Corleone's expression darkened the moment he heard the demand. These Northern soldiers were truly unreasonable—men who acted first and thought later, if they thought at all. Logic clearly held no place in their world.
He clenched his fist, steadying himself, then reached into his tunic and pulled out a pouch. The soft metallic chime of coins inside immediately caught the attention of the riders surrounding them. Several pairs of hungry eyes gleamed with unmistakable greed.
Corleone tossed the pouch toward the man leading them—Stao. His voice took on a deliberately weakened tone, perfectly calculated, neither too submissive nor too defensive.
"We are but poor travelers, my lord," he said, bowing his head slightly. "We only wish to pass safely to Duskendale and escape the ravages of war."
He gestured toward the pouch. "One hundred gold dragons. Consider it… a toll."
As he finished speaking, Corleone allowed himself a small, humble, but utterly sincere smile.
In times like these, bribery was often more valuable than a sword. To someone without the System, one hundred gold dragons would be a staggering sum. Even with the System, gold still mattered—but it meant nothing if he died on this roadside. Gold in a dead man's pocket only enriched the looters who stripped it from him.
And besides, if he reached King's Landing alive, Jaime was still obligated to give him that bathtub filled with gold dragons. A hundred coins now was nothing compared to that future fortune.
Stao caught the pouch with one hand and weighed it lazily. His sneer widened, and without even looking inside, he tucked it into his breast pocket. But instead of leaving, he raised his warhammer again—this time pointing it directly at Jaime, who was concealed beneath his gray cloak.
"You have shown sincerity," Stao growled. "But that is not what I want."
He leaned forward in his saddle, his voice booming.
"That skulking fellow hiding his face—strip off that pathetic covering! Now!"
Corleone's teeth clenched. Fury surged through him, but he forced it down.
Damn Northern brute.
That was all of his gold dragons—and yet the man still demanded more.
A rapid calculation flashed through Corleone's mind. His pulse hammered, but his expression remained steady. He inhaled deeply and activated [Dignity Lv2], letting a stern, authoritative air settle around him.
"Impossible!" Corleone barked. "Absolutely impossible, my lord!"
His voice echoed with urgency, strengthened by the aura.
"He suffers from a severe illness. He must remain tightly wrapped—otherwise it will spread."
Stao snorted. "Nonsense!"
Despite the aura, the distance was too great for it to affect him strongly.
"I've fought from Caho City to the Riverlands," he snapped. "I've never heard of a disease that requires someone to be wrapped up like that. Don't take me for a fool."
"It's true!" Corleone insisted, his mind racing.
Seeing disbelief harden in Stao's eyes, he chose a gamble—his voice dropping into a low, cold tone.
"It's Greyscale."
That name landed like a rock tossed into still water.
"Greyscale?"
"What kind of sickness is that?"
The Northern riders fell quiet. They exchanged uneasy glances. The word itself sounded ominous, even cursed.
An older soldier near Stao swallowed and raised a trembling hand.
"Captain… I think… I heard my uncle speak of it once," he said shakily. "He's a sailor. Said he saw it in Essos. Those afflicted—skin turns hard as bark and stone. Even cutting off the infected part won't save them."
His face paled. "Captain, we should leave. If we catch something like that… we'd be waiting for death. It's not worth it."
Corleone seized the momentum instantly.
"It comes from across the Rhoyne," he said gravely. "The skin becomes hard, gray, and numb. The illness spreads slowly through the body. There is no cure. The victim becomes a living statue, trapped in agony, unable to scream, unable to move, waiting for death."
He let his voice drop to a chilling whisper.
"And anyone who comes near him may be infected. But since he is the eldest son of Ser Finn, we cannot abandon him. It is our duty to protect him."
A flicker of doubt finally appeared in Stao's eyes.
His instincts told him the cloaked figure was suspicious—but suspicion was nothing compared to fear of a plague that turned men into stone.
He stared hard at Jaime, as if trying to peel away the cloak with his gaze alone. The silence stretched, tense and suffocating. Even the horses shifted uneasily.
At last, Stao let out a harsh breath, forcing a twisted smirk onto his face.
"Damn it. Rotten luck today."
He spat into the dirt and wheeled his horse around.
"Wasted my time with a plague-ridden ghoul!"
As he began to ride away, he suddenly raised his voice and started shouting vulgar curses over his shoulder.
"Come on! Let's go hunt that incestuous beast who lies with his own sister!"
Corleone stiffened.
He knew exactly who Stao meant—and he knew exactly who was listening under that cloak.
"I heard the bastard on the Iron Throne is the kingslayer's and the whore queen's bastard son!" Stao laughed crudely. "The lion family? Bah! The cursed family, more like! The Gods must be punishing them—giving birth to a demon no taller than a Half-man!"
Corleone felt his heart skip.
He recognized these insults. He knew which buttons they pressed. These were words meant to scar Jaime's pride and spit on everything he held dear.
"I bet Tywin Lannister's wife was gnawed to death from the bottom up by that little demon!"
"Hahahaha!"
The filth grew worse. Each word struck like a hammer.
Corleone's instincts screamed.
Damn it.
He knew Jaime too well—his love for his sister, his pain over his mother, his complicated emotions toward Tyrion. These insults weren't just words. They were claws dragging across the core of Jaime Lannister's identity.
Corleone's muscles tensed. He gave subtle signals to Yigo and Brienne—prepare to restrain him if needed.
But to his surprise, Jaime did not leap forward. He did not snarl, shout, or break.
Only once—when his mother was insulted—did his body give the slightest tremor beneath the cloak.
Stao continued shouting until his voice cracked with dryness, but received no reaction at all.
Growing bored and dissatisfied that his target had not risen to the bait, he finally waved his hand.
"Move out!"
The riders turned and galloped away along the lakeside road, disappearing behind a bend in the woods.
Only when the dust finally settled, and the wind and soft lap of waves were the only sounds remaining, did the tension gradually dissipate.
At last, the gray hood was lifted.
A pale, jointed hand pulled it back, revealing golden hair that glimmered like sunlight piercing through storm clouds.
Jaime turned toward Corleone, who was still frowning. There was no fury on his face. No trembling rage. Instead, his expression was strangely calm.
"What is it?" Jaime asked lightly. "Did you expect me to leap forward like a dog whose tail was stepped on? To drag us all to death because some fool Rickard Karstark employs lacks manners?"
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.
"I am Jaime Lannister," he said. "My life is worth far more than theirs."
Corleone exhaled, shaking his head with an incredulous smile.
He wondered who, in the future, would dare to charge a dragon alone with only a spear.
That day had not come yet—but it would.
"Just wait, Vito," Jaime murmured, his gaze fixed on the road the riders had taken. A spark of cold determination flared in his eyes.
"When I return to King's Landing, I will make that foul-mouthed Harag Stao pay for every word he spat today."
He lifted his chin.
"Do not forget—"
"A Lannister always pays his debts."
Corleone blinked, then a genuine smile tugged at his lips.
This Jaime was different. The impulsive arrogance of youth had been scraped away—painfully—by loss, humiliation, and hardship. The missing hand, the long road, the helplessness… all of it had reshaped him.
What remained was something sharper. Harder. More dangerous.
"You've matured, Jaime," Corleone said sincerely.
Jaime lifted an eyebrow, ready with a sarcastic retort.
But before he could speak—
RUMBLE.
The sound of hooves returned—louder, faster, frenzied.
Shouting erupted in the distance.
"Catch that damned dog
!!"
"Get Arya Stark back!!!"
The words hit like a sudden bolt of lightning.
Corleone's eyes widened.
The tension snapped back into place.
Something far bigger was coming.