By the time Rorge marched Corleone back toward the wooden hut, the night was deep and still.
His long conversation with Urswyck had stretched on and on. Most of it had been Corleone lecturing that sadist about the human body—vascular patterns, nerve pathways, muscle layers, points of skeletal weakness. Each term cracked open a brand-new world for Urswyck.
A lifetime spent as a monster, and he had never grasped just how intricate the human form truly was.
Every method he'd once taken pride in now felt crude under Corleone's calm, methodical explanations.
If Urswyck had possessed the ambition of some infamous scheming minister from the tales, he might have tried recruiting Corleone on the spot.
Of course, that was impossible. No matter how vicious or cunning he was, Urswyck was still only the second-in-command of a band of brigands.
But Corleone's poise, precision, and unnervingly fluent cruelty had made Urswyck see him as one of his own—and he showed it by offering something tangible.
Corleone touched the heavy weight resting in his pocket: ten Golden Dragons.
He hadn't expected to earn his first fortune in this world so quickly.
For all his brutality, Urswyck understood how to win loyalty. He wasn't stingy. In his own words, Corleone had proved himself by personally killing Ser Finn's son, and Urswyck meant to ensure his new colleague stayed on his side.
In this world, profit was the rope that bound strangers together more tightly than blood.
Ten Golden Dragons.
Not a small sum. In peacetime, it could fully equip a knight—armor, horse, weapons included. Even now, after a year of war had driven prices sky-high, ten Golden Dragons could support a family of five for half a year.
Urswyck's generosity spoke for itself.
After all, even Jaime Lannister—one of the wealthiest heirs in the Seven Kingdoms—had only warranted a thousand-Dragon bounty when he escaped, despite Riverrun's desperation to recover him.
"Recharge. Start the draw."
As he walked, Corleone opened his system panel.
He had never seen so much money in his life, yet he didn't hesitate. He fed all ten Dragons straight into the system. Right now, nothing mattered more than growing stronger. Live first, earn more later, feed the system again, and repeat.
Aside from Surgery level 2, he had no other inherent skills. Even if ten Dragons only bought him a level-1 ability, it could be crucial.
The moment he made the purchase, the coins vanished, and the system wheel spun wildly.
[Ding~~~ Skill acquired: Insight lv1]
No explanation. Just a solitary line, as stingy as the description for his Surgery skill.
It seemed the system didn't consider low-level abilities worth elaborating on.
Corleone frowned at first. In his current situation, a combat skill would have been far more useful—swordplay, unarmed fighting, anything.
Compared to those, Insight felt lacking.
But then something cool and subtle washed through his mind, and suddenly the world shifted.
He turned his head slightly. Rorge's ugly face filled his vision.
"Unfocused. Keeps glancing toward the men drinking by the fire. Mind drifting."
"A tiny imbalance in his left leg while walking. Likely an old injury…"
In just two seconds, Corleone registered details he had never noticed before.
"I see…"
His eyes lit up with understanding.
This skill was perfect for his current situation.
"You can go in yourself, doctor."
By the time they reached the hut, Rorge didn't escort him inside. Instead, he clapped Corleone's shoulder with feigned camaraderie.
"Urswyck says you're one of us now. If I get hurt later, I'll be counting on you to patch me up."
"But a warning."
He jerked his chin toward the hut, wearing a hint of disdain.
"That Dothraki brute isn't easy to deal with. The captain trusts no one but him."
"Don't do anything that puts him on edge. And if he tries anything on you, yell. Biter and I will come running."
Then he left without another glance, already eyeing the distant drinking circle.
He's guessed something.
Corleone watched him go.
This hulking man was sharper than he looked. He might have sensed something between him and Urswyck. He didn't expose it—instead, he offered a warning.
Interesting.
In times of war, one couldn't underestimate anyone who had managed to survive.
---
He pushed the door open. Before he could take a full step inside, a large shadow appeared in the firelit gloom.
"You were gone a long time."
The Dothraki's tone was curt, suspicion clouding his eyes.
"Yeah. Took a shit on the way."
Corleone shrugged, casual and unbothered.
"I've been hanging up like a carcass, then did two surgeries in a row. My guts were about to explode."
Iggo's suspicion didn't vanish, but he moved aside enough for Corleone to enter.
He glanced toward the door.
"Where's Rorge? He was supposed to stand guard with me over Captain Vargo."
"He went for a drink."
Corleone peeled off his torn shirt and boots, revealing the lash marks across his skin, and tossed everything aside.
A small gesture, but deliberate—showing he carried no weapons.
He settled onto a pile of hay, rubbing his shoulder like a craftsman finishing a long day's labor.
"He said things would be fine with you here. Everyone's getting some real rest tonight."
"Seems the captain and Rorge trust you a lot, Iggo."
It sounded like quoting someone else, but it was bait and a test.
Iggo's snort made that clear.
The Dothraki valued strength. Being talked about behind his back—especially as less essential—would sting.
Still, he didn't push further. Corleone's posture was too relaxed, too unguarded.
Corleone scanned the room.
Vargo Hoat slept in the center on a soft heap of hay and rags. His face glowed scarlet in the firelight, stinking of wine, snoring loud enough to shake the rafters.
Jaime Lannister and Brienne had been taken away earlier, escorted by another sellsword. Iggo couldn't watch all three alone.
Seeing Corleone stretched out with no intention of examining Vargo's wound, Iggo frowned and approached.
"Change the dressing, Vi… Vito Corleone."
"You said it yourself. Every two hours."
"That long already?"
Corleone cracked one tired eye open, sighed, and dragged himself to his feet. He stumbled toward the sleeping captain.
He made a show of checking the bandages, then murmured thoughtfully.
"He's a tough man. Injured like this, yet sleeping like a baby."
"Of course."
Iggo didn't doubt him.
"Captain Vargo is a worthy Khal. We've never lost a battle following him."
Corleone didn't comment. He only gave Iggo a sideways glance.
With Vargo's temperament, defeat was unlikely—because he only picked fights he could win.
He continued unwrapping the dressing, using Insight to track Iggo's micro-expressions.
What he saw wasn't genuine loyalty. It was the Dothraki instinct to follow the strongest rider.
Corleone smiled faintly.
"I've heard that back in the Dothraki Sea, there was a Khal named Drogo, undefeated in battle, leading more than forty thousand riders. Supposedly the strongest ever."
"But he fell from his horse after an infected wound. And his horde scattered."
"Yes, I've heard that."
A rare light flickered in Iggo's eyes—nostalgia.
"He was the son of Khal Bharbo. They say his braid fell past his thighs. He never lost a single fight."
Corleone clicked his tongue.
"Shame he died."
"Even the mightiest eagle eventually falls."
"True."
Iggo nodded solemnly.
"That is why his Khalasar scattered like a startled herd, taken by rising warriors. It is the Dothraki way. When the lion falls, the hyenas feast. A new lion rises from blood and fire."
Corleone listened quietly, watching Iggo's face while untying the final layer of bandage.
Then he exposed the wound.
He had cleaned it thoroughly earlier, but now, the stump of the torn ear had begun to show a thin smear of sickly yellow-green. The surrounding skin was redder, angrier.
Corleone's lips lifted in a small, crisp smile.
"Unfortunately, Iggo…"
"I think you should start looking for a new Khal to follow."
"Because our esteemed Earl Vargo Hoat… won't live much longer."