The twilight sky above the shores of Gods Eye Lake burned a deep, blood-red, as though the heavens themselves had been wounded. The fading sunlight spilled across the wilderness, casting long shadows over the scattered soldiers and the makeshift camp set up on the uneven earth.
Hogg lay motionless upon the ground, his condition rapidly deteriorating. Blood continued to stream from the torn flesh at the base of his thigh, pooling beneath him and staining the soil a deep, sickly black. His breathing was shallow, and his skin had taken on a pallor that made even hardened soldiers uneasy.
Stao, standing close beside him, could not hide the anxiety twisting his face. He had seen countless injuries throughout his years as a soldier, yet continuous bleeding—true arterial bleeding—was something far more ominous. Even for warriors accustomed to the sight of blood, this was different. This was death creeping closer with every heartbeat.
A memory surfaced in Stao's mind—one he wished he could forget. Years ago, he had encountered a man whose thigh had been slashed open by a prostitute after he tried to leave without paying. The wound had looked disturbingly similar. The man's cousin, a steward in Caho City, had quickly summoned Maester Lygen, who served Lord Rickard. Stao had been present, watching with hope as an educated healer examined the injury.
But even Maester Lygen, with all his knowledge and tools, had declared there was nothing to be done. The steward's expression had crumbled, as though watching his own child die before his eyes. That moment had carved itself deeply into Stao's memory, and the helpless feeling returned now like a ghost.
Therefore, when Corleone stepped forward, appearing calm and confident, Stao's heart was filled not with relief—but with doubt.
This was no place for miracles. They were far from any city, surrounded only by wilderness, cold wind, and dirt. Yet there was no alternative. The men could do nothing but place their hopes upon this wandering "doctor," whom fate had dropped into their path.
If he fails… I'll slaughter him myself and send him to accompany Hogg in death.
Stao took a deep breath, burying the thought beneath a veneer of stoic silence.
"Move aside," Corleone said evenly.
With the advantage of Insight Lv1, Corleone had easily noticed Stao's change in expression, yet he remained unfazed—his voice steady, his demeanor composed, his eyes sharp and calculating.
He pushed away the soldier who had been applying pressure to the wound and reached out with his bare hand, probing directly into the torn flesh at the base of Hogg's thigh. The brutality of the action stunned the onlookers.
"Hiss—!"
"AAAHHH!"
The soldiers gasped sharply. The sheer pain of the examination caused even the unconscious Hogg to convulse violently, a hoarse cry tearing from his throat. Stao's eyelids twitched uncontrollably.
This wasn't treatment—it looked like torture.
But Corleone continued with chilling composure, and Stao forced himself to cooperate rather than strike the man senseless. He stepped forward, slammed his weight onto Hogg's upper body, and roared:
"Hold him down! Now!"
Several Northern soldiers leapt in, piling atop Hogg to restrain him. With their combined strength, Corleone's task became easier.
He pinched the ruptured artery with practiced precision, clamping it with a hemostat before switching hands smoothly. His other hand pulled out a curved, hook-shaped suture needle and thread.
There was no sterilization. No boiling water. No clean cloth.
Under the horrified stares of the soldiers, Corleone relied only on touch and the muscle memory granted by Surgery Lv2. He guided the curved needle into the flesh, performing rough through-and-through sutures and ligatures around the severed vessel. Each stitch was forceful, unhesitating—workmanlike.
Hogg writhed like a fish flailing on dry land, his body arching with every puncture of the needle. But Corleone had seen worse—patients screaming, fainting, convulsing, dying. His movements remained steady, precise, entirely devoid of emotion.
To him, this was no different than a cobbler repairing torn leather.
After the final stitch, Corleone grabbed a waterskin handed to him—still smudged with dirt—and poured what little clean water remained over the wound. Blood washed away in dark rivulets, carrying bits of grit and grass with it.
Then, biting the thread to sever it, Corleone stepped back. The wound was now forced closed, the monstrous and crooked stitches holding the flesh together. But the bleeding, at least, had stopped.
"Alright," he said calmly. "The bleeding has stopped for now."
He wiped the blood from his hands onto a nearby patch of grass as though cleaning after a meal rather than a surgery.
"Observe him for a few days. If the wound doesn't rot and he doesn't develop a fever, he should survive."
His tone was simple, practical—almost dismissive.
But Corleone knew the truth. Infection was nearly inevitable. He had neither time nor proper tools, and arterial bleeding meant survival first—complications second. His mentor had once told him that battlefield surgeons pulled arteries out and tied them into knots, or stuck their hands into chests for crude heart massages. If a patient fainted, that counted as anesthesia.
Infection was a concern for those fortunate enough not to die on the spot.
Compared to modern medicine, Hogg's fate was poor indeed. But Corleone felt no guilt. Only survivors deserved to be called patients.
Look at Jaime—his hand rolled in mud and horse urine and healed fine.
If someone died from infection, it was fate—or stupidity.
He should thank me for the chance to live.
"By the Gods, thank you, doctor!"
Stao finally exhaled, relief flooding through him. He clapped Corleone's shoulder with overwhelming gratitude.
"You saved Hogg. I, Harag Stao, owe you a life!"
"You're— you're incredible!"
He tried to find better words, something refined or eloquent, but nothing came. As a semi-literate warrior, he could only repeat his gratitude clumsily.
Yet through all his praise, he never once mentioned returning the hundred Gold Dragons he had withheld earlier.
Corleone kept a professional smile, matching the silence. Neither spoke the words "Gold Dragon."
Stao believed he had gained a bargain—expert medical care, and the gold still in his pocket.
Corleone, however, saw a debt to be collected—with interest.
A profitable exchange indeed.
Thanks to his "exemplary skill," Corleone was granted limited freedom. Stao no longer kept him tightly watched. He could move within the camp—though not leave it—until Hogg recovered.
Corleone stretched his limbs and strolled casually, though his eyes hunted for one thing:
The crooked-necked tree at the center of the camp.
There, bound by coarse ropes and suspended from a thick branch, hung The Hound—Sandor Clegane.
His toes barely touched the earth. His body weight dragged painfully on his wrists, contorting his scarred face further. Veins bulged on his forehead, and his breath came in harsh, suppressed bursts.
A strange feeling stirred within Corleone.
After all, when he first crossed into this world, he had been bound exactly like this.
Several Karstark soldiers surrounded The Hound, jeering and striking him. He had slain several of their comrades in the previous battle, and now, helpless and starved, he was their outlet for rage.
"Peh!" One soldier spat thick phlegm across The Hound's face.
Another jabbed him hard in the abdomen with the tip of a sword sheath.
"Ugh…"
The Hound groaned, then lifted his head with defiant fury burning in his eyes.
"Fuck all of you!"
"If I weren't starved and weak, not one of you worthless cowards could face me even together!"
His voice was raw, but his words only enraged them further.
"Still mouthing off when you're about to die?"
One of Stao's personal guards snarled, pointing at The Hound.
"This mad dog killed five of our men! Put a rope around his neck and hang him!"
"Yes! Hang him!"
"Strangle him!"
"Avenge our brothers!"
The crowd surged with violent agreement. Several men stepped forward to loose the ropes at his wrists and place a noose around his throat.
The Hound clenched his jaw, staring with burning hatred at the guard who had ordered his execution. He was carving the man's face into memory—fuel for vengeanc
e, should he live.
But just as the rope was being adjusted—
A voice cut through the chaos.
A voice tinged with regret.
"What a pity…"