The man was standing far too close.
So close that Worton could practically feel the hot breath of the warhorse puffing against his cheeks. The animal snorted, its nostrils flaring, and for a surreal moment, Worton felt as though the beast itself were mocking him.
Worton could swear—on the Old Gods, the New Gods, the Drowned God, the Red God, and any other deity lingering in the Seven Kingdoms—that this damned horse was absolutely his.
This horse had been with him for more than a decade. He had fed it, brushed it, battled beside it, and cursed at it through rain, snow, and mud.
Old horse… oh, old horse…
"You damned thief! You stole my horse!" Worton jabbed an accusing finger at Jaime, his voice cracking with outrage.
Jaime Lannister, still poised atop the saddle, straightened with effortless arrogance. His golden hair gleamed and his emerald eyes carried the kind of smugness only a Lannister could afford.
"Mind your tongue, soldier," Jaime replied coolly. "I am a Lannister. My piss is gold."
Worton nearly choked.
Jaime continued, "Lord Bolton personally gave me this horse."
"Your horse is gone—what, exactly, does that have to do with me?"
The words only fueled Worton's fury. He wiped mud from his cheek and prepared to unleash another round of curses. "You—"
But before the insults could fly, a stream of steaming liquid erupted from between the horse's hind legs.
Worton reacted on pure instinct—kicking backward, scrambling through the mud, narrowly avoiding a direct spray to his face.
The stench hit him like a hammer. The steaming stream splattered onto the exact patch of filth he had been sitting on moments earlier, missing his nose by the thickness of a hair.
That was close… far, far too close.
He stumbled to his feet, fists shaking, face burning with humiliation. Twice now—twice!—he had been forced into retreat by a horse.
He opened his mouth to scream again, but before he could draw breath, Corleone and his two companions appeared.
Brienne and Yigo—both seasoned, towering warriors—moved into position without a word. They formed a semi-circle with practiced ease, their stance a silent declaration of readiness.
Worton's side, however, had more men. Northern soldiers stepped forward, hands tightening around weapons, soon locking both sides into a tense standoff.
Corleone didn't waste breath on theatrics. His eyes fell first upon Rorger, bound and wriggling like a trussed boar on the ground nearby.
It was remarkable, really—Rorger had been unconscious when they arrived at Harrenhal the night before, but now he was awake, glaring, and stubbornly alive. His wounds still seeped faint trails of blood, yet he showed no signs of dying anytime soon.
Satisfied the man would live long enough to matter, Corleone turned his attention to Worton.
He spoke quietly—but the moment the words left his lips, the air shifted. The aura of [Dignity Lv2] radiated outward, invisible yet oppressive.
"Lord Worton."
The title alone sent a tremor through Worton's chest. His rage stuttered. His attention was pulled—against his will—straight to Corleone's eyes.
"This man," Corleone continued, gesturing toward Rorger with a slight incline of his head, "is a captive I secured after eliminating the Warriors' Group."
His tone remained soft, yet every Northern soldier present heard him as clearly as if he had shouted the words atop the battlements.
The aura made it feel as though the world's gaze centered solely on Corleone. His presence carried the same uneasy pressure Worton only ever felt when speaking directly to Lord Roose Bolton himself.
But Worton had survived enough battlefields to regain some footing. Swallowing harshly, he forced steel into his voice.
"Lord Bolton ordered that all remnants of the Warriors' Group be exterminated," he said stiffly. "This rat was slinking through the castle, and I caught him. I am simply obeying the Lord's command, my Lord."
He emphasized Roose Bolton's command, hoping logic—and fear—would reinforce his stance.
Corleone merely sneered.
"There is no logic in what you say, my Lord."
"He is my captive, therefore he falls under my authority. He is my property. Lord Bolton's order does not apply to him."
"Your property?" Worton spat. "Don't take me for a fool, Corleone!"
"This bastard fought me over Wells—the top girl at the Red Hole—just half a month ago! Even if your Seven Gods descended right now, I would still kill him!"
He thrust out his hand sharply.
"Men—take him!"
Northern soldiers braced, ready to surge forward.
"STOP."
Corleone's voice cracked like a whip, cold and commanding. The aura of [Dignity Lv2] surged again, thick enough to taste.
Brienne and Yigo stepped forward instantly, their presence alone enough to make several soldiers hesitate.
But this was Harrenhal—Bolton territory. A loud clash here would bring more soldiers, more eyes, and far more problems.
Worton hesitated.
Corleone saw it—and struck.
"Very well, Lord Worton. Since you insist on claiming him, then let us speak of business."
He raised a single finger.
"One thousand gold dragons."
He let the words settle, then added:
"According to Westerosi custom, if you wish to ransom him, then pay one thousand gold dragons. After that, he is yours. Do with him as you please."
Worton reeled.
"H-how much?!"
His rage evaporated, replaced by sheer disbelief.
"This bastard is worth a thousand gold dragons?! Are you mad?!"
He pointed frantically at Jaime—still seated atop Worton's alleged horse.
"The bounty on the kingslayer is only a thousand!"
Corleone didn't flinch. His tone became patient—almost pedagogical.
"You cannot calculate worth that way, my Lord."
"Ser Jaime's ransom is a one-time ransom. As a member of the Kingsguard, he cannot wed, cannot father heirs, cannot produce descendants. His worth does not multiply."
"But Rorger…"
He nudged the bound man with his boot.
"He will work for me. He will generate value. Then he will marry, and have children. Those children will continue to work for me… and produce more children."
"Endless descendants. Endless value."
He spread his hands as though the reasoning was obvious.
"A thousand gold dragons is a generous discount—offered only out of respect for Lord Bolton."
Worton was stunned into silence.
This calculation was absurd. Insultingly absurd. The longer he thought about it, the angrier he became. His face flushed red, his chest heaved, and he felt as though he might burst.
Wasn't this just bullying an honest man?!
Before he could form a rebuttal, Jaime leaned forward slightly in the saddle.
"I suggest you consider Lord Corleone's proposal very carefully, Captain Worton."
"There are only two choices: pay the ransom… or release the man immediately."
Then Jaime's voice dropped—cold, sharp, and intimate.
"Otherwise, when I return to King's Landing, I may casually mention to my father…"
"That Vargo Hoat ordered my hand severed, and the man who swung the blade… was you."
The words struck like ice water.
Worton froze. A chill shot up his spine.
That damned kingslayer!
If Tywin Lannister believed such a story—even a whisper of it—then not even Roose Bolton could shield him.
"Slander!" Worton squeaked. "He's slandering me!"
He stomped in panic, pointing helplessly at Jaime, his voice climbing into a shrill pitch that all but wrote the word terror across the air.
All of his earlier bravado evaporated.
This accusation was too vicious.
Lannisters… truly inhuman!
Jaime straightened, lips curling with satisfac
tion. From atop the horse, he stared down at Worton like a lord regarding a trembling servant.
"Tell me, Captain…"
"My father will believe you?"
"Or me?"
"Northman."