"Damn you…"
The first to react was The Hound—his voice exploding like a kicked hornet's nest. Yet almost instantly, his expression twisted into something mocking and cruel, his laughter cutting through the tense air like a jagged blade.
"Hah! You idiot!" he barked, baring his teeth in a sneer. "That girl? She's nothing but my captive. I was planning to haul her to Riverrun and get myself a fortune in ransom from the King in the North!"
He tugged against the ropes binding him, shaking with derisive laughter.
"And you think you can threaten me with her?" he spat. "Hahaha!"
The harsh, unrestrained laughter echoed through the trees, reaching Arya's ears with humiliating clarity. Her head jerked up, confusion flashing first through her storm-grey eyes—only for that confusion to ignite into a wildfire of fury and hurt.
Damn The Hound!
Just moments ago, she had actually—shamefully—considered speaking in his defense. The realization stung worse than a slap.
"Damn you, The Hound!" she screamed, voice cracking under rage and betrayal.
Feeling wounded to her core, Arya unleashed words sharp enough to draw blood.
"You pock-faced monster! You deserve every burn your brother gave you! You're nothing but a mangy mad dog nobody wants. I curse you to the seventh hell!"
The venom in her voice erupted like a string of firecrackers—raw, filthy, street-learned profanity accumulated from days wandering the Riverlands. Even The Hound, master of foul language himself, froze for a second in stunned disbelief.
Then he curled his lips into a mocking smirk, forcing out a performance of exaggerated anger.
"You little brat—say that again!" he snarled. "When I get free, I'll choke you first, then knock off your skull and use it as a drinking cup!"
"Come on then!" Arya shot back without hesitation. "You useless piece of dead dog meat!"
"You're more disgusting than Joffrey and Cersei!"
"Fuck! You think I don't dare?!"
The exchange escalated rapidly, devolving into a vicious back-and-forth of the foulest insults either could muster—echoing through the woods with startling volume. The sudden, chaotic quarrel shattered what just moments ago had been a tense interrogation filled with suspicion and danger.
The Northmen soldiers stared, dumbfounded.
Wait…
This… did not look like a pair with affectionate ties.
They had been ready to storm forward—ready to avenge the supposed insult, ready to defend what they assumed was a hostage relationship that threatened the North's honor. But watching now, hearing the venom and animosity, the soldiers collectively faltered.
Their eyes slowly drifted toward the same person.
Corleone.
Without realizing it, after witnessing several clever deductions over days of marching, the entire group had begun instinctively relying on Corleone's assessment before making decisions. He had become their guide, their strategist, their voice of logic.
Corleone stepped forward with practiced calm.
"Please compose yourself, Miss Stark," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Such vulgar and unrefined language does not suit a noble daughter of House Stark."
"I'm not a lady—I'm a swordswoman!" Arya snapped back without missing a beat. Still frothing with fury, she swung immediately from insulting The Hound to firing at Corleone, unable to stop the tirade pouring from her mouth. "My swordmaster was the First Sword of Braavos! He could cut down all of you by himself!"
"Hah!"
The Hound erupted into laughter again, louder and crueler.
"The First Sword who died to Meryn Fucking Trant?" he mocked. "My grandmother with a sword could have cut down ten Meryn Trants—if she were still alive!"
Arya's cheeks burned red with rage.
"I told you—he didn't have a sword at the time!"
The Hound scoffed louder. "What am I hearing? A First Sword without a sword?"
The bickering resumed, circling back into chaos, but this time Corleone's patience had reached its end.
He turned slightly.
"I need him quiet for a moment, Your Grace," Corleone said calmly.
Reg understood instantly. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and delivered a brutal knee to The Hound's groin.
The Hound wheezed, eyes bulging, breath stolen. The camp collectively winced.
Corleone's own thighs tightened reflexively in sympathetic pain before he continued, now pointing a finger toward The Hound.
"Although I do not understand why a loyal Lannister hound would concern himself so deeply with a Stark girl," he said slowly, clearly, deliberately, "I can say this—your acting is far too clumsy."
Corleone straightened, letting the subtle aura of Prestige Lv.2 radiate outward—steady, composed, authoritative. His gaze swept across the camp, drawing every soldier into the gravity of his words.
"There is only one truth."
He let silence hang for effect.
"This Hound clearly wishes to protect her, yet attempts to conceal it with crude acting. He never imagined that such a sloppy performance would fail to deceive us."
He paused, then added grandly:
"Because we are all quite intelligent."
Silence.
The camp hung for a breath in awkward stillness.
Then—slap!
"That's right!" a soldier shouted suddenly, slapping his thigh. "I knew something was wrong!"
"You reacted too slowly!" another retorted immediately, as though he had known the truth all along. "This Hound is obviously pretending to hate her! Trying to fool us!"
"Sly dog thought he could hide it from my wise eyes!"
Within seconds, every soldier was loudly claiming that they had seen through the deception from the start, none willing to admit they'd been completely misled mere moments ago.
Arya stared at Corleone, icy rage flooding her veins. Never—never, not even when facing Cersei—had she felt such raw disgust at manipulation so shameless, so precise, so twisting of truth.
"You…" she seethed.
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but fury so sharp it cut her tongue.
"You…"
She glared into Corleone's eyes, her Stark-born steel flashing.
"Tell me your name, you bastard!"
She swore silently, fiercely, that she would carve this man's name into her revenge list—at the very top.
But Corleone did not grow angry. Instead, he slowly lowered himself into a crouch to meet her eye-to-eye, a faint and unreadable smile forming at his lips.
"Names do not matter, girl," he murmured.
His next words were soft, barely above a whisper—yet they struck Arya like thunder.
"Valar morghulis."
The phrase detonated inside her skull.
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes widened.
Because Corleone had not spoken in the common tongue—but in the secret words, the very phrase whispered by Jaqen H'ghar:
All men must die.
Who… was this doctor?
Corleone straightened, satisfied. He had not expected the phrase—one he had only overheard years ago from a prostitute in Harrenhal—to become such a powerful tool.
To the Northmen, Arya now looked speechless—frightened, exposed. They interpreted her shock as guilt.
"Hah! The girl has nothing to say!" Reg crowed.
"Doctor, stop wasting time!" he shouted. "Do it!"
"Use the cruelest method you know—make her scream!"
"Yes! Do it!"
"Make her cry!"
"Let's see how long this wild dog can endure!"
Whipped into frenzy, the soldiers brandished their weapons, hollering in excitement. The air thickened with bloodlust and expectation.
Corleone stumbled slightly, face blank, unreadable. He reached silently toward Arya, fingers moving as though to untie her ropes.
And then—
A shout split the
air:
"Stop right there, you damned southerners!"
Another voice roared:
"What do you fools think you're doing to Miss Stark?!"
The forest exploded with movement.
more chapter available in p@tréøñ(Atoki_29)