Figures moving in the distance immediately alerted the people inside the camp. The faint shuffle of boots over frozen grass and the sway of torchlight sent ripples of vigilance through the small group gathered near the bonfire. Brienne and Yigo instinctively gripped their sword hilts and stepped forward, bodies tense and ready. At first, they were relieved when they recognized Corleone leading the approaching group, but their expressions darkened the moment they noticed several Northern soldiers trailing behind him.
Jaime read the situation instantly. Without a word, he pulled the hood of his cloak up to hide his unmistakable golden hair and quietly melted into the shadows, placing himself out of sight yet within striking distance if needed.
"Where is the medicine? Doctor!"
Reg pushed forward impatiently, his voice raised even before he reached the camp's edge.
"Where is the medicine you spoke of? Hurry up and find it!" he barked, his tone thick with irritation and entitlement. His gaze swept the group with a sharpness that bordered on disdain.
Brienne, proud and straightforward by nature, felt her temper flare. She stepped forward, ready to rebuke the man for his arrogance—Northern or not—but Corleone arrived just in time.
"Easy there, Captain Reg!" Corleone said smoothly, positioning himself between Reg and the others. His expression remained calm, his smile polite and harmless. As he greeted them, his eyes flicked across the camp, subtly signaling with a small gesture across his chest.
The others caught the signal immediately. Their eyes sharpened, their posture shifted, and a silent readiness settled over them.
Corleone continued in a measured tone:
"That potion takes time to prepare. A slight difference in dosage can mean the difference between loosening The Hound's tongue… and killing him outright."
He paused just long enough for the weight of that implication to sink in before adding:
"And if we kill The Hound instead of making him talk, then we won't earn even a single copper of the forty thousand gold dragons."
His smile widened just a little, confident and assured.
"I certainly won't joke around with my business."
He spoke while walking toward the cluster of satchels piled in the corner of the camp, rummaging through them noisily to create the appearance of purposeful work.
Reg clicked his tongue in annoyance, but the reminder of the enormous bounty cooled his anger. He sat back, brooding, unaware that Corleone watched his reaction with satisfaction. The corner of Corleone's lips lifted faintly before he gestured to the empty space near the bonfire.
"The sun has set, and the night air bites hard. Come sit by the fire for a bit. I promise it will be quick."
Yigo grinned widely, his expression simple and welcoming as he shifted his hefty frame to make room.
"Yes, sit! Warm!" he said in his broken but enthusiastic speech.
Even Brienne, still bristling, stepped aside to create space. The invitation seemed casual—friendly, even—but something colder and sharper stirred beneath it.
Reg hesitated only long enough to glance at his men. They were Northerners, accustomed to harsh climates—but fire was fire, and warmth was warmth. And besides, in his eyes, this camp contained nothing that could threaten him.
A sickly-looking man.
A woman.
A hulking barbarian who barely spoke.
A quiet one who seemed almost mute.
And a knight hiding in shadows, unknown and unnoticed.
To Reg, this was no threat—only an inconvenience.
"Go," he ordered, waving his subordinates forward. He strode to the fire and took a place, though his men sat strategically—back-to-back, forming a quiet defensive formation.
Corleone continued to rummage through his satchels, clinking glass bottles and metal lids together just loudly enough to seem busy.
The pot suspended over the fire simmered gently, the meat stew inside bubbling and releasing a mouthwatering aroma. Worton used a small knife to distribute chunks of meat into portions. The group began eating without hesitation, even Jaime—still lurking in the darkness—received a portion, though he remained largely unseen.
Reg and his men could only watch, swallowing dryly. Their own supplies consisted of hard, stale rations, and the sight and smell of the stew tormented them.
"Here, have some," Worton said suddenly, skewering a piece of meat with his dagger and offering it toward Reg.
Reg blinked. So the man wasn't mute after all. The smell of the stew drifted temptingly toward him, warm and rich.
But pride, stubborn and brittle, held him back.
"No need, we brought hardtack," he replied stiffly.
A nearby soldier, who had been reaching toward the offered meat, instantly withdrew his hand, cheeks flushing at the embarrassment.
Inside the camp, the five Northern soldiers gnawed resentfully on their brittle rations, their teeth grinding, their eyes fixed on the feasting group with growing irritation and hunger. They only relaxed when Worton finished the final swallow of stew with a loud, satisfied gulp.
Just when their attention was wholly fixed on the stew, Corleone slipped something into his sleeve—a razor-sharp surgical scalpel concealed neatly in his palm.
"Captain Reg," he called casually, still facing away. "I heard you're from Caho City. Is it especially cold there?"
Reg bit into a hard chunk of bread and snorted.
"Nonsense! Is there any place in the North that isn't cold?"
He sneered.
"As for you soft Southerners, I guarantee that if you went to Caho City, your balls would freeze right off!"
Corleone chuckled lightly.
"From a medical standpoint, the freezing point of human tissue is the same for everyone. Which means—"
Reg cut him off.
"How can that be the same? We Northerners drink liquor that sets our blood on fire! We can stand naked in the wind for a full day and night—something you Southern weaklings could never do!"
Worton nearly burst into laughter, barely suppressing it.
Corleone didn't argue. He simply walked toward Reg in an easy, unthreatening manner and sat beside him, as if carried by the flow of conversation.
"The North is a fine place," he mused, "just far too cold. I've always wanted to see the Wall."
His tone shifted—light, conversational, almost friendly.
"I see you're skilled with a sword, Old Brother Reg. Lords everywhere are in need of men like you. Once you get the gold dragons, why not come with us to Duskendale?"
Reg's chewing slowed.
"Earl Lyke is close with Sir Finn. If you arrive with coin and swear fealty, a skilled man like you—why, the Earl might even grant you a viscount title if you please him."
Reg froze.
"A viscount title…"
Corleone continued, voice soft, seductive:
"Then you could build a castle. Take a wife. Have children. Live with warmth and comfort instead of frost and hunger. Isn't that better than freezing in the North forever?"
Reg's hand trembled slightly around the hardtack. The dream shimmered before him, vivid and golden.
Still, he clung to pride.
"No, no… I have already sworn fealty to House Karstark," he said stiffly. "Lord Rickard treats me well, and the honor of a Northerner—"
Pfft.
A blade pierced the soft point beneath his earlobe—the fatal triangle.
Reg's eyes bulged. Blood spurted, hot and bright, staining Corleone's cuff.
At that exact same moment, the camp erupted—not with sound, but with motion. Brienne, Yigo, Worton, and Jaime struck simultaneously—each eliminating one Northern soldier.
No screams.
No clashing of steel.
Only the thud of bodies falling and the crackle of fire.
It looked less like a fight and more like a well-practiced performance.
Reg, fading fast, realized with dawning horror that the others had repositioned themselves long before—close enough to strike, unnoticed.
Reg's vision blurred. His breath rattled. His regret arrived too late.
His last sight was Corleone beside him—the same man who had been ca
lling him "brother" moments earlier.
His last sound was a calm voice murmuring near his ear:
"Deep breaths. Dizziness is normal."