"White sunburst..."
Corleone narrowed his eyes, gazing at the emblem on the banner, murmuring in a low voice.
In his mind, he rapidly flipped through the fragments of information about the various noble houses of Westeros he had gathered since transmigrating.
This highly aggressive pattern—he was certain he had seen it somewhere, but he couldn't recall it immediately.
It felt like a fishbone stuck in his throat.
Just as he was racking his brains, Walton beside him blurted out, "Karstark!"
"It's the Karstarks! Why are those guys here!"
Karstark!
Hearing this surname, Corleone's heart skipped a beat. His brows furrowed instantly, and his gaze involuntarily glanced at Jaime beside him.
Speaking of this guy's feud with the Karstarks, one had to mention that famous battle.
The Battle of the Whispering Wood!
In that battle, the Kingslayer displayed great prowess, charging alone straight for the King in the North. Although he failed at the last moment, he slew over ten of Robb Stark's guards, including two sons of Earl Rickard Karstark.
Later...
Robb's mother, Lady Catelyn, anxious to save her daughters, privately released Jaime, who was a prisoner.
Earl Rickard, burning with rage, soon led men into the dungeons of Riverrun and killed two prisoners, Tion Frey and Willem Lannister, to vent his anger.
Then, the "just" King in the North, for some unknown reason, insisted on sentencing Earl Rickard to death for two insignificant prisoners and personally beheaded him.
House Karstark thus broke with the Starks.
In Corleone's view, none of these people had a normal brain. They just did whatever came to mind.
First privately releasing the most important hostage, then betraying their most reliable and powerful ally again and again, and calling it "justice"?
It was simply... hard to describe.
But none of this mattered. What mattered was, as Walton complained, why were these guys near the God's Eye?
You must know, a bit further south was the territory of the Lannister army!
This was definitely no coincidence!
"They come with ill intent..."
He murmured, his voice so soft only he could hear, but his solemn expression puzzled Jaime and Brienne.
After all, Corleone always appeared to be in control, not showing such an expression even when facing Roose Bolton earlier.
"Everyone, follow my orders!"
Corleone thought for a moment, his stern gaze sweeping over his team, his voice clear and powerful: "Stay restrained. Figure out their intentions first!"
"Unless absolutely necessary, never provoke them first!"
Hearing this, everyone nodded in agreement. No one raised any objection to Corleone issuing orders.
In the team, there were the eldest son of Casterly Rock, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Tarth, and an excellent Dothraki warrior.
Yet everyone unanimously accepted Corleone as the team leader.
This might be the manifestation of personal charisma.
As his voice fell, Corleone looked at the approaching group, then at Jaime.
Suddenly, a flash of inspiration struck him, as if recalling something crucial.
He quickly turned sideways, pulled open a bulging pack on the horse, dragged out a thick cloak, and threw it to Jaime.
Jaime caught the cloak instinctively, his face full of bewilderment.
"???"
"Cut the crap!"
Corleone glared at him, reminding him sternly, "If you don't want to lose your head like Karstark, put it on quickly!"
"Oh, and remember to put on the hood and hide that pretty blond hair of yours!"
---
Rumble~~~~
The rapid hoofbeats stopped abruptly about twenty paces in front of Corleone and the others.
The raised dust slowly dispersed, revealing the true face of this Northern cavalry unit.
About twenty cavalrymen reined in their horses silently. They were completely different from the refined splendor of Southern knights; their attire fully displayed the rough bravery of Northerners.
Most soldiers wore crudely forged black iron half-helms and severely worn chainmail, covered by a layer of thick animal fur.
From the material, one could vaguely identify wolf, bear, and even seal skins.
Their weapons were also varied: two-handed greatswords, heavy battle axes, morning stars, and the broad-bladed spears common in the North.
Their skin was rough; almost everyone looked weathered.
Although not extremely numerous, the fierce momentum of the Northerners gathered together was enough to make one tremble with fear.
The leader rode an exceptionally tall Northern warhorse and had a burly physique.
His beard was very thick, mixed with some gray, and he wore a gray wolfskin cloak over his armor.
He didn't shout or identify himself first. Instead, he slowly urged his horse forward, scanning Corleone's team like assessing prey.
"Ser..."
"I am no 'Ser'!"
Corleone stepped forward, intending to negotiate and show sincerity, but was rudely interrupted as soon as he spoke.
This man had an exaggerated demeanor, raising a war hammer to the sky and shouting, "Those things are bullshit, just a bunch of sissies hiding in armor! But their armor can't stop my hammer; one smash and it's ruined!"
"Since heading south, how many 'knights'' heads have I smashed, Hogg?"
"Too many to count, Captain!"
"Hahaha!!!"
As soon as these words came out, all the Northern soldiers roared with laughter.
They slapped their shields and saddles vigorously or waved their weapons, making various sharp whistles and meaningless war cries.
Seeing this, Corleone frowned even tighter.
He wasn't afraid of dealing with people like Roose Bolton or even Tywin Lannister because they at least followed certain rules, however cruel and dark.
But what gave him the biggest headache were these thorough ruffian soldiers.
These guys had nothing but slaughter and hatred in their brains. They wouldn't give you a chance to reason. A disagreement could lead to a blade swinging at you before you finished speaking.
However, he suppressed the irritation in his heart and tried to communicate again, his tone more cautious: "My lord..."
"I am Harrion Karstark's most trusted captain, Khalag Stole!" (Note: Name might be improvised based on context, sticking to phonetics provided or standard naming conventions if needed. Given "Harrag Stole" or similar might be intended but text says "Harrag Shi-tao", let's stick to phonetic rendering or a plausible Westerosi name. "Harrag Sharp" or similar might be better but sticking to provided text phonetics "Harrag Stole/Stow" is safer. Let's use "Harrag Stole" for now as a placeholder for the name provided in text "哈拉格·史陶".)
Correction: The text says "瑞卡德·卡史塔克伯爵生前最信任的親衛隊長" - most trusted captain of Earl Rickard Karstark when he was alive. The name is Harrag Stole/Stow (Shi-tao).
Interrupting Corleone again, the man shouted loudly.
But mentioning the late Earl, a trace of hatred flashed in his eyes: "We are looking for the Kingslayer, kid!"
"Have you or your people seen that bastard who beds his queen sister!"
Hearing this, Corleone could clearly sense Jaime's body trembling involuntarily under the cloak.
Clearly, the other's tone enraged him.
"Kingslayer?"
"No! Captain Harrag Stole!"
Corleone hurried forward again, drawing the other's attention completely to himself.
He shook his head, answering in a tone as innocent and exhausted as possible: "We are kin of Ser Finlay Yodel. The farm we depended on for survival was destroyed by a bunch of guys called the Brave Companions."
"To survive, we had to cross the God's Eye to seek refuge with relatives in Duskendale. You know, in these times, there's fighting everywhere. The Riverlands are a mess. We just want to find a place to settle down."
"But fortunately, Lord Roose Bolton is a just lord. To compensate for his subordinates' mistakes, he personally signed a pass for us!"
To increase persuasiveness, while lying without blushing or skipping a beat, Corleone carefully took out a scroll of parchment from his tunic and slowly unrolled it, revealing Roose Bolton's signature and wax seal.
"You can examine it, Captain Harrag."
He held the parchment with both hands, inviting the other to inspect it, his posture open without a hint of fear.
This made Harrag Stole pause, seemingly not expecting these "refugees" to have Roose Bolton's handwriting.
A trace of suspicion flashed in his gray eyes. He signaled a subordinate beside him to step forward and take the parchment.
The soldier rode over, took the pass, and handed it to Stole.
Stole pretended to open the parchment, but his gaze didn't fall on the text at all. Instead, he scanned Corleone's team again from the corner of his eye.
A woman manlier than men.
A strong man looking more savage than them.
A guard with an unlucky face.
A suspicious bound person, and...
"Heh heh!"
Looking at Jaime wrapped tightly in the cloak, Harrag Stole suddenly looked up, a cunning smile on his face.
Tossing the parchment to a subordinate casually, he put his hands on his hips righteously:
"I can't fucking read!"