Fruit and the Flayed Man

The cold morning fog shrouded the farm in gray.

Vargo Hoat woke from sleep with a splitting headache and a tearing, burning pain in his throat.

"Fucking hell..."

He muttered the curse, his voice as hoarse as iron scraping against iron.

Every heartbeat made the blood vessels at his temples throb, and the wound at the base of his ear pulsed painfully along with them.

"I drank far too much yesterday..."

He instinctively blamed all his discomfort on the excessive amount of cheap ale he had drunk the night before, never attributing his symptoms to a fever.

After all, to withstand the unbearable agony of the surgery, he had been forced to drink himself into a stupor.

"Starting today... no more drinking!!!"

Clenching his right fist, Vargo Hoat pounded the straw beneath him and swept his bleary gaze around the dim wooden cabin.

In the corner, the doctor lay curled in a pile of hay, wrapped in a filthy pelt, his breathing steady as though he were sound asleep.

His most trusted subordinate, Yego, stood straight-backed beside the bed with his arms folded, diligently keeping watch.

The sight of the silent Dothraki warrior eased some of the unease that his weakness had stirred in Vargo.

A man who lived on the edge of a blade and dared betray even Lord Tywin Lannister, he might well have kept his guard up even while nursing in his mother's arms. Yet he felt a peculiar trust in Yego.

After all, the Dothraki mind was terribly simple. They followed only the strong, like a tamed hunting dog.

But Vargo failed to notice that Yego stood directly between him and Corleone, his position subtly closer to Corleone.

Rather than guarding the Earl of Harrenhal, he was more like a wall, deliberately or otherwise separating Vargo from the sleeping Corleone.

"Water, Yego."

Vargo spoke weakly, and a waterskin was immediately held out before him.

He unstoppered it and gulped down several mouthfuls as he always did. The cold liquid flooded his throat, only to irritate it with a pain like scraping blades.

"Urgh... cough, cough, cough..."

He had barely swallowed a few mouthfuls before he began retching uncontrollably, accompanied by a severe fit of coughing.

Only after coughing for a good while did Vargo wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and raise the waterskin again. This time, however, he took tiny sips, looking as refined as a true nobleman.

Beside him, Yego said nothing, merely watching him in silence.

Vargo's gaze happened to sweep across Yego's waist, and his heavy brows immediately knotted together.

"Where's your Arakh?"

Yego had brought that Dothraki blade from across the Narrow Sea and had carried it everywhere for over a decade. He had once admitted himself that a Dothraki's blade was like an extension of his arm, yet now it was nowhere to be seen.

"It broke."

Yego answered evenly, his face still utterly expressionless. "I threw it away."

"Ha!"

Vargo gave a derisive laugh, only to tug at the wound on his ear and suck in a breath at the pain.

Still, he suspected nothing. Yego's honesty and straightforwardness had long stood the test of time. If he said he had thrown it away, then he certainly had.

"I fucking told you ages ago, those flashy things of yours are only good for slitting throats. They're fucking useless against a proper, fully armored knight!"

Vargo waved a hand, then generously unbuckled the fine steel longsword at his waist and tossed it to Yego with a show of magnanimity. "Here, take it!"

"You might not be used to it, but as my 'Bloodrider,' you only need to practice swordsmanship with me more often!"

He deliberately used the Dothraki term, trying to reinforce the bond between master and subordinate.

He even took the initiative to joke, "I hear you Dothraki share everything with your Bloodriders, even your wives, right?"

"Some Khals do."

"Good!"

At that, Vargo Hoat grinned broadly. "Once we reach Harrenhal, I'll get myself a wife from the Red Mill. Once I've had my fun, you can have a turn!"

"Hahahaha!!!!"

Watching Vargo's boisterous display, Yego brushed his fingers over the cold sword hilt without speaking.

He simply hung the weapon, so utterly at odds with his fighting style, at his waist, replacing the curved blade that had accompanied him for years.

Vargo, however, mistook that silence for agreement, and his grin grew even broader.

He had said it deliberately. After all, fresh from surgery and hungover besides, he could grow weak at any moment.

At a time like this, he had to draw everyone loyal to him close, in case that ambitious Urswyck suddenly tried something.

He also had to return to Harrenhal as soon as possible and have Qyburn treat him properly.

A backwoods doctor he had stumbled upon by chance clearly could not earn Vargo's trust, either in skill or loyalty.

"Wake that fellow up!"

No longer concerned with the matter of weapons, he jerked his thumb toward Corleone and urged, "Hurry up. We need to cover a few more leagues before noon and get ourselves a wife sooner!"

Only when he returned to Harrenhal and Qyburn confirmed that his ear was all right could he truly relax. Then... perhaps he could consider cutting out this farmer-turned-doctor's tongue, lest he go around talking.

Creeeeak-

The wooden door swung open with a teeth-grating groan. Cold, damp fog poured into the cabin, making Vargo shiver despite himself.

Outside, most of the Brave Companions were already mounted, fine droplets clinging to their armor and fur coats, their horses laden with valuables plundered from the farm.

The horses snorted, their white breath mingling with the thick fog.

Even the two prisoners had already been securely bound to the same horse.

Brienne held her head high, her blue eyes fixed on Vargo and burning with silent fury, while Jaime kept his eyes lowered, his long golden hair plastered to his cheeks with dew and mud, indifferent to everything happening around him.

Everything seemed just as it had been yesterday, without any change.

Indeed, the moment deputy commander Urswyck saw Vargo emerge, he trotted over, an ingratiating smile spreading across his face that made him look rather comical.

"Chief!"

"The Seven be praised, you look much better!"

His voice was exaggerated, but his gaze darted over the faint, sickly flush on Vargo's face and his slightly trembling fingers.

Urswyck's smile grew brighter still as he reported loudly:

"The Ravens were sent off before dawn, straight to Tarth. I'm sure it won't be long before that big woman's father, the earl, offers us mountains of sapphires as ransom!"

Knowing full well Vargo's complicated feelings toward the Kingslayer, he deliberately left Jaime out.

At this, Vargo Hoat surveyed his company. Their gear was ready, the prisoners were under control, and even Urswyck, that wild dog forever sniffing around in the shadows, was behaving so obediently.

All of it put him completely at ease, and even his physical weakness seemed to lessen considerably.

Looks like this farmer doctor really does know a thing or two!

Once we reach Harrenhal and the King in the North hears I've captured the Kingslayer, even that bastard Roose Bolton will have to think more highly of me!

As he thought this, the alcohol from the previous night's binge gradually went to his head again, temporarily suppressing his discomfort.

He grinned, exposing crooked yellow-and-black teeth, strode forward, and mounted his zebra. Struggling to steady his slightly swaying body, he waved an arm in smug satisfaction.

"Move out! Back to Harrenhal!"

"Fuck, this damned fog is thick. All of you keep your eyes peeled!"

At their commander's order, the company slowly began to move, the clank of metal and the sound of hooves trampling mud unusually muffled.

Vargo Hoat rode at the head, maintaining his air of unshakable leadership. He did not look back, nor did he see the fleeting flash of malice in Urswyck's eyes.

Bound tightly on horseback, Jaime Lannister raised his head slightly. One lionlike green eye showed through his filthy hair as he looked toward the person who came out of the cabin last.

Sensing his gaze, Corleone looked up as well, and their eyes met.

The farmer doctor made no response. He simply took a gold dragon from inside his clothes and flicked it with a bent finger, the gold tumbling through the air and reflecting the morning light filtering through the mist.

The one-armed knight's pupil contracted slightly. After a moment's silence, he lowered his head again, hiding himself once more behind his filthy golden hair.

Yet Brienne beside him faintly noticed that her companion's breathing, previously as calm as stagnant water, seemed to have grown a little faster.

It was neither fear nor weakness, but more like a lion long imprisoned and lurking in the shadows that had finally caught the scent of prey, suppressing the impatient restlessness within.

The company gradually receded into the distance, hoofbeats and clamor fading away, leaving only a deathly silent farm.

On the scattered apple trees, hanging corpses gently swayed and turned in the morning breeze, like ripened fruit.

And among all that fruit, one body stood out most, its entire surface a fresh, wet scarlet.

Clearly, his skin had been stripped off intact from head to toe.

The muscle fibers exposed to the damp air were clearly visible. Though his features could no longer be recognized, the bloodstained leather sash around his waist showed that he had once been the most powerful man on this farm.