"What did you say!"
The words had barely left Corleone's mouth when a low roar followed, and a cold blade pressed hard against his neck.
Iggo stepped in, one hand gripping his curved Dothraki arakh, the other seizing Vargo's jaw to tilt his face aside for a better look.
As expected, the wound at the base of the torn ear had turned gray around the edges. A thin smear of yellow-green pus oozed out, carrying a faint rot that clung to the air.
A Dothraki had seen too many wounds and deaths to mistake the signs.
"You promised!"
"You promised you'd heal him! You liar!"
His fury slammed into Corleone like a physical blow. The knife's cold edge bit against his skin, and under the clarity of Insight, every twitch, every tremor of Iggo's face stood out like cracks in glass.
But Corleone didn't flinch. He let the steel rest against his throat, speaking with unsettling calm.
"I'm a doctor, Iggo. A trained, professional doctor."
"I cut away every trace of rotten flesh. I did everything possible. But even the best healer can't save a man determined to kill himself."
He locked eyes with Iggo, letting his tone sharpen.
"He pressed dead tissue back onto an open wound. Then he drank himself senseless in the middle of surgery."
"This isn't my failure. This is the gods reclaiming his life. His own stupidity rang the bell for his funeral."
Iggo's breath came loud and harsh. He clenched his teeth, wanting to argue but unable to form the words.
Corleone saw the wavering in his eyes. The moment had come.
He stepped forward deliberately, ignoring the steel digging into his neck, and calmly began rewrapping Vargo's wound.
"Face the truth, Iggo."
"The fever will come again. The wound will rot. Within three days, he'll be a corpse."
Even with a blade at his throat, Corleone's composure only grew colder. Insight showed him every microreaction in Iggo's expression, every flicker of fear darting through the warrior's eyes.
Perfect.
Dothraki didn't die for a Khal who had already lost the right to lead.
Iggo wasn't loyal to Vargo the man. He was loyal to the strength Vargo represented—the authority of a Khal. And now that strength was rotting away, instinct tugged at him like a buried claw, urging him to consider his future.
"Why tell me this?"
Iggo lowered the blade but kept his stare razor-sharp.
"You could've kept quiet and let this drag out. What are you after?"
He might be a nomad with little formal education, but he was no fool. A man had to be sharp to survive over a decade in Westeros.
Corleone smiled lightly and closed the space between them.
His voice dropped, gaining a weight that settled deep in the room.
"Urswyck wants me to sabotage the surgery and kill Vargo Hoat in secret."
"I agreed."
The confession stunned Iggo. His eyes widened, and for a heartbeat he looked ready to shout for the others.
But Corleone stepped closer and cut him off with a whisper that sliced like a scalpel.
"Dothraki only follow the strongest stallion on the grasslands, Iggo."
"When a Khal loses his ability to lead, the wise choice… is to find someone new to follow."
"You want me to follow Urswyck?"
A cruel smile tugged at Iggo's lips, and his grip tightened around his arakh.
If Corleone said one more wrong word, he'd carve his head off.
To Iggo, Urswyck wasn't a leader. He was a scavenger, vicious but far weaker than Vargo, unfit to command a true warrior.
Corleone saw the shift in his muscles through Insight, but he didn't back away. Instead, he lifted a finger and tapped his temple.
"Strength doesn't only live in the sword, my friend. It lives here—in eyes that pierce the fog, and in hands that grasp fate."
"Some people see the truth in a single heartbeat. Others take half a lifetime and still don't understand."
"That's why men like Urswyck will never hold power. Give him authority, and it will destroy him."
"What are you trying to say…"
"I, Vito Corleone."
Corleone's voice dropped into a solemn, vow-like cadence.
"You can choose to follow me."
Iggo burst out laughing.
"You? You're a farmer. Can you even lift a sword?"
Corleone didn't get angry. He only smiled—quiet, confident, unnervingly sure of himself.
"Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West and master of Casterly Rock… how many years has it been since he lifted a blade in battle? Ten? Twenty?"
"Yet one word from him decides whether thousands live or die."
The conviction in Corleone's tone stopped Iggo for a moment, even if he refused to show it.
"But you're not Tywin Lannister. You're a farmer we found hanging from an apple tree. If we hadn't passed by, you'd be a dried corpse by now."
"How does a man who couldn't even save himself talk about strength?"
Corleone's gaze drifted, as if seeing the memory through a long corridor of time.
"Hanging from that tree?"
He let out a soft chuckle, one filled with something molten and reborn.
"You're right. That weak, ignorant Corleone died there."
He opened his arms, embracing the firelight, his voice turning sharp and resonant.
"I'm not the man I was."
"I was reborn on that tree. The gods gave me new sight, and the power to seize destiny."
Under Iggo's conflicted stare, Corleone reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a Golden Dragon.
The dim gold gleamed under the firelight, turning slowly between his fingers as if alive.
Corleone held it between them, letting the coin glint between the shifting shadows.
"You don't believe me?"
"Good. Dothraki respect strength, don't they?"
He flicked the coin upward. It spun through the air, catching the firelight as it tumbled, glowing bright, then dim, then bright again—reflecting on both of their faces.
"Let's make a bet."
"Lift your arakh, Dothraki."
The coin fell back into his palm.
Corleone grinned, a strange, electric confidence radiating through his voice.
"Bet that your blade can't take my head."