Let's make a bet

"What did you say!"

The words had barely fallen when a low growl sounded, and an icy blade instantly pressed against Corleone's neck.

Yego stepped forward, one hand holding his curved sword and the other gripping Vargo's chin, turning his face aside for a better look.

Sure enough, the edges of the wound at the base of his ear had turned noticeably gray, with a small amount of thick yellow-green discharge and a faint whiff of decay.

The Dothraki had seen far too many wounds and deaths. He understood what these signs meant.

"You promised!"

"You promised you'd heal him! You liar!"

He turned and roared at Corleone, feeling like a fool who had been toyed with!

The cold touch of the curved sword felt so real. With [Insight lv1], Corleone could even clearly see Yego's anger making every muscle in his face twitch.

Yet he did not struggle. He let the blade rest against his skin, his voice unusually steady.

"I'm a doctor, Yego. A professional doctor."

"I cleared all the dead flesh from his wound. I did everything I could. But even the most professional doctor cannot cure a patient determined to die!"

Corleone stared into Yego's eyes, gradually adding weight to his words. "He pressed a dead organ against his wound, then drank himself into a stupor like a dead pig during the operation."

"This isn't a failure of my medical skills. The gods are claiming his life. His own stupidity sounded his death knell ahead of time."

Yego was still breathing heavily, his teeth clenched tight, but he did not know what to say.

Corleone caught the uncertainty in his eyes and knew the time had come.

He stepped forward of his own accord, utterly disregarding the cold curved sword at his neck, and began calmly bandaging Vargo again.

"Face reality, Yego."

"The fever will keep returning. Foul-smelling pus will seep from the wound. In three days at most, he'll become a corpse after an agonizing ordeal."

Even with a blade held to his throat, Corleone displayed far more composure than usual.

He stared into Yego's eyes. The [Insight] skill let him clearly catch the sharp contraction of his pupils and his constantly shifting gaze beneath that forced expression of calm.

Just as I thought.

Corleone thought to himself.

The Dothraki would not give their loyalty to a Khal who lacked the ability to lead and was about to die.

Yego was not wholly loyal to Vargo himself. His loyalty lay with the position of Khal that Vargo represented and his decisive, ruthless strength.

As that source of strength approached exhaustion and collapse, the Dothraki warrior's instincts were awakening his primal anxiety over survival and belonging.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Yego withdrew his curved sword and stared coldly at Corleone. "You could have pretended nothing had happened and stalled for a while longer."

"What are you after?"

Though he came from a nomadic people and had little education, that did not mean he was a fool.

Quite the opposite. Yego was far cleverer than his fellow Dothraki. Otherwise, he could never have survived in Westeros for over a decade.

At this, Corleone smiled calmly and actually stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

He lowered his voice further, but it carried ample force. "Urswyck wanted me to tamper with the operation and quietly kill Vargo Hoat!"

"I agreed."

Corleone's words were startling, and the shock in Yego's eyes only deepened.

Yet just as he instinctively moved to call for his companions, Corleone pressed closer again and said in a low voice, "The Dothraki only follow the strongest horse on the grasslands, Yego."

"When a Khal has lost his ability to lead, the best choice is nothing other than finding someone new, someone with greater potential to guide your path."

"You want me to pledge allegiance to Urswyck?"

At those words, a cruel curve appeared at the corner of Yego's mouth, and his right hand quietly tightened around his curved sword.

It seemed that if Corleone said another word, he would immediately cut off his head.

After all, to Yego, though Urswyck was cruel and treacherous, he fell far short of Vargo Hoat in strength, swordsmanship, and even viciousness.

For a Dothraki warrior like Yego to pledge allegiance to him would be an outright disgrace.

With [Insight], those movements naturally did not escape Corleone's eyes. Yet he merely raised his hand slowly and lightly tapped his own temple under Yego's incredulous gaze.

"Strength sometimes lies in more than swords, my friend. It lies even more here, in eyes that pierce the fog and see through people's hearts, and in the ability to control fate."

"A man who sees the essence of something in a second and a man who cannot see it even after half a lifetime will naturally have different fates."

"Someone like Urswyck will never understand the true nature of power in his entire life. Once he is given control of it, he will soon be destroyed by it."

"What exactly are you trying to say..."

"I, Vito Corleone."

Looking at the stunned Yego, Corleone spoke solemnly, as though entering into a sacred pact:

"You can choose-to pledge allegiance to me!"

Yego laughed loudly. "You? A farmer? Can you even lift a sword!"

Faced with this biting challenge, Corleone showed no anger. Instead, a strangely confident smile appeared on his face.

"Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West and master of Casterly Rock-how many years has it been since he personally wielded a longsword and charged into battle? Ten? Twenty?"

"Yet with a single word, a single judgment, he can decide whether tens of thousands live or die!"

Corleone's tone was utterly confident, as though he possessed an inborn kingly bearing, leaving even Yego momentarily stunned.

"But you're not Tywin Lannister. You're just a farmer who was strung up on an apple tree. If we hadn't happened to pass by, you'd already be a dried-out corpse!"

"What right does a man who can't even protect his own life have to talk about strength?"

At those words, Corleone's gaze seemed to pierce through time and return to the foot of that apple tree.

"Strung up on a tree?" He chuckled, his laughter carrying a sense of utter transformation:

"You're right. That cowardly, ignorant Corleone, helpless before anyone who wanted to butcher him, did indeed die on that tree."

Corleone spread his arms as though embracing the world in an entirely new way, his voice suddenly ringing with force. "I am no longer who I once was!"

"I was reborn on that apple tree. The gods gave me a revelation. They gave me eyes that could see through the fog and the power to control fate!"

As he spoke, under Yego's startled, doubtful gaze, Corleone slowly drew from his pocket a... Gold Dragon, gleaming with a dim golden light.

He held the Gold Dragon between his fingertips and raised it between them. In the firelight, the Gold Dragon seemed to come alive, giving a faint hum that might or might not have been there.

Corleone raised his head, his eyes turning incomparably sharp, his gaze filled with challenge and confidence.

"You don't believe me?"

"Good. The Dothraki like to let strength speak, don't they?"

As he spoke, Corleone bent his finger and flicked the Gold Dragon into the air. The gold coin, a symbol of wealth, tumbled endlessly, its reflected light illuminating the two men's faces in the wooden cabin in turn.

"Let's make a bet."

"Swing your curved sword at me, Dothraki."

The Gold Dragon landed in his hand. Corleone grinned, his voice seemingly filled with some peculiar, indescribable power.

"Let's bet on whether your blade can cut off my head!"