"Arya Stark!"
The shout split the air like a bolt of lightning.
Everyone froze. Hearts clenched. Even the wind seemed to pause. The name carried weight—fear, duty, legend, and consequence all at once.
Brienne reacted the fastest. Her tall, armored body jolted with shock, and for a moment she could not even comprehend why. Arya Stark, the girl she had sworn to find—the girl who should have been far away in King's Landing—was somehow here, in the Riverlands. More than that, she was being hunted.
"Miss Stark is in danger!" Brienne roared, the words bursting from her chest like instinct rather than thought.
Her oath to Catelyn Tully was carved into her bones. Protecting the Stark daughters was not merely a mission; it was the measure of her honor, her worth, her existence.
Without waiting for Corleone's command, she slammed her heels into her horse's sides. The massive warhorse neighed and launched forward like an arrow shot from a longbow.
"Damn it! After her!" Corleone cursed, spurring his own mount.
Jaime followed immediately, jaw tight but eyes sharp. Yigo and Worton exchanged only a brief glance before charging after them. Whatever differences, pride, or doubts existed among them—none of it mattered now. Brienne could not be allowed to ride into danger alone.
Their horses bounded up a low hill dotted sparsely with trees. From its crest, the land below came into view, and the scene made every rider tense.
Roughly twenty Northern soldiers formed a tight ring around a lone knight mounted on a towering black warhorse. The knight was massive, armor caked in dirt and blood, and wore no helmet. His face was unmistakable—scarred, twisted, half-burned, terrifying to behold.
Sandor Clegane.
The Hound.
And in his arms—desperately protected—was a small figure disguised as a short-haired boy.
Corleone's eyes narrowed.
He knew that face. He knew that story. He knew that girl.
Arya Stark—without question.
But something was wrong. This was not where she should be. According to the timeline Corleone remembered from the original story, Arya and The Hound should still be traveling toward Riverrun or the Twins—not here by the shores of the Gods Eye.
Had his presence altered events? Had he caused a butterfly effect? Was fate already unraveling?
He couldn't tell. And now wasn't the time.
"Miss Stark!" Brienne cried again, her voice cracking with urgency as she prepared to ride down the slope.
She could not watch. She could not wait. Her honor would not allow it. Arya Stark—the child she swore to save—was right there, surrounded by armed soldiers thirsty for blood.
"Calm down, Brienne!" Corleone snapped, grabbing her reins before she could charge.
He jerked his chin toward the battlefield. "Look! If we rush down now, we don't save them—we die with them!"
"But that is Miss Stark!" Brienne protested, eyes blazing, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. "I swore to Lady Catelyn that I would bring both her daughters home alive—"
"I know," Corleone answered firmly, meeting her gaze. "We are not abandoning her. But we need a plan. Understand?"
Then he added, almost casually:
"And don't forget—my hundred gold dragons are still on that dog-faced bastard."
Jaime spoke next, voice surprisingly calm. "She's right, Brienne. I don't know why Miss Stark is with The Hound, but there are more than twenty well-armed northern soldiers down there. We wouldn't stand a chance."
Then he nodded at Corleone. "Trust him. He always finds a way."
Brienne's breath came fast and uneven. Her eyes flicked between Arya—small, cornered, helpless—and her companions beside her.
She remembered:
Corleone had been right every time so far.
Jaime had swallowed humiliation and held his temper for the sake of the group.
Her own impulse could get them all killed.
That was not chivalry. That was recklessness.
Slowly, she loosened her grip on the reins. Her shoulders stayed tense, but she held her position.
Corleone exhaled in relief.
Below them, the desperate fight unfolded.
Sandor Clegane fought like a cornered beast. Despite holding Arya, he swung his sword with brutal precision. Every strike was heavy, deliberate, and fueled by rage. Three fell. Then two more. For a moment, the northern soldiers hesitated, intimidated by pure ferocity.
But even The Hound could not fight twenty men alone while carrying a child.
A warhammer smashed into his back with a sickening thud.
"Take my hammer, you mad dog!" shouted Harag Stao, the Karstark captain.
The Hound toppled from his horse, falling heavily with Arya in his grasp. Blood sprayed from his mouth, splattering across her shoulder.
"The Hound!" Arya gasped, scrambling out of his arms.
He had shielded her through the fall, taking the full impact. His breath rattled, his eyes unfocused—he could no longer fight.
Arya's jaw tightened. She drew her thin Braavosi blade and shifted into the stance Syrio Forel had taught her.
But she was still only a child.
Harag Stao rode forward and punched her hard across the face. Arya crumpled to the dirt, stunned and unable to rise.
"Hahaha!" Stao bellowed triumphantly. "Did you see that, Lord Rickard? I have captured the little wolf of House Stark!"
He raised his voice so every man could hear.
"Robb Stark murdered you, and now I will drag his sister before him! I will make him kneel—make him confess his sins in front of every northern bannerman!"
"I will make him repent beneath the Karstark sunburst banner!"
His arrogance echoed across the field—until a panicked soldier rushed to him.
"Captain! Bad news! Hogg—Hogg's thigh was stabbed! The bleeding won't stop!"
Stao's expression shattered. The joy drained from his face.
Hogg was not merely a soldier. He was a childhood companion—a brother in all but blood.
"Damn it!" Stao roared. "Find someone! A maester, a doctor, a monk—anyone who can save him! Bring him to me!"
"Hogg cannot die!"
Up on the hill, Corleone heard every word.
A spark flashed in his eyes.
A plan.
A dangerous, ridiculous, brilliant plan.
"It seems," he murmured, lips curling into a grin, "I have to return to my old profession."
He glanced at Jaime and gave a subtle nod—one that meant:
Play along. Trust me. This is our way in.
Jaime understood immediately. He lifted his hooded cloak once more.
Corleone straightened, filled his lungs, and shouted loudly enough for the nearby soldiers to hear:
"Young Lord Derick, stop fidgeting! Trust me—no one in the Riverlands c
an cure your illness except me!"
Then, with theatrical indignation, he added:
"Because I… am the best doctor in all the Riverlands!"