brienne wanted to retort with sarcasm, but seeing the hand that was cut off because he spoke up to save her, she swallowed the words on the tip of her tongue.
She took a deep breath, her gaze involuntarily drawn to the front of the column, to that seemingly calm back riding on a horse.
"You shouldn't have cooperated with him."
"That guy named Corleone could have been an innocent man, but now he has become an accomplice to tyranny, betraying his farm and lord."
"Traitors are not worthy of trust."
"Trust?"
Hearing this, Jaime chuckled lightly. "Here, trust is rarer than Valyrian steel, my lady. Don't forget, you have a Kingslayer sitting behind you."
But as he spoke, he turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting forward. "I don't need to trust him."
"I only need to know what he wants. And I am very certain that what he wants is not as simple as just staying alive."
"This morning, just standing there, that guy looked more like a lion than any Lannister. He even reminded me of..."
Jaime wanted to say "my father," but before he could finish, their whispered conversation attracted Iggo's attention from ahead.
He rode over and shouted, "Shut your mouth! No talking! And you, you cow, unless you want to taste what it's like to be dragged by a horse!"
As his voice fell, before Jaime could react, Iggo unceremoniously jammed the end of his scabbard hard into Jaime's ribs.
"Urgh!" Jaime groaned, his body bending in pain, but he clenched his teeth and made no further sound.
Brienne glared angrily, but before she could speak, a voice arrived first:
"Hey! Easy there, you Dothraki savage!"
It was Urswyck.
He rode over, rudely bumping Iggo's horse aside, and scolded, "Don't break him!"
"Whether it's the King in the North or Lord Tywin Lannister, they want a live and kicking Kingslayer, not a corpse. That's a huge pile of Gold Dragons!"
Iggo glanced coldly at Urswyck, his hand on his sword hilt, speaking bluntly, "Then watch your prisoners well. Don't let them keep thinking of escaping."
"If the Gold Dragons run away, I'll cut out your tongue and feed it to the horses!"
The provocation in these words was unmistakable. Urswyck's face darkened instantly, and his hand moved to his waist. "What do you mean by that, Iggo? Want to start something?"
At these words, members of the Brave Companions gathered around, splitting into two factions surrounding them.
As Corleone expected, behind Urswyck were Rorge, Biter, and the other new recruits, while beside Iggo were seven or eight Brave Companions veterans.
The atmosphere was tense, swords drawn.
"Shut the fuck up, all of you!"
From ahead came Vargo Hoat's roar.
He reined in his zebra and turned back. His eyes, bloodshot from hangovers and fever, stared viciously at the two groups. He threatened unceremoniously, "Keep moving! Anyone who dares infight again, I'll cut his tongue out first to go with my wine!"
He had long noticed signs of the Brave Companions' division and Urswyck's ambition.
But Vargo knew the primary goal now was to return safely to Harrenhal. He didn't want any complications on the road.
Hearing the commander's rebuke, Iggo snorted coldly, ignoring the livid Urswyck. He squeezed his horse's belly and leaped forward, returning to the position between Corleone and Vargo, looking every bit the loyal subordinate.
Urswyck stared sinisterly at Vargo's swaying back, licking his lips, feeling barely able to contain the urgency in his heart.
But ultimately, he maintained his reason and didn't pursue the matter further.
The two groups quickly dispersed and moved forward again.
Looking at Jaime, whose head was hanging low beside her, Brienne asked with concern, "Are you alright?"
However, Jaime slowly raised his head. There was no anger or pain in his eyes. Amidst the dirty hair, a light she hadn't seen for a long time burned in those emerald eyes.
He grinned, revealing a ferocious, wild smile.
"Alright?"
"I couldn't be better, my dear Brienne!"
Brienne was stunned.
Jaime didn't explain. Instead, he moved his remaining left wrist, quietly tucking a small, curved dagger into his sleeve.
The cold metallic touch was like a spring breeze, awakening the lion slumbering within him.
Subconsciously, Jaime's gaze swept forward.
Is it you, Vito Corleone?
He thought to himself, feeling his guess was too absurd. The other party was clearly just a lowly farmer who barely survived thanks to his medical skills.
However, Jaime couldn't find any other reason to explain why that Dothraki would help him under everyone's gaze.
And just as he looked up, Jaime's heart skipped a beat.
Ahead, Corleone had turned sideways at some point and was watching him calmly!
Those bottomless black eyes seemed to have already seen the surging restlessness in his heart. Then, he gently raised his right hand, placing a finger vertically against his lips.
As if saying: "Shh."
Then, under Jaime's gaze, the other party bowed slightly with extreme elegance while sitting on the back of his nag.
This movement was as brief as an illusion. Before Jaime could even react, Corleone turned back nonchalantly, continuing to sway gently with the rhythm of the procession.
His back became ordinary and silent again, as if that fleeting glance just now had never existed.
Jaime gripped the dagger in his hand tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force.
Recalling Corleone's posture just now in his mind—that appearance, that bearing—it was actually more composed than any minister or noble he had ever seen!
Sure enough!
Vito Corleone!
Jaime took a deep, excited breath, sighing inwardly: Compared to those useless Lannisters in the family, you seem more like... a true lion!