Corleon realized almost immediately that he had spoken far too confidently.
The moment he tore away the filthy gauze wrapped around Vargo Hoat's ear, his vision swayed and his stomach lurched. The sight before him was beyond grotesque—so appalling that for a heartbeat he wondered if this was some malicious test from the gods.
How terrible was it?
The ear looked as though it had been ripped off entirely by a wild animal. Instead of seeking a healer, Vargo had simply jammed the mangled piece of flesh back onto the wound and wrapped it with layers of grimy cloth, as though brute force and stubbornness alone could reattach body parts.
The result was catastrophic.
The infected cartilage had turned black and leathery, the surrounding flesh ballooned and oozing, the stench putrid. Corleon forced himself to examine it clinically, drawing on every shred of medical training drilled into him through eight grueling years of undergraduate and graduate study, followed by residency rotations.
The auricular cartilage had lost nearly all blood supply. Pressing the torn ear back into place had turned it into a dead, foreign object sealing the wound shut—blocking drainage, trapping pus, and creating a festering breeding ground for bacteria. It was a perfect recipe for systemic infection, septicemia, and death.
This was textbook-level malpractice—an error so severe that Corleon felt physically ill just looking at it.
And yet, if Vargo died, Corleon strongly suspected he would not survive long either.
The Brave Companions surrounding him had their hands on sword hilts, eyes cold and impatient. Whatever happened to their commander, they would be looking for someone to blame—and Corleon was the closest target.
"What are you staring at? Get on with it, boy!"
The gaunt, sharp-featured man with a short blade snapped irritably. Corleon had learned earlier that this man was Urswyck, second-in-command of the Brave Companions—vicious, ambitious, and far too interested in seeing this treatment fail.
Corleon swallowed, steadied his voice, and spoke respectfully.
"My lord, the situation is extremely severe. The ear has already died and must be completely removed along with all necrotic tissue. If not, the infection will spread into the blood, leading to fever and—"
"BITCH!"
Vargo's roar shook the room. He jabbed a trembling finger toward Brienne, who stood bound nearby.
"You filthy whore! You bit off my ear! I'll hack off yours and stuff them into your ugly—"
Brienne did not flinch.
Her voice was cold, steady, and laced with contempt.
"That is the punishment a maiden deals to a man who attempts to violate her honor."
Her calm scorn ignited Vargo's rage. He sprang up and began beating her—kicks, fists, spittle flying. Brienne endured the blows without crying out. Jaime, chained beside her, remained motionless, head bowed, lost in thoughts that Corleon could not decipher.
From this exchange, the young healer pieced together what must have happened. Vargo had tried to force himself on Brienne, and she had responded with the only weapon she had—her teeth. Given Vargo's nature, if he had succeeded, she would not be standing clothed and armored now.
After venting his fury, Vargo slumped back onto the bench opposite Corleon.
"You'd better know what you're doing, boy."
Corleon forced confidence into his tone.
"Rest assured, my lord. I do."
Inside, he was trembling.
Even his senior mentors would have hesitated to perform such a procedure under civilized conditions—sterile tools, lighting, assistants, anesthesia. Here, in a filthy hut surrounded by murderous criminals, the likelihood of success was microscopic.
But failure meant death—immediate and unpleasant.
"I need hot water!" he barked, shifting into survival mode. "Boiling water, clean cloth boiled in it, salt, honey, a sharp knife or dagger heated over an oil lamp—and find spiderwebs or clean moss if you can!"
The mercenaries stared, bewildered. Vargo, however, grinned through clenched teeth.
"Do as he says! The way he talks reminds me of Qyburn."
---
Half an hour later
Only the hiss of heated metal and the snip of cutting echoed through the small wooden hut.
Corleon worked with total concentration, using the red-hot blade to remove the blackened tissue. It was an inadequate tool, but heat sterilized and cauterized simultaneously, reducing bleeding and infection risk. He carefully separated adhered fibers and ensured he did not slice into the highly vascular root of the auricle—one slip and Vargo could bleed out in seconds.
The drunken commander lay unconscious, not from bravery, but because he had been drinking nonstop since the first cut. Corleon's mentors would have been horrified, but here—without anesthesia, antisepsis, or even clean air—no one could demand better.
Time crawled. Sweat stung Corleon's eyes, his hands cramped, but at last he removed the entire necrotic ear and surrounding infected flesh. Fresh, cleanly bleeding tissue appeared beneath.
He flushed the wound again with hot saline, applied honey to inhibit bacterial growth—thankfully abundant on the farm—and wrapped the head with clean boiled cloth.
When he finally finished, exhaustion overwhelmed him and he sagged to the floor.
This was only the first step. Would the wound heal? Would infection return? Would Pseudomonas thrive? Would tetanus strike? In a world without antibiotics, any of these could kill.
But at least for now, Vargo lived—and so, hopefully, would Corleon.
He touched the gold dragon coin hidden in his pocket—the key to his mysterious ability—and steadied his breath.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
"That was fast work, boy."
Urswyck leaned in, bloodshot eyes gleaming. Corleon forced a tired smile.
"It appears successful, my lord."
The smile vanished. Urswyck seized Corleon by the throat and lifted him effortlessly. Air vanished. Corleon's vision darkened. He gripped the gold coin, preparing to trigger fate's gamble at any second.
"Let him go, Urswyck."
The scarred warrior with bells braided into his hair stepped forward, drawing his curved blade.
"Let go," he repeated, voice flat.
With a contemptuous snort, Urswyck released Corleon.
"You're a loyal cur, Yiggo. If you'd been that loyal to your khalasar back in the Dothraki Sea, you wouldn't have had to flee Westeros after being hunted down."
Yiggo stared back silently. Urswyck grew bored.
"Stay here and lick your master's boots, Dothraki dog. I'm going to find some fun."
He stalked out of the hut.
Corleon coughed violently until Yiggo extended a hand and pulled him upright.
"You healed Vargo. Urswyck is angry. He wanted you to kill him. He has wanted to be commander for a long time."
Corleon nodded. So—the Brave Companions were fractured. That was an opportunity. A crack he might pry open.
"Thank you."
"Dothraki do not say thank you," Yiggo said bluntly. "Until we return to Harrenhal and Old Qyburn treats Vargo, he must stay alive. If he dies, I will kill you."
Corleon smiled faintly.
"You saved my life. I believe we can become friends."
"I never refuse the conditions of a friend."
Yiggo studied him—confused, uncertain, perhaps impressed. Flowery speech was not common among sellswords.
After a moment, he handed Corleon a piece of hard bread and gestured toward Jaime.
"Eat. Then look at that man's wounds. Vargo forbids us to treat him because he insulted him."
"Then why are you—?"
"His father is Lord Tywin Lannister. They say his shit turns to gold. I do not want shit, but if it is gold, no one refuses. So he must not die. In Dothraki lands, a man who loses a hand seldom lives."
He locked eyes with Corleon.
"Can you keep him alive until Harrenhal?"
Corleon took a bite of bread, swallowed, and grinned.
"I told you—I never refuse a request from a friend. But when I ask for help somed
ay, I expect you to give it without hesitation."
He raised his chin.
"Your name is Yiggo. Remember mine."
"My name is Corleon."
"Vito Corleon."