Oberyn finally disappeared at the corner of the long street. Corleone withdrew his gaze and turned to see Jaime and Brienne approaching side by side.
Jaime's face was still pale. The sword that had been knocked away had been recovered by a servant and was now tucked at his waist.
"Sorry, Corleone," Jaime spoke, his expression somewhat lonely and his voice slightly hoarse. "I still... didn't help much, and even almost became a burden."
"I remember when we were on the Riverroad, you once said that one shouldn't try to be a hero as long as they stay alive. It seems I'm naturally not any kind of hero."
As he spoke, he gave a self-mocking smile: "It's a pity, if my right hand were still...
"
"This hand is also very good; it suits you perfectly, Jaime."
Before Jaime could finish, Corleone interrupted him directly, grabbing his right hand and lifting it before their eyes.
Jaime froze as he saw the golden hand shining brilliantly under the lamplight, even the marks previously cut into it by a blade were clearly visible.
"It's good that you still remember what I once said."
Corleone released his right hand and then pressed down on Jaime's shoulder with a steady, forceful movement.
"But I must also tell you, great men are not born great, they grow great."
"Just now, when you bravely stood before me to face the Mountain, I saw the possibility of such 'greatness'."
"It doesn't depend on which hand you hold your sword with, but on what you fight for, and... the posture with which you crawl back up to continue the fight after falling."
He paused, his tone turning teasing yet carrying a hint of sincerity. "Speaking of which, it seems the left-hand sparring partner you found isn't very good; you haven't made much progress after practicing for so long."
"How about this: starting tomorrow, come to the Place of Order every morning. I'll spar with you personally. You've received knight training since you were a child, so the foundation is still there; you just need some time to adapt."
Hearing Corleone's relaxed tone, Jaime felt a sense of warmth, and a heartfelt smile involuntarily appeared on his face.
He had once betrayed his oath and killed the The Mad King, earning the infamy of 'kingslayer'. Later, he was captured and lost his right hand, along with his dignity and honor, all trampled into the mud of the The Riverlands.
Having experienced so many hardships, perhaps they were all trials he had to go through, ordained by The Seven, just so he could meet this fellow.
However, after a moment of silence, Jaime slowly but firmly shook his head.
"No, Corleone." His gaze went past Corleone's shoulder toward the deep night sky of the north, his voice resolute.
"I'm going to the North, to the Wall."
This sudden idea made even Corleone startle slightly. "The North? At this time?"
"Moat Cailin is still in the hands of the Ironborn, and the current situation isn't stable. Lord Tywin probably won't...
"
"This is my decision." Jaime interrupted him, his lips curling into a self-mocking arc, but his emerald eyes remained determined.
"The Mountain's words were unpleasant, but he was right about one thing: the king doesn't need a Lord Commander of the Kingsguard who can't even hold a sword steady."
"The title of Kingsguard is more of an irony to me now than an honor."
"Back then, I would rather be cursed by The Seven Kingdoms than take off my white cloak because I knew that even if everyone despised and looked down on me, I still had enough strength to cut off the heads of those who harmed the ones I protected, one by one!"
"But now... I am no longer qualified to stand by the king's side, and he doesn't need me. Cersei...
doesn't need me either."
He extended his left hand and clenched it into a fist, mentioning the past incident of kingslaying that he had never detailed to outsiders.
Corleone knew that for the proud Jaime Lannister, this was an incredibly rare moment of honesty.
After a pause, Jaime took a deep breath, his gaze becoming sharp. "I want to go see that person."
"Oh?"
"That person?"
"That's right, the one you mentioned before... the Ranger of the Night's Watch—Qhorin Halfhand!"
Jaime grinned, and a spark called hope seemed to truly burn in his eyes, as if he had returned to being that youth who dreamed of becoming the sword of the morning.
"I want to see how a man who truly lost his sword hand could train his left hand to be even stronger, how he could still strike terror into the Wildlings and become a top Ranger!"
"I want to know what meaning swordsmanship... or combat itself, actually has in the face of despair."
He spoke his thoughts, his voice full of passion. "Compared to staying in King's Landing, watching my hair turn white one by one, watching this decaying body grow old day by day."
"Or standing idly by, allowing Joffrey to run wild and letting my father turn everyone into measurable interests."
"For me, fighting... is the motivation to keep living."
"A lion that cannot hunt can only be driven out of the pride to lie in a marsh and die silently, right?"
At the end, Jaime raised his eyebrows at Corleone.
"It seems you've already made up your mind."
After a moment of silence, Corleone spoke slowly.
He didn't try to dissuade him using reasons like "You are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," "Tywin won't allow it," or "The North is too chaotic right now."
Because he saw something in Jaime's eyes—not impulse, not escapism.
But a man who had fallen from a height and shattered his bones, trying to pick up the sharpest shard among the fragments to redefine his relationship with the world.
To find life in death—this was the true courage of a lion.
"When are you leaving?" Corleone finally just asked, withdrawing the hand he had placed on Jaime's shoulder.
"After the wedding of Joffrey and Margaery."
Jaime replied, his voice steady. "Although he... I still have to finish my last watch and see the boy married."
He didn't continue, but Corleone understood.
The upcoming wedding would also be Jaime's farewell banquet—to King's Landing, to the Iron Throne, and perhaps to his past self.
"Corleone...
"
Suddenly, Jaime looked at him seriously, his tone somewhat heavy. "If possible, please try to help me keep an eye on Cersei."
"Perhaps stimulated by father forcing her to marry Loras, I feel that Cersei's recent actions have become increasingly reckless, even reminding me of Aerys Targaryen."
"I know it's difficult, but I also know you'll always find a way, because you are Vito Corleone."
Corleone listened quietly, not agreeing immediately. After a while, he pulled a long face and pretended to be displeased. "You're increasing my workload, and the risk is extremely high, Jaime Lannister."
"This isn't something a bathtub of Gold Dragons can repay."
Speaking of which, he raised an eyebrow. "You owe me another favor."
Jaime was stunned at first, then he actually grinned with a bit of wildness and exhaustion, yet he looked somewhat radiant. "Yes, I owe you another one."
"Since you brought me out of the The Riverlands, the debts have piled up like a mountain; I don't mind one more."
"A Lannister always pays his debts, but I'm afraid I'll never be able to finish paying you back in this lifetime."
The two looked at each other, and after a moment, they both laughed.
There was some helplessness in the laughter, but also a tacit understanding between men that needed no words.
"Fine, I understand."
Corleone nodded and said nothing more.
He just patted Jaime's shoulder again, this time with a bit more force.
Every person is an independent individual. He couldn't forcibly keep Jaime in King's Landing. Some paths must be walked alone, and some answers can only be found by oneself; that is for the best.
Jaime Lannister, the favored son born in Casterly Rock, was now trying to break free from the magnificent cage forged of gold and white cloaks, wanting to find his lost pride and take up his blade again amidst the snow and the Wall.
Jaime seemed to need no more words. He nodded slightly to Corleone and then to Brienne before turning and slowly walking toward the Red Keep.
The Kingsguard cloak swayed gently in the night wind, still white, yet it seemed to carry a weight far beyond its material.
He didn't look back, just as he had resolutely spurred his horse toward Robb Stark.
Jaime Lannister's farewells had always been like this.
This wounded lion was licking its wounds, not to retreat into a cave, but to head toward the colder wilderness to prove a legend about brokenness and power.
From the bustle of King's Landing to the solitude of the Wall, his back might stumble, but every step was taking him further away from the golden cage he had woven with his own honor.
The two of them watched him leave.
AI Model: gemini-2.5-flash
After a long while, Corleone sighed and turned around, finding Brienne's sapphire-like eyes gazing at him. Gone was her usual seriousness or worry, replaced by a clear and profound sense of relief.
And a hint of... barely perceptible loneliness.
"Your swordsmanship," Brienne began, her voice still somewhat low, but with a hint of undetectable warmth, "is excellent."
"It's not just 'basic' anymore; it's much stronger than it was at the Harrenhal training grounds. You are very talented, Corleone. At least, I've never seen a knight as gifted as you."
As she said this, her stern face softened considerably more than usual.
Corleone looked at her, smiling and honestly bowing, "You taught me, Brienne."
"Every technique for applying force, every footwork, even every word you said at the Harrenhal training grounds, I remember."
"A good teacher is worth ten years of blind, hard practice."
Upon hearing this, Brienne's lips curved upwards uncontrollably, revealing a pure and frank smile.
"I'm very happy."
She said it concisely, but the sense of satisfaction was self-evident.
For Brienne, though she couldn't be a knight herself due to her gender, being able to teach such an excellent knight at least proved her own ability.
However, her smile quickly faded, replaced by her familiar resolute expression, yet it seemed to be stirring with different emotions.
"I'm leaving too, Corleone."
Her right hand gripped the hilt of her sword, her voice firm and strong, "Tomorrow."
"So soon?" Corleone frowned, looking at her in confusion.
He had expected Brienne wouldn't stay long, but not that it would be tomorrow.
"Your swordsmanship has surpassed mine."
Brienne stated frankly, without a hint of jealousy or unwillingness, merely expressing acknowledgment, "There's nothing more I can teach you."
"Staying here would be a... stagnation for both you and me."
She paused, her blue eyes scanning the lights of the Place of Order around them, and the now incredibly clean streets of Flea Bottom in the distance. Her voice softened slightly, as if with emotion, "It's very good here."
"Much better than Tarth, where I grew up."
She lifted her eyes, her gaze so frank it was almost clumsy: "On Tarth, people called me 'Brienne the Beauty,' but I knew what their eyes meant when they looked at me."
"But here, in Flea Bottom, when I walk the streets in my armor with my sword, people call me 'Miss Brienne,' or 'Lady,' or even'Ser.'"
"There's curiosity and reverence in their eyes, but none of that disgusting mockery and scrutiny."
"It's different here than outside; it's warm, not cold."
She seemed unaccustomed to speaking so much about her feelings and paused, her mood appearing to dip somewhat.
After a while, she returned to the original topic, her tone once again firm: "Like Jaime, King's Landing no longer needs me."
"Miss Sansa Stark has found new protection. Though not grand, it should at least keep her safe. She no longer needs me, a failed protector."
As she spoke, her gaze turned north, just like Jaime's, but her target was more specific, more persistent. Clenching Oathkeeper, she declared, "I... I'm going to find Miss Arya Stark!"
"I promised Lady Catelyn, before the Old and New Gods, I swore to bring her daughters back to Winterfell."
"Miss Sansa is safe for now, but Arya is still wandering out there, perhaps facing danger. I must uphold my vow."
Her fists clenched slightly, and a resolute determination filled her voice: "And, I must kill Stannis Baratheon. He murdered Renly, committed kinslaying, and must be brought to justice!"
Corleone listened quietly, not attempting to dissuade her.
He watched Brienne's tall and upright figure, and the sense of mission burning in her eyes.
She was an upright sword, just like the blade in her hand, eager to protect her vows.
Her path was clear, perhaps dangerous, yet it shone with her own unblemished light.
"Then, I wish you a safe journey, Miss Brienne."
Corleone said solemnly, using the formal address: "May you find Miss Stark. The blood debt Stannis owes will eventually be collected."
He paused, looking into her eyes, his voice gentle and firm: "As for here, the Place of Order will always keep a place for you.
"Not as a guest, nor as a subordinate, but as a friend, and a respected knight."
"I am not a knight," Brienne reminded him.
"Titles don't matter; actions do." Corleone shook his head, stating solemnly: "Whenever you return, as long as the lights here are on, there will be a place, a cup of wine, and a...
...friend to whom you can always confide."
Brienne froze.
Her blue eyes widened slightly, as if she hadn't expected to hear such words.
She said nothing, only nodded heavily, the female knight's jawline tight, as always, but also seemingly with something different.
After a long while, she nodded solemnly: "Thank you, I... I will remember it, if the Gods protect her—" She didn't finish, merely giving Corleone another deep look, her gaze filled with complex emotions.
Then, like a true knight, she pressed her right hand firmly to her chest, performing a standard knight's salute to Corleone, before turning and walking with firm, steady steps towards her temporary lodging, preparing for her departure at dawn tomorrow.
The night wind blew, carrying the chill of late autumn, and also dispersing the last traces of blood and clamor from the doorway.
In a blink, the bustling doorway was left with Corleone standing alone.
Since arriving in this world, his two most important companions: one would go north to reclaim his shattered pride, the other would traverse The Seven Kingdoms in pursuit of a vague vow and revenge.
They both chose to leave his wing, or rather, he never truly had a "wing" to cover them.
Three people, walking their separate paths.
No hugs, no tears, only brief conversation, and the respect between knights.
The farewell was as decisive as a sword cutting through air.
Corleone felt no loss in his heart, only a clarity that grew ever brighter.
In this world, everyone is a lonely boat, each with their own course amidst the turbulent waves of power.
Traveling together for a while is fate; going separate ways is the norm. Trying to bind everyone to oneself will only backfire.
"Phew~~~~ it's really cold."
A cold wind blew, and Corleone tightened his cloak, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled.
A yellowed leaf drifted down, landing precisely in his palm.
"So it's autumn..."
1
He murmured, gently rubbing his fingers, and the already somewhat decayed leaf disintegrated.
But soon, it turned into dust, falling into the soil to provide nutrients for the growth of new sprouts next year.
After a long while, Corleone lowered his head to tidy his slightly disheveled robes, smoothing out the dark palm print on his cloak.
When he looked up again, all the warmth on his face gradually faded.
He turned, facing the still-bright lights inside the Hall of Order, listening to the wafting music and the guests who had not yet departed, each with their own thoughts, waiting.
This was his battlefield tonight, and for a long time to come.
Taking a step, he gracefully walked back into the brightly lit hall, the calm, confident smile reappearing on his face.
As he entered, the music instantly stopped, and conversations rose and fell, almost everyone's gaze once again focusing on Corleone.
Under everyone's gaze, Corleone unhurriedly walked to the high platform in the center of the hall and raised a hand.
The entire Place of Order quickly fell silent.
He surveyed the hall, his gaze sweeping over the people with their varied expressions, whether noble, merchant, commoner, or knight.
Clearing his throat, his clear voice echoed through the spacious hall: "My Lords, Ser, and friends of the Mafia."
"I am about to announce something very, very important..."
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