Friends

At dawn, thin mist began rising over the River Road again.

The heavy smell of blood hung over the camp. The fires had long since died, and the battle cries had ceased. Clearly, this long-planned internal revolt was over.

Already bewildered by the sudden fighting, and then subjected to indiscriminate slaughter by two formidable fighters, Yego and Brienne, almost none of the Brave Companions caught in last night's melee had survived.

In the woods, the silent Dothraki moved swiftly between the trees, occasionally bending to scavenge useful things from the bodies.

Coin purses, weapons, and rations still fit to eat.

His movements were efficient, his face expressionless, as though he were merely harvesting ripe crops.

Of course, the Dothraki never farmed.

Nearby, Brienne knelt on one knee, bracing herself on her sword, her forehead pressed against the back of her hand. No one knew what she was murmuring, though it was probably something from the teachings of the Seven, such as "the Father, the Mother."

In the center of the camp, beneath a relatively clean oak tree.

Corleone held his small surgical knife. After repeatedly passing it through a flame, he focused on treating Jaime Lannister's severed wrist.

With limited supplies and the Brave Companions watching them like hawks, the earlier dressing and treatment had been crude, doing no more than slowing tissue death around the wound as much as possible and roughly stopping the bleeding.

Now, in this rare moment of peace, Corleone could finally put his true skills to work.

After his "experiment" on Vargo Hoat, Corleone's nerves had become utterly steady. Even operating in surroundings teeming with germs did not disturb him in the slightest.

Perhaps some unseen force had decreed that Ser Jaime Lannister was not meant to die.

After all, after having his hand chopped off, the man had not only rolled in mud but also come into contact with filth such as horse piss and dung, yet his wound showed no sign of infection.

Corleone simply could not explain it through science and could only credit a miracle of fate.

The blade precisely sliced through blackened, festering flesh, removing the necrotic tissue beyond saving.

His movements were methodical, with an almost effortless natural grace to them. His expression was intensely focused, as though he saw none of the bodies scattered around him.

Only a certain someone silently endured the pain.

"Urgh! Aaaah!!!!!"

"Ugh! Hoo, hoo!!!"

Cold sweat covered Jaime's forehead. Even with his teeth clenched, he could not help letting out exaggerated cries of pain.

His remaining intact hand dug fiercely into the earth beneath him, sand filling even the gaps under his nails.

"Relax, ser."

Corleone did not look up, his voice as steady as though he were discussing the weather. "Your screams are more piercing than a little girl's being violated by a septon."

"Oh, I almost forgot. Septons don't like little girls."

"Were you ever harassed by a septon when you were young, Ser Jaime? Ah, listen to what I'm saying. You're Tywin Lannister's eldest son. All of Casterly Rock belongs to your family. Who would dare?"

"Shut up, Corleone!"

Seeing Corleone keep teasing him while cutting away his flesh, Jaime sucked air through his teeth and gave a low growl.

The man was a complete chatterbox. How had I not noticed sooner!

"Of course you can stand there making flippant remarks when the knife isn't cutting into you. Why don't we switch places and try... aaaah!!!!!"

Jaime resorted to his habitual sarcasm, trying to fight the pain with it, only for Corleone to make another cut with impeccable timing.

"Indeed, ser."

Cleanly slicing away a small piece of rotten flesh, Corleone stopped teasing him and offered sincere praise instead. "To endure pain like this without an anesthetic, and not even faint from it-I have to say, you truly are a tough man."

"At least, much tougher than that Vargo Hoat."

At that, Jaime, who had been grimacing in pain, immediately broke into a happy smile.

Having his hand chopped off by Vargo Hoat was arguably the greatest loss he had suffered in his life. Hearing Corleone say he was stronger than that man made him feel immensely better.

Neither spoke again, and the operation continued in silence, broken by occasional cries of pain.

Once the last of the rotten flesh had been removed and the wound perfectly stitched closed, Corleone cleaned it again with boiled water and a clean cloth, then applied honey and gave it a final dressing.

His movements were gentle and professional. At the end, he even deftly tied a rather exquisite bow.

The scene, originally filled with suffering and tragic resolve, instantly took on a touch of absurd comedy.

Jaime stared at the incongruous bow on his wrist, all the sweat on his face unable to hide his strange expression.

Still, he grinned, though his smile looked somewhat distorted.

"Your medical skills... are astonishingly good, Corleone. When it comes to treating wounds alone, I even think that old bastard Pycelle is a little worse than you."

Jaime offered his sincere approval. His gaze fell on Corleone's bare neck, where there was no metal chain representing his learning, and he could not help asking curiously:

"As a farmer, how did you learn to do this?"

Corleone paused slightly as he packed away his medical instruments. He raised his head, met Jaime's green eyes, and gave a faint, meaningful smile.

"Everyone in this world has their own secrets, Ser Jaime."

"Just as I've never pressed you about your past, never asked why you ended up here, and never pried into your... secrets."

"As a friend, ser, I hope you can show this hard-won friendship the same consideration."

Friends?

Jaime froze.

Looking at this "farmer" before him, dressed in rags yet calm-faced, his eyes seemingly always bottomless, an extraordinarily complicated feeling welled up inside him.

He had never met a commoner who could be so articulate, whose words held such wisdom and strength.

Nor had he ever truly felt that someone sincerely wanted to become his "friend."

Did I have friends?

He probably did. As Tywin Lannister's eldest son, the former heir to Casterly Rock, and a member of the Kingsguard, Jaime had never lacked "friends" around him since childhood, thanks to all those dazzling titles.

But he knew better than anyone that those fawning smiles and enthusiastic embraces were merely for the gold mines of Casterly Rock behind him, for his father's awe-inspiring power.

After joining the Kingsguard, he had also briefly gained some friendships.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the "White Bull," Ser Barristan Selmy, the "Bold," and even Ser Arthur Dayne, the "Sword of the Morning," who had knighted him himself.

He had gained sworn brothers of his own and truly enjoyed those hard-won friends whom he could treat sincerely as equals, even entrust with his back.

Or rather, comrades-in-arms.

Yet that friendship had not lasted long.

Only a few years later, war broke out, and his sworn brothers departed and fell in battle, one after another.

Lewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry died at the Trident. Ser Arthur and two comrades fell at the Tower of Joy.

Of the seven Kingsguard, only he and Barristan survived. Yet for killing the Mad King, he had borne the name "Kingslayer" ever since.

From then on, Barristan refused to associate with him, even taking the lead in calling Jaime "Kingslayer" in public, severing the last thread of their fellowship as brothers in white.

Friends?

He had been born into the richest family in all the Seven Kingdoms and possessed everything, yet something like friendship was an extraordinary luxury to Jaime.

And now, here in this place reeking of blood and dung, a lowborn farmer and doctor of unknown origins was looking at him with those bottomless black eyes, calmly asking him for an equal "friendship."

This was absurd, wasn't it?

"Vito Corleone."

Jaime parted his lips and looked at him earnestly. Exhausted in body and mind, he tugged up the corners of his mouth into a smile that was hardly handsome but sincere enough, then held out his only remaining hand, his left.

"Please allow me to introduce myself."

"Jaime Lannister-of the Kingsguard."