I can't bloody read!

"A white sunburst..."

Corleone narrowed his eyes at the sigil on the banner and murmured under his breath.

His mind raced through fragments of information about the great houses of Westeros from before his transmigration.

He was certain he had seen that aggressively styled design somewhere before, but for the moment, he could not remember where at all.

It felt like something was stuck in his throat.

As he struggled to remember, Walton beside him practically blurted out, "Karstark!"

"They're men of House Karstark! What are those bastards doing here?"

Karstark!

At the name, Corleone's heart gave a sudden jolt. His brows knitted instantly, and his eyes involuntarily flicked toward Jaime beside him.

Speaking of this fellow's feud with the Karstarks, that famous battle had to be brought up again.

The Battle of the Whispering Wood!

During that battle, the Kingslayer had fought with astonishing prowess, charging alone straight at the King in the North. Although he had ultimately fallen short, he had killed more than ten of Robb Stark's guards, including two sons of Earl Rickard Karstark.

As for what happened afterward...

Robb's mother, Lady Catelyn, had been so desperate to save her daughters that she had secretly released Jaime, their prisoner.

Burning with rage, Earl Rickard had soon led men into Riverrun's dungeons and killed the two prisoners, Tion Frey and William Lannister, to vent his anger.

Then, for some unfathomable fit of madness, the "just" King in the North had insisted on sentencing Earl Rickard to death over two insignificant prisoners, and had personally cut off his head.

House Karstark had broken with the Starks as a result.

As far as Corleone was concerned, not one of these people had a functioning brain. They simply did whatever came into their heads.

First, they secretly released their most important hostage, then repeatedly betrayed their most dependable and powerful ally, all while dressing it up as "justice"?

It really was... hard to put into words.

But none of that mattered. What mattered was exactly what Walton had complained about: why were these men near the Gods Eye?

After all, a little farther south lay territory held by the Lannister army!

This was no coincidence!

"They're not here with good intentions..."

He murmured so softly that he could barely hear himself, but his grave expression still left Jaime and Brienne puzzled.

After all, Corleone always looked as though he had everything under control. Even when facing Roose Bolton earlier, he had not worn an expression like this.

"Everyone, follow my orders!"

After a moment's thought, Corleone swept a serious gaze over their party, his voice clear and firm. "Keep yourselves in check. Let's find out what they want first!"

"Unless we have absolutely no other choice, do not provoke them first!"

The others all nodded in agreement. No one raised the slightest objection to Corleone giving orders.

Their party included the eldest son of Casterly Rock, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Tarth, and an outstanding Dothraki warrior.

Yet every one of them had accepted Corleone as their leader without prior agreement.

Perhaps this was a manifestation of personal charisma.

Having finished speaking, Corleone looked at the approaching party, then at Jaime.

Suddenly, something flashed through his mind, as though he had remembered something vitally important.

He quickly turned sideways, pulled open a bulging pack on his horse, hauled out a thick cloak, and tossed it to Jaime beside him.

Jaime caught the cloak reflexively, his face full of bewilderment.

"Don't argue!"

Corleone glared at him and warned sternly, "Unless you want your head cut off like Karstark, put it on right now!"

"Oh, and remember to pull up the hood. Hide that pretty golden hair of yours!"

Rumble~~~~

The rapid pounding of hooves stopped abruptly some twenty paces in front of Corleone and his companions.

The dust they had kicked up slowly drifted away, revealing the northern cavalry.

More than twenty horsemen sat silently on their reined-in mounts. Utterly unlike the refined splendor of southern knights, their clothing and equipment displayed the rugged ferocity of northerners.

Most wore crudely forged black iron half-helms and badly worn mail, covered with a thick layer of animal hide.

From the material, one could just make out wolf, bear, and even seal skins.

Their weapons were equally varied: great two-handed swords, heavy battle-axes, maces, and the broad-bladed spears common in the North.

Their skin was rough, and almost every man looked weather-beaten.

Although there were not very many of them, the combined ferocity of these northerners was enough to strike fear into the heart.

Their leader was a burly man riding an exceptionally tall northern warhorse.

His beard was very thick and streaked with gray, and he wore a gray wolfskin cloak over his clothes.

He did not begin by demanding answers or announcing his identity. He merely urged his horse slowly forward, surveying Corleone's party as though sizing up prey.

"Ser..."

"I'm no bloody 'ser'!"

Corleone stepped forward, intending to negotiate and show his sincerity, but the man rudely interrupted him the moment he opened his mouth.

With an exaggerated expression, the man raised a warhammer and shouted at the sky, "Those things are bloody nonsense! Nothing but a bunch of pansies hiding inside their armor! But their armor can't stop my hammer. One smash, and it crumples!"

"How many 'knights' have I smashed the heads of since we came south, Hogg?"

"Lost count long ago, Captain!"

"Ha ha ha!!!"

At that, all the northern soldiers burst out laughing.

They pounded their shields and saddles or waved their weapons, letting out shrill whistles and meaningless battle cries.

Corleone's frown deepened at the sight.

He was not afraid of dealing with men like Roose Bolton, or even Tywin Lannister, because they at least followed certain rules, however cruel and dark those rules might be.

What gave him the biggest headache was precisely this sort of utter military thug.

These men had nothing but slaughter and hatred in their heads. They would never give you a chance to reason with them, and at the slightest disagreement, they might swing a blade at you before you even finished speaking.

Still, he forced down his irritation and tried to communicate again, his tone more cautious. "My lord..."

"I'm Harag Stow, captain of the late Earl Rickard Karstark's most trusted personal guard!"

The man interrupted Corleone again, shouting loudly.

But at the mention of the dead earl, a flicker of hatred passed through his eyes. "We're looking for the Kingslayer, boy!"

"Have you or your people seen that bastard who beds his queen sister?"

At those words, Corleone could clearly sense Jaime's body give an involuntary tremble beneath the cloak.

Clearly, the man's tone had angered him.

"The Kingslayer?"

"No! Captain Harag Stow!"

Corleone hurriedly stepped forward again, drawing the man's attention entirely to himself.

He shook his head and answered in as innocent and weary a tone as he could manage, "We're kinsmen of Ser Fenri Yordel. The farm we depended on for our livelihood was destroyed by a group called the Brave Companions."

"To stay alive, we had no choice but to cross the Gods Eye and seek refuge with relatives in Duskendale. You know how things are these days. There's fighting everywhere, and the Riverlands are a complete mess. We just want somewhere we can settle down and make a living."

"Fortunately, Lord Roose Bolton is a just lord. To compensate for his men's wrongdoing, he personally issued us a pass!"

To make his story more convincing, Corleone lied without so much as a blush or a flutter of his heart, while carefully drawing a roll of parchment from inside his clothes. He slowly unfurled it, revealing Roose Bolton's signature and wax seal.

"You may examine it, Captain Harag."

He held the parchment out in both hands, inviting inspection with an open manner and not the slightest sign of fear.

That made Harag Stow pause, as though he had not expected this band of "refugees" to possess a document written by Roose Bolton himself.

Suspicion flashed through his gray eyes, and he gestured for one of his men to come forward and take the parchment.

The soldier rode over, took the pass, and handed it to Stow.

Stow made a show of opening the parchment, but his gaze never fell on the writing. Instead, he once again surveyed Corleone's party out of the corner of his eye.

A woman more manly than a man.

A brawny fellow who looked even more savage than they did.

A guard with a face that spelled bad luck.

A suspicious character tied up, and...

"Heh heh!"

Looking at Jaime, who was wrapped tightly in his cloak, Harag Stow suddenly raised his head, a crafty smile appearing on his face.

He casually tossed it to the man beside him and planted his hands on his hips without a trace of embarrassment.

"I can't bloody read!"