Selwyn Gowen's breathing finally steadied. Tarth Brienne checked the bandage on his shoulder with her fingertips in the corner of the storage shed. A wound from last night's chaos. The fever had broken too. There was nothing more to worry about. (I have to go.) She stood. Outside was still dark. The fortress before dawn lay silent, with only the distant sound of a guard's footsteps echoing somewhere. She headed for the smithy. Roan—the fortress blacksmith, a taciturn man in his forties—had already lit the furnace. In the flickering orange flames, he sat with the battered golden prosthetic hand resting on his knee, inspecting its delicate components. Someone had thrown it into the basement during the chaos of the armed uprising, and Roan had retrieved it. Tarth Brienne stepped inside. Roan didn't look up. The furnace light illuminated the metal of the prosthetic hand, and the intricate joints of its fingers glinted. "[serious]Roan," For a while, there was no answer. Roan examined the elbow joint of the prosthetic hand, then spoke quietly. "[gentle]Everyone who comes to have a prosthetic hand adjusted has the same face," "...The same face?" "[gentle]Embarrassed. But unwilling to let it go. I've never seen a wicked person make that kind of face," With that, he turned back to the furnace. Beside the prosthetic hand, a single rusted key was placed in silence. Tarth Brienne cradled the prosthetic hand to her chest. It was heavy. Not the weight of a real hand. But the weight of a person unwilling to let it go—that was certainly there. She ran. The moment she turned the corner of the corridor, she collided with something. "—!" A guard. A young soldier with a sleepy face stumbled and turned around. "W-what is it, at this hour before dawn—" Tarth Brienne paused for just a moment, then answered. "[serious]Training," "T-training before dawn...?" The guard tilted his head. Tarth Brienne said nothing more. She simply looked him straight in the eye. Her golden eyes shone clearly even in the dark corridor. The guard froze for about three seconds, then quietly stepped aside. "...Please be careful," Tarth Brienne nodded and ran again. —— The stone steps down to the dungeon were dark without torches. From the depths of the corridor came the sound of dice rolling. Two men's voices, muffled. Guards. Passing time with gambling. Tarth Brienne held her breath. One step. Two steps. Moving silently closer. The moment one of them laughed—the pommel of her sword struck the first man's temple in a flawless arc. Before he could collapse, the blade's edge found the other's neck. Both bodies sank quietly to the floor almost simultaneously. Only the dice continued rolling across the stone floor. She inserted the key into the lock. Turned it. The heavy door slowly opened. Torchlight spilled in. A man was leaning against the wall. Rope cut into both wrists. Bruises from beatings covered the left side of his face, and his lip was split at the corner. Filthy clothes. A body utterly exhausted. But his eyes—they were not yet dead. Lannister Jaime opened his eyes slightly. He tried to see who had come, but in the next moment, he stopped moving. He had seen what Tarth Brienne was holding. The golden prosthetic hand. His prosthetic hand. He couldn't say anything. Embarrassed, but unwilling to let it go—now he understood what Roan meant. Perhaps he was making that same face himself, and the thought made him feel strangely ticklish. "[serious]Why did you come to help me," His voice was hoarse. He was putting on a brave front—she could tell. So she let his voice be as it was. As a Lannister. As a kingslayer. As a man who should have no right to ask anyone for help. "Why would you help me—a Lannister—" Tarth Brienne didn't answer. It was a long silence. The torch wavered. Wind sounded in the distance. Tarth Brienne's golden eyes held a color as if looking at some distant place, or searching within herself—something like that. "[sad]...I don't know," Her voice trembled. Even as she answered, Tarth Brienne herself was most surprised. Not "because it's my duty" or "because of my knight's oath"—something unexplainable had moved her body, and she didn't yet know the name of that something. She had said it honestly. The moment the words left her lips, her face burned hot. Lannister Jaime was about to say something sarcastic. He opened his mouth—and stopped. Instead, he laughed a little. It wasn't a false laugh. A real, small smile in his exhausted face. "[gentle]You really are hopelessly honest," Tarth Brienne turned bright red. She pressed the prosthetic hand silently against Jaime's chest. In that moment, her fingertips touched him. Just for an instant. Tarth Brienne immediately pretended not to notice and turned away first. "[serious]Get up quickly," Lannister Jaime fastened the prosthetic hand while removing the rope. It was heavy. Heavy as always. But tonight, that weight felt somehow different. Tarth Brienne was walking ahead. He looked at her back for just one second. (Hopelessly honest, huh.) He stood up. —— The moment they emerged into the east wing corridor. Torchlight appeared from around the corner. Dark skin. Jet-black short hair. Cold red eyes that saw them both. Two swords at either side of his waist. It was Varklen Darios. "[cold]So you came after all, lady knight," His voice was quiet. Not angry. Simply confirming. Calculating. "If you interfere with Lady Cersei's plans—I will eliminate you as well," The sound of his sword being drawn echoed through the corridor. Tarth Brienne stepped forward. She positioned herself in front of Lannister Jaime. She drew her sword. Lannister Jaime looked at the wall. In the corner of the corridor, someone had left a dagger leaning there and forgotten it. He picked it up with his left hand. "[sarcastic]I won't tell you to hide behind me. I know you're stronger," Tarth Brienne spoke without turning. "[serious]Of course I am!" She lunged forward. Clang!! Swords collided. Varklen Darios fought with two blades. He parried with one and countered with the other. His technique was high. But Tarth Brienne didn't retreat. She pushed. She broke his stance. She pushed again. Lannister Jaime didn't advance. He tracked Tarth Brienne's movements with his eyes, and the moment Darios entered his blind spot, he used the dagger to threaten his arm. He aimed at his feet. Each time Darios's footwork faltered, Tarth Brienne pressed her advantage. The back-to-back dance from Haskel Village was now completely connected here. Words weren't needed. They didn't even need to look at each other. But their breathing was synchronized. Varklen Darios clicked his tongue. That was when—the dagger Lannister Jaime had swung to threaten caught the lantern. It fell with a crash. The flame went out. The corridor became pitch black. A moment of silence. "\"Now!\"" The timing was perfectly synchronized. Only Varklen Darios had nothing to say in the darkness. Tarth Brienne's sword sang through the air. Even in the darkness, her body remembered the trajectory, and she swung without hesitation. Clang!! Varklen Darios's main blade was knocked flying down the corridor. The sound of metal sliding across stone echoed long. The next moment, Lannister Jaime's body slipped in. The dagger's edge pressed against Darios's throat. Cold metal. A distance where he couldn't move even a millimeter. Varklen Darios's knees slowly buckled. "[cold]...I must report this to Lady Cersei," His voice was gritted through clenched teeth. Words masquerading as loyalty. But what seeped through in the depths of his eyes was—fear. Not loyalty to Cersei, but dread of what would happen if he angered her. For just a moment, it showed on his face. Then a voice rose from the fortress courtyard. "[angry]Who do you think I am?! I've got all the gossip in this fortress in my hands!! It was Freda. A sturdy woman in her fifties, the tavern keeper, stood in the middle of the courtyard with a frying pan shouldered like a weapon. Behind her were a dozen or so garrison soldiers—gathered secretly through the night, all armed. The remnants of the Varg's Fang were surrounded. Freda looked over each mercenary one by one, then brought the frying pan down with a loud clang against the stone floor. "[serious]Drop your weapons. Now," One man lowered his sword. Another followed. Then another. One by one, the sound of weapons hitting the ground continued. Lannister Jaime kept the dagger at Varklen Darios's throat while looking out the corridor window at the courtyard. It was over. The light of dawn was beginning to tint the top edge of the fortress's stone walls. From purple to orange. The color of the sky slowly changed. —— After Varklen Darios was bound and handed over to the soldiers, only two remained in the corridor. The pale greenish-tinted long hair of Tarth Brienne caught the light of dawn streaming through the window. Blood seeped slightly from the wound on her arm. Her face was tired, yet her posture remained perfectly straight. Lannister Jaime lowered the dagger in his left hand. His shoulder ached. His legs ached. They had ached since yesterday. He glanced at Tarth Brienne sideways. "[gentle]I'm hungry," Tarth Brienne paused for a beat. "[gentle]So am I," Both of them laughed quietly at almost the same moment. It was a quiet laugh. The kind that comes when tension drains away—a real laugh. Completely different from when they had been shouting at each other in the tavern. A laugh that belonged only to them, only in this corridor, only in the light of dawn. Freda's voice calling out orders to soldiers echoed from the courtyard in the distance. The fortress was slowly coming to life. Lannister Jaime looked at the bound Varklen Darios for just a moment. (I must report this to Lady Cersei—) That fear in his eyes wouldn't fade. Even with Darios captured, the road to King's Landing wasn't blocked. What that man knew, what he had sent—Cersei would make her next move. She would certainly make it. The light of dawn grew brighter, tinting the stone walls more vividly. It was a beautiful morning. But Lannister Jaime already knew what lay ahead.