All germs, attack!

Dusk was like blood, staining the sky above the shores of the Gods Eye.

By then, Hogg was in an extremely dire state. Blood kept pouring out, staining the soil beneath his backside black.

Stow's face was full of worry.

They were all experienced soldiers, and of course they knew what unceasing bleeding meant. A few years earlier, Stow had encountered just such a case: an unlucky bastard whose thigh had been slashed by a whore because he had not paid her.

The fellow's older paternal cousin once removed happened to be the steward of Karhold and had hurriedly summoned Maester Regan, who served Earl Rickard. Stow had happened to be there.

But even Maester Regan had declared the man beyond saving after examining him.

The steward had looked as though his own son had died. Stow had puzzled over that for quite some time, leaving him with a particularly deep impression of the incident.

So when he saw Corleone looking so confident, he was deeply skeptical.

But it was too late to say anything now. Out here in the wilderness, there was no better option. He could only pin his hopes on this doctor they had met by chance.

If he can't save him, I'll slaughter him and send him to the grave with Hogg!

Stow took a deep breath and thought to himself.

"Move."

With [Insight Lv1], none of the changes in Stow's expression escaped Corleone's eyes. Yet he showed no panic whatsoever. Even his voice did not tremble, remaining calm to the point of coldness.

He shoved aside the soldier pressing down on Hogg's wound. Under everyone's utterly shocked gazes, Corleone actually reached out and brutally thrust his fingers into the wound at the top of Hogg's thigh!

"Hissss!"

"Aaaah!!!!"

The surrounding soldiers sucked in sharp breaths at the sight.

The intense pain even made the unconscious Hogg jerk violently, a cry of pain escaping his throat.

Even Stow's eyelids could not help twitching.

How the fuck is this treatment? This is clearly torture!

But seeing Corleone's unruffled expression, he clenched his fists and suppressed the urge to kill this backwoods doctor with a punch. Cooperating fully, he stepped forward and pinned down Hogg's struggling upper body, shouting, "Hold him down! Now!"

At his words, several soldiers from the North rushed forward as well, piling on top of one another.

Fortunately, with their help, Corleone's work became much easier.

He pinched the artery firmly with one hand and deftly clamped it with a hemostat held in the other. Then he switched hands and took out a curved suture needle and thread.

Without any disinfection, Corleone relied entirely on touch and the muscle memory of [Surgery Lv2]. Before everyone's horrified eyes, he gripped the curved needle and drove it straight into the curled-back flesh without hesitation, making several rough transfixing stitches and ligatures around the severed end of the vessel!

The operation was extremely painful, as was evident from the way Hogg thrashed like a fish hauled onto land.

But after several bouts of "professional" surgical practice, Corleone was already unperturbed by the various situations a patient might present.

His movements were precise and swift, devoid of any personal feeling, like a practiced leatherworker stitching up a piece of torn leather.

With every stitch, Hogg's body jerked violently, only to be pinned down again by Stow and the others.

The whole process was astonishingly fast.

There was no debridement, no irrigation. He even simply opened the dirt-covered waterskin a soldier beside him handed over and poured the remaining clean water over the wound, washing away most of the blood and obvious foreign matter.

By the time Corleone bit through the final suture, the horrific wound on Hogg's thigh had been forcibly closed. Though the stitches looked crooked and hideous, the bleeding had at least stopped.

"Done. The bleeding has stopped for now."

Corleone straightened and casually wiped his blood-covered hands on the grass beside him. His tone remained utterly flat, as though he had merely eaten dinner. "Next, we just need to watch him for a few days. If the wound doesn't rot and he doesn't develop a fever, he probably won't die."

His "medical instructions" were equally blunt and crude.

By Corleone's own estimate, however, wound infection, and even necrosis and fever, were practically guaranteed.

After all, first, he truly lacked the conditions and time for preoperative disinfection. Second, with arterial bleeding, saving the patient's life was the first priority.

According to his instructor, battlefield medics would even pull out an injured artery and tie it in a knot, or make a cut with a knife, reach straight into the chest cavity, and perform cardiac massage. If the patient passed out from pain, that counted as anesthesia.

Infection?

That's something to worry about only after you survive!

Compared with the comprehensive medical care available in his previous life, though, Hogg had very poor luck.

But Corleone felt not the slightest guilt.

After all, only those who survived deserved to be his patients!

Just look at Jaime. Why was his hand fine after rolling around in mud and soaking in horse piss?

If you die of infection, you've only yourself to blame, you jinx!

Maybe... he should even thank me!

"Gods above, thank you so much, doctor!"

And sure enough, Stow, who had been left dumbfounded by Corleone's procedure, immediately breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing that the bleeding had stopped. Overjoyed, he clapped him on the shoulder.

"You saved Hogg. I, Harag Stow, owe you a life!"

"You're really... you're really fucking incredible!"

He racked his brains for a long time, originally hoping to thank Corleone for saving a life with some elegant turn of phrase. But as a semiliterate man, Stow's vocabulary was limited, so he could only keep repeating his thanks.

He was so enthusiastic that Corleone might have been his long-lost blood brother, born to a different father and mother.

Yet from beginning to end, this "generous" northerner never again mentioned returning the hundred Gold Dragons he had withheld from Corleone earlier.

Corleone, meanwhile, kept a professional smile on his face and listened quietly, likewise having the sense not to utter a single word even remotely related to "Gold Dragons."

Stow thought he had gotten a bargain: top-notch medical care and a hundred Gold Dragons, all for free.

But in Corleone's eyes, he would collect this debt, along with the earlier humiliation, with interest.

A very worthwhile deal.

His superb medical skills earned Corleone a little freedom of movement.

Stow no longer kept him under strict watch at his side and allowed him to move around a little within the camp. But he did not let Corleone leave either, intending to wait until Hogg's injury had healed before discussing it.

Corleone stretched and made a show of loosening his limbs, strolling about with apparent nonchalance while his gaze turned toward the crooked tree at the center of camp.

Sandor Clegane, "The Hound."

The powerful warrior now had his hands bound with coarse hemp rope and hung beneath a thick branch.

His toes barely touched the ground, leaving his entire body weight hanging from his wrists. This twisted his already fearsome face even further, and veins bulged on his forehead.

The sight stirred an inexplicable trace of reflection in Corleone.

After all, when he had transmigrated here, he had been in exactly the same predicament as The Hound was now.

Several Karstark soldiers surrounded The Hound, continuously humiliating him. After all, he had cut down several of their comrades in the earlier battle.

"Pah! Bastard!" One soldier spat a thick gob of phlegm into The Hound's face.

Another drove the end of his scabbard hard into The Hound's belly.

"Urgh..." The Hound gave a muffled grunt, then abruptly raised his head. His feral eyes brimmed with hatred as he roared, "Fuck every last one of you!"

"If I hadn't gone hungry for two days and lost my strength, you useless shits couldn't beat me even if you all came at once!"

He tried to preserve his dignity with his roars, but his words only added fuel to the fire, instantly enraging the soldiers.

"Still running your mouth when you're about to die!"

One of Stow's personal guards flew into a rage. Pointing at The Hound, he bellowed, "This mad dog killed five of us! Put the rope around his neck and hang him!"

"Yes! Hang him!"

"Strangle him!"

"Avenge our dead brothers!"

At those words, everyone immediately erupted in fury.

Several men stepped forward at once to untie the rope suspending The Hound by his wrists, preparing to fasten the knot around his neck.

The Hound clenched his teeth, his eyes fixed on the guard who had proposed hanging him, as though he meant to carve the man's appearance into the depths of his soul.

But at that critical instant, a slightly regretful voice suddenly rang out:

"What a pity..."