A white sunburst…
Corleone narrowed his eyes at the sigil stitched onto the banner, murmuring under his breath. Countless scraps of heraldic knowledge he had collected since before his transmigration flickered through his mind like torn pages caught in the wind. He was certain he had seen this fierce, stabbing pattern somewhere before, but the answer danced just out of reach.
The sensation was maddening—like a small fishbone stuck in his throat, impossible to swallow and impossible to ignore.
Just as he was struggling to remember, Worton, standing beside him, suddenly blurted out:
"Karstark!"
"It's people from Karstark! Why are those fellows here!?"
Karstark.
The name struck Corleone like a hammer. His heartbeat stumbled, his brow tightened, and his gaze instinctively shifted toward Jaime, who sat quietly next to him.
For the feud between this man and House Karstark was notorious—rooted in the aftermath of a battle sung about across the Seven Kingdoms:
The Battle of the Whispering Wood.
In that battle, Jaime the Kingslayer had fought with unmatched ferocity. He had charged through the chaos, cutting his way toward Robb Stark himself. Though he ultimately failed to capture the Young Wolf, he had slain over a dozen of his guards—including the two sons of Lord Rickard Karstark.
Later, Robb's mother, Catelyn Stark, desperate to save her captured daughters, secretly released Jaime—her most valuable bargaining piece.
When Lord Rickard learned of it, he had flown into a rage. He stormed into the prison at Riverrun and killed two young captives—Tion Frey and Willem Lannister—to vent his grief and fury.
Then the Young Wolf, in what Corleone always believed was a stunning display of misplaced righteousness, insisted on executing Rickard Karstark for killing "insignificant" prisoners, and personally beheaded him.
Thus House Karstark broke ties with the Starks.
To Corleone, none of them possessed a shred of common sense. They acted entirely out of impulse, then cloaked their foolishness in noble ideals.
First they released the most critical hostage in the war.
Then they betrayed one of their strongest and most loyal bannermen.
And through it all, they called it honor—justice even.
It was truly beyond comprehension.
But those past events mattered little at this moment. What mattered was the question Worton had just voiced:
Why were Karstark men appearing near Gods Eye Lake?
A little further south lay the territory patrolled by the Lannister army.
This was absolutely no coincidence.
"They mean trouble…" Corleone muttered. His voice was barely a whisper, but the tightening of his jaw and the severity in his expression made Jaime and Brienne exchange confused glances.
After all, Corleone always appeared composed—always in control. Even when he confronted Roose Bolton earlier, he had not looked this wary.
"Everyone, listen carefully!"
Corleone's voice sharpened. His eyes swept over the group, steady and commanding.
"Remain restrained. We observe first and learn their intentions. Do not provoke them unless there is absolutely no other choice!"
A round of firm nods followed. No one objected. No one hesitated.
Among them was the heir of Casterly Rock.
The daughter of the Lord of Tarth.
A formidable Dothraki warrior.
Yet not one of them disputed Corleone's authority.
Charisma—true charisma—needed no explanation.
After issuing instructions, Corleone turned toward the rapidly approaching riders—and then toward Jaime. Something clicked in his mind. A realization. A critical detail he had nearly overlooked.
He spun around, yanked open a stuffed saddle satchel, and pulled out a thick cloak.
He tossed it at Jaime.
Jaime caught it reflexively, blinking in confusion.
"???"
"Stop looking at me like that!" Corleone snapped. "If you don't want your head chopped off like a Karstark, put it on—now!"
He jabbed a finger toward Jaime's hair.
"And hide that beautiful golden mane of yours!"
---
Rumble—Rumble—Rumble
The thunder of hooves suddenly halted twenty paces before them.
Dust rose into the air before slowly settling, revealing the full sight of the approaching cavalry.
There were about twenty riders—silent, still, and grim. Their gear differed entirely from the polished refinement of southern knights. These men bore the raw, harsh image of the North.
Their helmets were crudely forged black iron, their mail was worn and patched, and each was draped in thick animal hides. Wolf. Bear. Seal. The pelts were rough and weathered, but carried a primal, chilling weight.
Their weapons varied—two-handed greatswords, brutal battle axes, heavy spiked maces, and broad Northern spears.
Their skin was wind-burned and coarse. Their expressions were hardened by cold, hunger, and war.
They were not many—but their killing aura pressed heavily upon the air like winter frost.
Their leader rode a towering Northern warhorse. He was massive in build, with a thick beard streaked with gray and a gray wolf-skin cloak draped over his armor. He said nothing—did not introduce himself, nor question them. He merely advanced step by step, scanning Corleone's group like a predator selecting prey.
Corleone inhaled, preparing to speak diplomatically—
"Ser—"
But the captain lifted his warhammer dramatically and roared to the sky:
"That stuff is useless garbage! A bunch of perfumed weaklings hiding in steel! Armor won't stop my hammer—I smash straight through it!"
"How many knights' heads have I cracked since coming south, Hogg!?"
"Too many to count, Captain!"
"HAHAHAHA!!"
The Northern riders burst into rowdy laughter. They slammed weapons against saddles and shields, whistling and howling like drunken barbarians.
Corleone's frown deepened.
He could deal with Roose Bolton—or even Tywin Lannister—because at least they obeyed rules, however cruel or twisted.
But these men…
These were soldiers who thought only of blood and vengeance. Men who would strike before listening. Men who believed the sword was the only language worth speaking.
Still, Corleone pushed away his irritation and tried again, more cautiously:
"My Lord—"
"I am Harag Stao!" the captain roared, interrupting again. "Most trusted captain of Lord Rickard Karstark's personal guard before his death!"
At the mention of Rickard, hatred flickered in his eyes.
"We're hunting the Kingslayer, boy!"
"Have you seen that bastard who lies with his Queen sister!?"
Jaime trembled under the cloak—rage, humiliation, and restraint all battling inside him.
Corleone reacted instantly.
"The Kingslayer? No, Captain Harag Stao!"
He stepped forward, forcing the man's attention solely onto him.
"We are kinsmen of Ser Fenry Yordel. Our farm was burned by raiders calling themselves the Warriors' Group. To survive, we crossed Gods Eye Lake to seek refuge with relatives in Duskendale."
He sighed, weary and sincere.
"These lands are full of war. The Riverlands are chaos. We only wish to live in peace."
"And Lord Bolton is a just lord. To compensate for his men's misconduct, he granted us an official travel permit."
Corleone reached into his coat and slowly withdrew a parchment stamped with Roose Bolton's wax seal.
"You may inspect it."
Harag's eyes narrowed. Suspicion flickered. He gestured for a subordinate to take it. The soldier rode forward, accepted the parchment, and passed it up.
Harag pretended to examine it—but his eyes were not on the words.
He was looking again at the group.
At Brienne, broad-shouldered and imposing.
At Worton, whose wild strength made even Northerners hesitate.
At the bound prisoner.
And at Jaime—wrapped ti
ghtly in the cloak.
A sly smile crept across Harag's face.
He tossed the parchment away dismissively, planted his fists on his hips, and declared triumphantly:
"I can't read!"