Pick up the sword!

On the edge of the chaotic battlefield, Jaime Lannister and Brienne stood back to back.

The left hand gripping the dagger kept applying pressure until the tough rope snapped. Brienne gave a hard wrench, and the bindings fell loose.

They were free again, but the scene before them left them somewhat bewildered.

The camp had become a slaughterhouse. The Brave Companions had split into several groups and were hacking madly at one another, making no distinction between friend and foe.

Firelight danced across twisted, savage faces. Blood and severed limbs lay everywhere.

"Which side should we help?"

Brienne's blue eyes were full of confusion.

For a moment, the chaos before her left even someone of her considerable fighting prowess unsure where to begin.

Jaime flexed his newly freed left hand, swept his green eyes over the battlefield, and scoffed. "Who cares? Just kill whoever catches your eye!"

"They're all bandits who belong in the Seven Hells anyway. Clear them out, and even the air in the Riverlands will be fresher."

Brienne nodded in wholehearted agreement.

Before these men had abducted her, she had encountered and killed her share of bandits and villains, but never had a single band disgusted her so much.

These Brave Companions seemed to embody all the evil in the world.

Just as she was about to join the battle, a burly figure stumbled amid the melee and fell right at her feet.

Brienne looked down, and the two found themselves like the one-eyed Xiahou Dun facing the three-eyed Yang Jian, four eyes meeting.

"Waaaagh!!!!"

"Waaaagh!!!"

Both roared at once, but Brienne's voice was clearly louder and mightier. Reacting with extraordinary speed, she spread her broad arms, locked them around his throat, and put him in a rear naked choke!

The man was powerfully built himself and struggled constantly, only to discover to his astonishment that he could not break free!

This woman's strength was utterly absurd!

Modern medicine had established that choking someone unconscious took at least thirty or forty seconds, but every second counted now.

Just as the two were locked in a stalemate.

Shunk-

The dagger slipped easily through a gap in the leather armor and plunged deep into the man's heart, ending the fight cleanly.

"Killing requires a weapon, my lady."

Jaime pulled out the dagger, wiped the blood on the dead man's clothes, and raised an eyebrow at the slightly breathless Brienne.

"Your way is far too inefficient."

Yet in response to his help, Brienne looked at the corpse on the ground, then at the dagger in Jaime's hand, her brow furrowed and her face full of disapproval.

"That was not chivalrous, Kingslayer."

She pursed her lips, bent down, and picked up the longsword the enemy had dropped.

Before Jaime could argue, she roared, "Waaaagh!!!!" and charged into the fray.

Clearly, being kept bound all these days had left her thoroughly pent up.

"Tch."

Annoyed at being called "Kingslayer," Jaime spat and watched her retreating figure without rashly following.

Was there no room in that woman's head for anything besides honor and duty?

Chivalry, with these men, in a place like this?

Was she joking?

Just then, a calm voice sounded above his head.

"Live without being a hero. Simply staying alive is enough, Ser Jaime Lannister."

Jaime jerked his head up. At some point, Corleone had climbed a large tree behind him and was now looking down over everything.

The firelight cast mottled shadows across his face, obscuring his expression. Only the calm emanating from those fathomless black eyes could be discerned.

"Once times have changed, heroes... seem a little foolish, don't they?"

Corleone's voice was quiet, yet carried a peculiar persuasiveness, as though he were stating the simplest of facts.

Jaime paused, then scoffed again. His gaze turned toward the distant shadows, his voice clear and strong. "I'm afraid I cannot agree, Master Corleone."

"Some things, even when you know they're foolish, know they're impossible, even know they'll cost you everything... still give you reasons why you must do them!"

Beneath the oak, the struggle had ended.

Vargo Hoat spat out a mouthful of shredded flesh, panting violently. Where his left eye had been, only a bloody, mangled socket remained.

He had won.

He had killed the traitor, biting through his throat like a wild beast, but it had cost him an eye.

Clambering unsteadily off Urswyck's corpse, Vargo was terribly weak. His high fever and the excessive blood loss from his wounds left him dizzy, barely able to stand.

He stared ahead. The camp still rang with cries of slaughter, everyone killing one another as though they had gone mad, attacking those beside them wildly with their weapons.

Watching the Brave Companions he had built with his own hands head toward self-destruction before his eyes, Vargo did not step forward to stop the infighting. Instead, he turned and left.

In his current condition, he could barely protect himself, let alone muster any strength to suppress this rebellion.

Vargo staggered toward the edge of the woods. His gaze swept the ground, and he suddenly spotted his broadsword.

Instinctively, he bent to pick it up. Yet just as his fingertips were about to touch the hilt, a mud-covered boot came down on the blade.

At the same time, something sharp and cold touched his neck, pressing beneath his chin and forcing him to lift his head.

As his gaze rose, Vargo's one remaining eye finally saw clearly.

The Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister.

The man had somehow acquired a longsword, which he held firmly in his remaining left hand against Vargo's neck. Filthy golden hair clung to his forehead, and his green eyes held not a trace of warmth in the shadows.

His tall frame had grown somewhat gaunt from prolonged captivity and pain, but standing there now, he was like an insurmountable wall.

Vargo froze for a moment.

Then he grinned, exposing bloodstained teeth, and mocked him with an air of indifference. "Well, look here. Isn't this our noble Ser Jaime Lannister?"

"What, don't want your other hand either?"

As he spoke, his gaze swept over Jaime's empty right sleeve. He tried to straighten up and display his authority as commander, but his swaying body betrayed just how weak he was.

Jaime stood quietly, clearly catching the flicker of panic in Vargo's lone eye.

"I have never met anyone as shameless as you, Vargo Hoat."

His voice was steady, yet sounded as though he were pronouncing a death sentence upon the guilty. "People are always cursing someone to the Seven Hells, but I truly think... no place could suit you better."

Vargo spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, malice gleaming in his remaining eye, and cursed, "You're no better than me, Kingslayer!"

"You're a traitor! You have a king's blood on your hands! We're the same sort!"

"Come on, drive it in! I'll wait for you in hell. Maybe they've already prepared a place for you there!"

He bellowed, trying to bolster his bluster with a curse that would doom them both.

Yet Jaime saw through that false courage with ease.

"What a pity."

The eldest son of Casterly Rock slowly shook his head, his tone carrying an almost pitying solemnity and resolve.

"I am not as shameless as you, Vargo Hoat. Even against a wretch like you, I am willing to offer a chance at a fair duel."

Then, under Vargo's incredulous gaze, Jaime actually took a small step back and lifted his foot off the broadsword!

"Pick up the sword."

Jaime's voice abruptly rose as he commanded, "I said, pick up the sword!"