Chapter 13 – A Shattered Cup as the Signal
Thanks to Urswyck, the wagon mired in the mud still hadn't been freed by the time the sun sank below the horizon.
Night fell, and the Brave Companions had no choice but to make camp along the muddy Riverlands road.
The campfire crackled loudly. The stench of cheap ale, burnt meat, and unwashed bodies blended thickly in the air.
Vargo Hoat lounged beneath a crooked tree a short distance from the fire, stolen blankets piled beneath him. In the flickering light, his face bore a sickly flush.
His cloudy eyes swept over his boisterous men, lingering briefly on Urswyck's face—plastered with its usual false smile—before moving on to Iggo, who stood silently at his side.
"Did you notify them?" Vargo asked.
"I told Zorro and the other two," Iggo nodded, then answered bluntly.
"As soon as they hear someone shout 'Long live the Brave Companions,' they'll strike. Urswyck and his men will be killed."
"And the others?"
"I didn't tell them," Iggo replied plainly. "They can't be trusted."
Vargo smiled in satisfaction.
"You're the one I trust most."
"Don't worry. Once we deal with the trouble on the road and reach Harrenhal, you'll be deputy commander. Whatever I have, you'll have as well."
A grand promise—but Iggo answered only with silence.
Vargo felt a flicker of awkwardness.
The Dothraki had many virtues, but flattery wasn't one of them. A man like that was dependable, yes—but somehow it felt like something was missing.
If he'd said those words to Urswyck, the man would've immediately gushed something like "My loyalty to you is as endless as the Blackwater" or "as unstoppable as the flooded Green Fork."
Then again… if Iggo did speak like that, Vargo probably wouldn't trust him half as much.
You gain some things. You lose others.
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The noise around the fire grew louder. The mercenaries ate and drank merrily; a few men on the fringes were already drunk enough to start singing.
Urswyck laughed loudly as he clinked cups with those beside him, but the corner of his eye never left Vargo.
Seeing Vargo and Iggo speaking in low voices—even without hearing a word—made his heart jolt.
I can't wait any longer.
He took a sip of wine looted from the farm, then discreetly spat it out when no one was looking.
Then, without drawing attention, he flicked a glance toward Rorge at the edge of the crowd.
Rorge understood immediately.
Swaying as if drunk, he staggered through the camp toward Odin, who stood alone by a tree—one of the fringe figures, excluded from the feast, seemingly idle.
As he walked, Rorge loosened his belt as though about to piss. When he passed Odin, he deliberately slammed into him.
"Watch where you're going, blind idiot!" Rorge barked crudely.
He looked completely drunk.
Yet in the instant their bodies brushed, he slipped a short dagger into Odin's hand with practiced subtlety.
"Hold on to it," Rorge murmured close to Odin's ear. His slurred voice sharpened instantly.
"When you hear someone shout 'Long live the Brave Companions,' move in and kill that Dothraki bastard."
The cold metal pressed against his palm.
Odin froze for a heartbeat, almost wondering if he'd misheard.
'Long live the Brave Companions'?
Well then… the captain and the deputy really are on the same wavelength.
Outwardly, however, Odin showed nothing.
He smoothly slid the dagger into the wide sleeve of his tattered coat and forced a nervous smile.
"When the time comes… please keep an eye on me, Lord Rorge," he said quietly.
"I might not be a match for him."
"The Seven will watch over you, boy," Rorge replied gruffly.
Then he staggered away, disappearing back into the firelight.
Rorge snorted coldly. Now that Odin had clearly been marked as expendable, his attitude had grown noticeably harsher.
He gave Odin's shoulder a perfunctory pat, then slipped back into the role of a drunken lout, staggering away and melting into the noisy crowd.
The bonfire burned higher. Alcohol began to take effect. The singing grew increasingly warped and obscene, crude jokes bursting out one after another.
Yet the true core members of both factions barely drank at all. Each harbored their own schemes, watching the expressions of others with care. A counterfeit sense of merriment hung thick in the air.
Vargo felt the strength being siphoned from his body bit by bit by the raging fever. He knew this was his last chance.
"Urswyck."
His voice wasn't loud, yet it cut through the noise and drew everyone's attention.
Urswyck's laughter stopped abruptly. He turned, locking eyes with Vargo. The false smile on his face stiffened—then bloomed even wider.
He set his cup down, waved for his men to continue, and rose at a leisurely pace. One hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword as he walked over.
"What is it, boss?"
Seeing how guarded Urswyck already was, Vargo didn't rebuke him. He simply pointed toward a bare, ancient oak tree at the edge of the camp.
"Over there. It's quieter."
Urswyck's eyes flickered. He glanced at Iggo, then at the noisy crowd that had subtly split into two camps. In the end, he nodded.
"Sure thing, boss."
He followed Vargo with an exaggerated stagger, acting drunk. Iggo moved to follow—but Vargo raised a hand, stopping him.
Away from the fire, the cold night wind made Vargo shiver again. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, looking worn and haggard.
Leaning against the rough bark of the leafless oak, he breathed heavily. Urswyck stopped a few steps away, arms crossed, wearing that nauseatingly concerned smile—his eyes sharp and calculating.
As if weighing the odds of killing him right now.
After a moment's thought, he decided against it.
For all his sickness, Vargo Hoat's swordsmanship was acknowledged by everyone. Even weakened, Urswyck wasn't confident he could win a one-on-one fight.
"Urswyck…"
After a brief rest, Vargo finally spoke.
His voice was hoarse and tired—but sincere.
"Do you remember? Back in the Stepstones, when we ran into that storm and nearly fed the sharks? Or later in Qohor, when you took an arrow for me while we were stealing that cargo of silk—you almost died."
Urswyck's smile faded slightly, memories clearly stirred.
But he stayed silent.
"We fought our way here together, from Essos," Vargo continued, his voice low, tinged with emotion.
"For what?"
"To carve out a foothold in Westeros. To finally have somewhere to belong."
"And now we do—Harrenhal. Even if Roose Bolton named me lord, I never thought of it as mine alone. It was earned by all of us."
Vargo paused deliberately, watching Urswyck's reaction.
"Boss! You still remember all that?"
Urswyck stepped forward half a pace, instinctively slipping back into his familiar act of loyalty.
"Taking that arrow for you was only right! Without you leading us, we'd have rotted in the gutters of the Free Cities!"
"To be honest, boss, my respect for you is as endless as the Blackwater, as unstoppable as the flooding Green Fork—"
"Enough."
This time, Vargo was the one at a loss for words.
Seeing that Urswyck was still putting on a performance, he took a deep breath and spoke gravely.
"The King in the North keeps winning. Most of the Riverlands are already in his hands. The balance of the war has tipped north. Our choice wasn't wrong."
"But Roose Bolton—the Leech Lord—do you really think he'll let us sit peacefully in Harrenhal as lords?"
"I've long noticed his ties with Tywin Lannister. If I die—"
Vargo stared straight at Urswyck.
"How long do you think the Brave Companions will last? Bolton would sell you out in an instant to appease Lannister fury."
As Vargo spoke, Urswyck's brow furrowed.
Painfully enough, the man was right.
If that was the case, was his only option to use the Kingslayer as a pledge and defect to Tywin Lannister?
Just as Odin had said—Vargo cut off Jaime Lannister's hand. What did that have to do with Urswyck?
But then again…
If the King in the North truly won the war, would the title of Lord of Harrenhal ever fall to him?
His thoughts raced wildly, weighing gains and losses. Without realizing it, Urswyck's resolve to strike that night began to waver.
Vargo caught the subtle change instantly and threw out his final bait.
"Don't be stupid… my old friend."
"As long as I make it back to Harrenhal, that cursed castle remains ours. Gold. Women. Power. Whatever I have—you'll have too."
"Harrenhal…"
Urswyck whispered the word, greed blazing in his eyes.
The greatest castle in the Seven Kingdoms—worth more than a Lord's title.
After a long silence, his smile slowly returned.
Vargo was right. Even if he killed Vargo on the road, Roose Bolton would never give him Harrenhal.
As for defecting to Tywin…
He couldn't be sure whether a one-handed Kingslayer might whisper poisonous lies in King's Landing.
It was a gamble he didn't dare take.
After much deliberation, Urswyck smiled again.
"Just as I said, boss."
"My respect for you is as endless as the Blackwater. Without you, the Brave Companions wouldn't be anything."
He spoke with deep sincerity and extended his arm.
Vargo let out a breath of relief and laughed happily.
Resolving an impending rebellion without bloodshed—minimizing losses to the greatest extent.
He truly was a brilliant commander.
Vargo reached out and clasped Urswyck's arm tightly, the captain and deputy seemingly reconciled at last.
But just as he was about to clap Urswyck on the shoulder and suggest returning to the fire for a drink—
A heart-rending scream suddenly tore through the crowd.
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"LONG LIVE THE BRAVE COMPANIONS!!!"