The twilight sky above the shores of Gods Eye Lake burned a deep, blood-red.
Hogg was in an extremely critical condition at the moment. Blood kept gushing out from his wound, soaking into the ground beneath him until the soil had turned completely black.
Harag's face was tight with worry. His mind couldn't help but wander back to years ago, when he had once witnessed a similar sight. A poor fool whose thigh had been slashed open by a prostitute after he tried to skip paying her.
The steward of Caho City was the man's cousin and with his connections, he quickly summoned Maester Lygen, who served Lord Rickard. Harag happened to be on duty at the time.
Even Maester Lygen, after examining that wound, had only shaken his head and declared it hopeless.
Harag vividly remembered the steward's expression then—like a father staring at his own son's corpse. That scene had stayed with him for years. So when he heard Ronin's confident declaration, he couldn't help but be sceptical.
But... there was no turning back at this point.
They were stuck in a barren stretch of wilderness with no better options. All they could do was pin all their hopes on Ronin, the only healer available in miles.
'If he can't save Hogg… then I'll gut him myself and bury him with Hogg.' Harag took a deep breath, muttering inwardly.
"Move aside." With Insight activated, Harag's shift in expression didn't escape Ronin, who had been paying attention to him, yet he remained completely unmoved.
His voice didn't waver in the slightest. He was calm—almost cold.
He shoved aside the soldier who had been pressing down on Hogg's wound, then reached out with his bare hand. To the horror of everyone present, he pushed his fingers straight into the gash at the very root of Hogg's thigh, probing roughly as though searching for something.
"Hissss—!"
"Ahhh!!!"
The pain was so severe that even the unconscious Hogg jerked violently and let out a blood-curdling scream.
The soldiers around them sucked in a collective breath.
Even Harag's eyelids twitched.
This didn't look like treatment—it looked like torture!
But seeing Ronin's composed expression, he clenched his fist and swallowed down the urge to draw his hammer and smash the man's head.
He instead stepped forward, slammed his palms down on Hogg's shoulders, and shouted, "Hold him down! Now!"
At once, several Northern soldiers piled onto Hogg, pinning him firmly.
Thanks to them, Ronin's work became easier.
He pinched the artery tight with one hand, clamped it with a tong tightly using the other, then switched tools and pulled out a curved suture needle already threaded for sewing.
He didn't sterilize anything. Under the horrifying gazes of the men around him, Ronin relied purely on his sense of touch and muscle memory.
He drove the curved needle straight into the swollen flesh, performing several quick, rough through-and-through stitches to tie off the severed artery.
Each jab sent Hogg's body arching like a fish thrashing on land.
But Ronin didn't flinch. His movements were swift, precise, almost mechanical—like a practiced cobbler repairing torn leather. Every time the needle pierced flesh, Hogg's body spasmed, only to be forced down again by Harag and the others.
The whole procedure was over shockingly fast. No cleaning of the wound. No removal of debris.
Ronin simply grabbed a waterskin a nearby soldier offered—its exterior still coated with dirt—and poured the remaining clean water inside over the wound, washing off blood and the largest bits of grime.
When he finally bit through the suture thread to finish the last knot, the gruesome gash along Hogg's thigh had been forcibly closed.
The stitching looked crude and uneven but the bleeding had stopped.
"For now, the bleeding's stopped," Ronin said, straightening up. "Watch him for the next few days. If the wound doesn't rot and he doesn't burn with fever… he'll live."
His medical instructions were as blunt as his stitching. But in Ronin's own estimation, infection and fever were practically guaranteed.
He didn't have the time or conditions to sterilize anything. And with arterial bleeding, the first priority was simply survival. So it was highly likely that his man would follow in Vargo's steps soon.
His seniors had once said that field surgeons on battlefields sometimes yanked out bleeding arteries and tied them in knots, or dug hands straight into open chests to squeeze the heart. If the patient fainted from pain, that counted as anesthesia.
Infection?
That was only a concern for those lucky enough to live long enough to have it.
Compared to the medical care of his past life, Hogg's circumstances were unquestionably miserable. But Ronin didn't feel the slightest remorse. In precarious circumstances, it was survival of the fittest and the luckiest.
Just look at Jaime—his maimed hand hadn't rotted after rolling in filth and horse piss. If someone died of infection, well, that was their own cursed luck.
Hogg should even be grateful of him for prolonging his time.
"By the Gods… thank you… thank you, healer!" Harag, who had been stunned speechless throughout the entire operation, finally exhaled in relief when he heard the bleeding had stopped. He slapped Ronin on the shoulder, trembling with excitement.
"You saved him. I—Harag Sharp—I owe you one. You're… bloody incredible!"
Harag tried to think of something grander to say, something fitting for saving a man's life, but as someone barely literate, he couldn't muster anything beyond simple praise.
He repeated his thanks over and over, treating Ronin like a lost half-brother returned from the dead. But through all of this exuberance, the honest Northern soldier never once mentioned the one hundred Gold Dragons he had withheld earlier.
Ronin held his professional smile throughout the exchange, not mentioning anything about the gold either.
Harag believed he had scored a bargain: world-class medical treatment, and the hundred Gold Dragons still in his pocket.
Ronin saw it differently. The medical fees and the debt would be reclaimed with interest in time.
In his mind, it was a profitable investment.
Because of his remarkable skill, Ronin was granted more freedom around camp. Harag no longer shadowed his every step, though he still didn't allow the healer to leave, wanting to wait until Hogg had fully recovered.
Ronin stretched his arms and pretended to loosen his joints as he wandered casually, though his eyes remained fixed on the twisted-necked tree standing at the center of camp.
There hung Sandor Clegane—the Hound.
His wrists were bound tightly with rough hemp rope, suspended from a thick branch overhead. His toes barely grazed the ground, and the strain on his arms twisted his already brutal features into something even more feral, veins bulging along his forehead.
Ronin felt a strange pang of nostalgia.
When he first arrived in this world, he had been in nearly the same situation.
Several Karstark soldiers were gathered around the Hound, hurling insults and jabbing at him. The man had killed several of their comrades in the last skirmish after all.
"Peh!" One soldier even had the gall to spit directly on his face.
Another jabbed him sharply in the gut with the tip of his sheathed sword.
"Ugh…" The Hound groaned, then snapped his head up, glaring through wild, hate-filled eyes.
"Fuck all of you! If I hadn't gone two days without food, not one of you bastards could take me, even together!" He tried to hold onto his pride through sheer rage, but his words only enraged the soldiers even more.
"Still barking when you're about to die!" One of the soldiers, Harag's close confidant, pointed at the Hound shouting furiously, "This mad dog killed five of ours! Get a rope. I am going to hang him!"
"Yeah! Hang him!"
"Strangle the bastard!"
"Make him pay!"
"Bill is right! Hang him!"
"Strangle him!"
"Make him pay with his life!"
Voices rose all at once. Several soldiers stepped forward, ready to lower the Hound and place a rope around his neck.
The man in question clenched his teeth, fiercely gazing at Bill who had first called for his hanging, as if trying to carve the man's face into his memory.
But right at that moment, a voice filled with regret cut through the noise, "What a pity…"
Startled, the soldiers halted and looked toward the source.
Ronin stood nearby, arms folded, shaking his head with an expression of deep, pained regret, like a man watching a fortune slip from his hands.
Bill scowled at him, displeased.
"Mind your tongue, healer. Saving Hogg doesn't give you the right to bark at me! This mad dog killed our brothers. His capture is a gift from the Old Gods!"
"Do it!" He waved his hand, urging his men to continue. But Ronin did not intend to stop. He only clicked his tongue several times, "Tsk, tsk, tsk…"
Infuriated, the soldier turned to him, drawing his sword. "You'd better explain yourself, boy. If I don't like it, you're dead before this mutt."
Ronin merely shrugged at the threat.
He didn't even look at the guard as he strolled forward and stopped just a few steps from the Hound.
"I know this one—Ser Sandor Clegane. The Hound of Hand Tywin Lannister. They say he killed a man at twelve, served in King Joffrey Baratheon's Kingsguard and even earned great merit during the Battle of the Blackwater. Later, he was removed from the Kingsguard for insulting the King and deserting."
"I am no deserter!"
The Hound snarled, furious. "At the Blackwater, I killed more enemies than anyone! I just got sick of risking my life for 'great lords'! I cast off that white cloak myself—it was filthier than horse shit!"
His rage echoed through the woods, but the Northerners just stared back coldly. They had lost lords and brothers too, and none of them were the soft-hearted kind.
"No one asked for your pathetic story, traitor!" Bill spat on him once more, then snapped at Ronin, "Hurry it up, boy. If you spout one more line of nonsense, I'll carve your tongue out."
This time, Ronin stopped circling around the point. "I said it's a pity."
He repeated, sweeping his gaze across the gathered Northerners. "You all heard about the tourney King Robert held for Ned Stark, right? This man—Sandor Clegane—was the champion of that tourney."
Ronin paused, observing the blank looks around him.
He sighed inwardly. 'Gods… Northerners really are hopeless. How is such a simple thing so hard to understand?'
So he spelled it out plainly.
"If my memory serves well, the champion's prize was... forty thousand gold dragons."
A ripple swept through the crowd.
"How much?!"
"Forty thousand?! How many nights at the whorehouse could that buy?"
"I've heard Tywin Lannister has golden toilets! With that many gold dragons, I'd buy a golden saddle!"
"That's nothing, I heard even his shit comes out as gold!"
"Screw that, I'd buy a castle!"
A wave of shock erupted around the camp. Forty thousand gold dragons was beyond the wildest dreams of every man present. For a moment, every gaze gleamed with hunger. Even Bill stared at the Hound as though seeing a pot of gold.
"Hand it over, Hound!"
He surged forward, tearing at Sandor's armor, searching his pockets, pouches and every possible hiding place.
He found nothing, of course. Not even a single copper.
"Bill, you bloody fool! Do you have any idea what forty thousand gold dragons is? Who in the Seven Hells carries that much coin on them?"
"So he spent it?" Bill muttered uncertainly.
"Spent it?" another soldier snapped. "The tourney was less than a year ago! Forty thousand gold dragons—one man couldn't burn through that even if he bathed in molten gold every day!"
"…Then he hid it," Bill muttered, eyes lighting up. "Yeah… yeah, he hid it. Somewhere only he knows."
That conclusion—perfectly reasonable—immediately lit up every pair of greedy eyes.
In an instant, fists, boots, sword scabbards, and even broken branches came crashing down onto the Hound. They beat him like a pack of starving dogs trying to break open a locked chest.
"Talk! Where's the gold?"
"Say it, or I'll flay your hide myself!"
"Beat him harder! Keep going until he squeals!"
Through it all, the Hound clenched his jaw and endured. He refused to give them so much as a word.
Yes, he had won. And yes, he had held a fortune.
But Beric Dondarrion, that sanctimonious flaming bastard, had taken every last coin off him! Everything except his horse, armor, and weapons.
He hadn't eaten properly in two days. Hunger had hollowed him out, drained his strength, and left him easy prey for these northern brutes.
But he'd rather die than admit that he, Sandor Clegane—the dreaded Hound—had been robbed blind and weakened to the point of capture? That he was dangling here, being beaten by men he could normally butcher in minutes? He would rather bite off his own tongue!
And as for claiming he'd beaten Dondarrion in a duel? As if anyone would believe that.
Once the Hound set his mind on silence, only one man in Westeros could match his stubbornness and that man had already lost a hand.
So he let them hit him.
After a few minutes of beating, his breath grew ragged, but the fire in his brutal, scarred eyes burned hotter, fed by pure pride and spite.
The soldiers, failing to get answers, only grew more frantic and violent. It was clear that if they continued, they would beat him to death before he ever talked.
Arya Stark, tied and tossed aside like a sack, clenched her teeth. She could no longer watch silently.
'His life belongs to me.' She repeated it in her head, using it as an excuse to intervene.
But before she could speak, that irritating healer raised his voice again.
"Stop! Enough! If you keep beating him like this, he'll die and you'll never get a single coin out of him!"
The words cut through their frenzy, and the soldiers hesitated. Ronin stepped forward, pointing at Arya curled on the ground.
"Have none of you thought about it? Why is the Lannisters' dog traveling with the Stark girl? It's obvious the girl matters to him."
As he spoke, a cold, predatory smile stretched across his face. "No need to waste time tormenting this thick-skulled brute."
"We just need to take... good care of Lady Stark here."