Corleone had spoken far too soon.
The moment he peeled back the bandages on Vargo Hoat's ear, his mind buzzed as if someone had struck a gong inside his skull.
It was… absurd.
How absurd?
Put simply, Hoat's ear looked like it had been torn clean off by some wild animal, and the man had just slapped it back on and wrapped it tightly in bandages as if nothing had happened.
The mangled scrap had already turned black at the edges, swollen and oozing. Corleone's stomach churned, but training kept him focused.
The torn cartilage had completely lost its blood supply. Pressing the dead ear back into place had turned it into a slab of decaying flesh plastered over the wound, sealing in the pus and blocking all drainage. It was a perfect incubator for bacteria.
Classic post-traumatic necrosis with severe infection.
It was so catastrophically wrong that medical textbooks would use it as a cautionary tale.
This was practically suicide.
Corleone certainly didn't mind the idea of this brutal lunatic dying, but if Hoat dropped dead today, Corleone wouldn't last the hour. A dozen swords glinted nearby, and all of them pointed his way.
"What're you waiting for? Get to it, boy!"
The thin man waving a short blade barked impatiently. Corleone had learned during their earlier exchange that this was Urswyck, lieutenant of the Brave Companions.
"My lord."
Corleone steadied his breathing and explained, "The situation is severe. The ear you pressed back has already died. All the rotten tissue must be removed immediately. If we don't, the infection will enter the blood, you'll develop a high fever…"
"Bitch!"
Before he could finish, Hoat jabbed a finger at Brienne and started screaming.
"You filthy whore! You bit off my ear! I'll carve yours off and shove it into your ugly slit!"
"Heh."
Brienne wasn't intimidated. She sneered, her voice cold. "It was a maiden's punishment for someone who tried to violate her."
Her contempt only enraged him further. Hoat lunged at her, kicking and punching until his fury simmered down. Jaime remained silent beside her, head bowed, lost in thoughts no one else could see.
Watching the exchange, Corleone could guess what had happened between them earlier. He sighed inwardly.
The leader of the Brave Companions really would try to eat anything.
Judging by Brienne's armor still being intact, at least he hadn't succeeded. If he had, she certainly wouldn't be wearing armor now.
When Hoat finally tired himself out, he swaggered back and sat before Corleone, glaring down with murderous impatience.
"You better know what you're doing, boy."
"Don't worry, my lord. I'm confident."
Corleone spoke boldly, but there wasn't a shred of confidence in him. He'd trained eight long years, assisted in emergency debridements and sutures, but performing something of this scale alone, under these conditions…
Even his professors would panic.
"I need hot water!"
Right now, whether he cured Hoat didn't matter. He just needed to survive. He barked instructions at the nearest group of Brave Companions.
"Boiling water! Clean cloth boiled in it! Salt, honey, an oil lamp, a sharp knife or dagger!"
"And bring spider silk or clean moss if you can find it!"
His sudden authority stunned a few of them. Several looked ready to snap at him, but Hoat only grinned.
"Do as he says!"
"This boy talks just like Qyburn."
Half an hour later.
Inside a wooden hut, the only sounds were the sizzle of hot metal and the soft tearing of dead flesh.
Corleone worked with full concentration, slicing away necrotic tissue using a heated blade. It wasn't ideal, but at least it sterilized and cauterized.
He cut the fibrous adhesions carefully, making sure not to damage the blood-rich base of the ear and cause fatal bleeding. Any mistake, and the two Brave Companions watching him would hack him into pieces.
Hoat, the patient, didn't move at all.
Not because he was brave, but because he'd been drinking nonstop since the operation started. He had finally drunk himself unconscious.
If Corleone's instructors saw him treating a patient drowning in alcohol during surgery, they'd flay him alive. But in this world, even basic sterility was a fantasy.
A chunk of dead ear and rotting flesh finally came free, revealing fresher tissue beneath.
Corleone immediately scrubbed the wound with hot saline, then coated it with honey and bandaged it. High-grade alcohol didn't exist here, but honey was plentiful, and its high sugar content dehydrated bacteria and inhibited growth. He'd tested similar methods in his old world.
When he finished, his legs buckled and he sank to the floor. Exhaustion washed over him. It had been a high-risk procedure under appalling conditions.
But the debridement was only the beginning.
Would the wound heal?
Would it become infected with something worse?
Would tetanus set in?
Without antibiotics, he had no way to guarantee Hoat's survival.
Still, at least for now, the man would live. Which meant Corleone would live.
Whether Hoat developed a fever in a few days and decided to kill his doctor out of rage… that was a later problem.
Corleone touched the Golden Dragon in his pocket instinctively.
"Not bad, boy."
A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.
Urswyck leaned close, his sickly red eyes bulging slightly. The bluish veins on the back of his hand looked unnatural.
"Looks like the surgery went well, doesn't it?"
Corleone forced a smile. "It appears so, my lord."
But Urswyck's grin froze. His expression twisted. He grabbed Corleone by the throat.
The man's strength was enormous. Corleone couldn't breathe. Panic swept through him, and his fingers tightened around the Golden Dragon in his pocket, ready to trigger Fate Gamble.
"Let him go, Urswyck. The boss still needs him alive."
The voice came from a burly warrior covered in scars, bells tied in his hair. Iggo drew his curved blade and glared.
"Release him."
Urswyck snorted and let go, muttering, "Loyal little dog, Iggo. If you'd been this loyal back in that stinking Dothraki grass sea of yours, maybe you wouldn't have had to flee all the way to Westeros."
Iggo didn't answer. He simply stared back, jaw tight.
Urswyck eventually grew bored and sneered, "Stay here and lick your master's boots, Dothraki mutt."
"I'm going to find some entertainment."
He stalked out of the room.
Corleone coughed, clutching his aching throat. A broad hand suddenly appeared in front of him.
He looked up and accepted Iggo's grip, rising unsteadily to his feet.
"You healed Vargo. Urswyck is angry. He thought you would kill him."
Iggo's voice was blunt and matter-of-fact.
"He wants to be our leader."
"I see."
Corleone nodded, filing the information away. So the Brave Companions weren't unified after all. Their internal conflict might actually be useful someday.
"Thank you."
"Dothraki do not say thank you."
Iggo answered stiffly, then continued, "Until we return to Harrenhal, and Qyburn takes over Vargo's treatment, you must keep him alive."
"Otherwise, I will kill you myself."
"Don't worry. You saved my life a moment ago. I'm sure we can be friends."
Corleone smiled warmly.
"I never refuse a friend's request."
"I believe in friendship, and I'm always willing to offer it first."
Iggo blinked, startled. He'd spent over ten years in Westeros, and such refined phrases usually came from noblemen, not skinny farmhands. Something about Corleone felt fundamentally different from the peasants slaughtered outside.
After a moment of thought, Iggo picked up a piece of barley bread from the table and held it out.
"Eat, Westerosi."
Then he pointed toward the corner where Jaime and Brienne lay tied together.
"When you're fed and have strength again, you can look at that man's wounds."
"Vargo forbids us from treating him because he offended him."
"Then why do you…"
Corleone trailed off, confused.
Iggo continued explaining, "Because his father is Lord Tywin. People say even the shit he produces turns to gold."
"I don't want his shit. But if it turns to gold… no one would refuse. So he must not die."
"In Dothraki lands, a man who loses an arm rarely lives."
He met Corleone's eyes.
"Can you do it? Keep him alive until we reach Harrenhal?"
Corleone looked at the bread in his hand. He took a large bite, chewed, and grinned.
"I told you, I never refuse a friend's request."
"But I don't force friendship on those who think I'm beneath them. When the day comes that I need help, I expect you to offer it without hesitation, my friend."
"You're Iggo, right?"
"Remember my name."
"I am Corleone."
"Vito Corleone."