Ronin's confidence, as it turned out, had been premature.

The moment he peeled off the gauze covering Vargo Hoat's ear, the sight nearly made his head spin.

It was… outrageous.

How outrageous?

To put it simply: the ear looked as if some beast had torn it off entirely. And Vargo, this brute, had simply slapped it back on and wrapped it tightly with gauze as if that solved anything.

Staring at the festering, blackened mess that used to be an ear, Ronin felt his stomach twist. Still, he forced himself to steady his mind, relying on his training.

The blood supply to the torn auricular cartilage had been almost completely severed. Reattaching it by force had turned it into nothing more than necrotic tissue pressed against the wound, trapping the pus beneath and creating a perfect, sealed incubator for infection.

This was textbook post-traumatic necrosis with severe secondary infection.

It was the kind of mistake only someone trying to die could make.

And though Ronin would have loved to see this brute drop dead, he was well aware that if Vargo died here, he likely wouldn't live another hour either. The men surrounding him had their swords practically at his throat.

"What are you staring at? Get on with it, boy!"

The skinny man beside him—Urswyck, the second-in-command—snapped impatiently.

"My lord," Ronin said, steadying his voice. "The situation is extremely serious. The ear is completely necrotic. It must be removed, along with all decayed tissue. Otherwise the pus will spread into the bloodstream and cause a deadly fever—"

"Bi*ch!"

Before he could finish, Vargo jabbed a finger at Brienne and roared, "You bit off my ear! I'll cut off your ears and shove them into your ugly cu*t."

Brienne met his gaze without flinching. "That is what a maiden does to a man who tries to violate her honor."

Her calm mockery only fueled Vargo's rage. He stormed over, raining punches and kicks on her.

Nearby, Jaime didn't move. He just sat with his head lowered, lost in his own thoughts.

Watching all this, Ronin pieced together what must have happened and silently sighed.

He was too familiar with Vargo Hoat. This man would take anything walking. Fortunately, he hadn't succeeded—otherwise Brienne wouldn't be wearing armor right now.

When Vargo finally tired himself out, he stomped back and sat heavily in front of Ronin. "You'd better know what you're doing, boy."

"Don't worry, my lord," Ronin assured him with as much confidence as he could fake. "I'm certain."

In truth, he was anything but that.

Eight years of medical school, clinical rotations, debridements, suturing—he'd done all of that. But performing a full necrotic-tissue removal under barbaric conditions like these…

Even senior surgeons would only be able to apologize to the family of the patient.

But for Ronin right now, whether he could successfully treat Vargo was irrelevant; the important thing was to bluff his way through and ensure his own survival first.

Without hesitation, he turned and loudly commanded the Brave Companions members, "I need hot water! Cloth boiled in it! Salt, honey, an oil lamp, a sharp knife—clean if possible! And bring me spiderwebs or clean moss!"

The mercenaries exchanged confused looks, wanting to protest, but Vargo's glare made them shut up. "Do what he says."

"The way this boy talks reminds me of Qyburn."

...

Half an hour later, the only sounds inside the hut were the hiss of the red-hot blade and the steady snipping of tissue.

Ronin worked with total focus, cutting away the necrotic flesh with the heated knife. It wasn't ideal, but at least it sterilized and cauterized at the same time. He moved carefully, avoiding the highly vascular region near the base of the ear—one slip and blood loss would kill Vargo, and Ronin along with him.

Vargo himself lay motionless, not because he was tough but from guzzling wine nonstop until he passed out.

A patient drinking heavily during surgery? Ronin had already declared the man dead in his heart. There was no surviving from this.

Minute by minute, he carved away the dead tissue. Finally, the necrotic ear and all the rotted flesh came off, revealing cleaner, viable skin beneath.

He didn't pause. He washed the wound with hot saline, applied honey, and bandaged it tightly.

There was no distilled alcohol here, but honey would do—its high sugar content drew water from bacteria, inhibiting their growth. Ronin had done something similar once in his past life.

When he finished, exhaustion hit him like a wave. His legs gave out and he slumped onto the floor. But he didn't feel any joy. After all, debridement was only the first step.

Would the wound heal smoothly? Would there be a Pseudomonas aeruginosa infection afterward? Would he contract tetanus?

In a world without antibiotics, Ronin couldn't promise anything.

But at least, for now, the operation was a success—and his head would remain attached to his shoulders.

As for whether Vargo Hoat would spike a fever in a few days and furiously hack him, the doctor, to death in rage… Ronin couldn't worry about that, as he certainly didn't intend to stay with these vicious criminals for that long.

"That was quick work, boy!"

A heavy hand clapped his shoulder. Urswyck approached, grinning. Ronin could see the strange dark veins bulging on the man's hands.

"Looks like the surgery worked, eh?"

Ronin forced a smile. "It seems so, my lord."

Immediately, Urswyck's smile vanished. His hand shot to Ronin's throat, squeezing hard. His grip was monstrously strong, and Ronin could see black spots swimming in his vision.

Ronin instinctively wanted to activate his Time Stop skill!

"Let him go, Urswyck! The boss still needs him!"

A burly, scarred man with bells in his hair saw Urswyck's actions and drew his scimitar, glaring at him.

Urswyck sneered but released him. "What a loyal mutt you are, Iggo. If you were half as loyal to your khalasar back in the Dothraki Sea, you wouldn't have had to run all the way to Westeros."

The man named Iggo did not respond to Urswyck's mockery, merely raising his head to stare at him solemnly.

The two stared at each other for a while. Eventually, Urswyck spat, "Go lick your master's boots then. I'm off to find some fun."

With that, he turned and left the wooden hut.

Ronin coughed, clutching his throat. He almost thought he was going to die!

From the corner of his eyes, he saw a large hand extended toward him. He grasped it and was pulled up by Iggo.

"You saved Vargo. Urswyck is unhappy. He wanted you to kill the leader."

Ronin blinked. "I see."

"He wants command for himself," Iggo explained simply.

Hearing this, Ronin nodded without saying much more, but something flickered in his eyes.

It seemed the Brave Companions were not a unified front. Perhaps he could exploit their internal conflict.

"Thank you."

"Dothraki do not say thank you," Iggo replied stiffly. "Until we reach Harrenhal and Qyburn takes over, you must keep Vargo alive. If he dies, I kill you."

"Don't worry," Ronin said with a tired smile. "You saved my life. I think we can be friends. And I always honor a friend's terms."

Iggo looked genuinely surprised. He had been roaming Westeros for over a decade, and flowery words like these were usually only heard from the mouths of noble lords, not scrawny farmers.

After thinking a moment, he picked up a piece of hard bread and handed it over to Ronin.

"Eat, Westerosi."

Then he pointed toward Jaime and Brienne. "If you have strength after eating, look at that man's wounds. Vargo won't let us treat him. But his father is Tywin Lannister. They say his shit is gold. Gold is worth keeping alive. So he must not die."

"In the Dothraki Sea, a man without a hand usually dies. Can you keep him alive until we reach Harrenhal?"

Ronin took a bite of the bread and smiled.

"I told you—I never refuse a request from a friend. And when the day comes I ask for your help, I expect you to do the same."

"Your name is Iggo, right?"

He touched his chest lightly.

"Remember mine. My name is Ronin.
Ronin Graves."

...

After finishing the oatcake and drinking a small pouch of water, Ronin felt most of his strength return.

Even so, he lingered a little longer, not wanting to look overly eager. Only after a deliberate pause did he rise, walk over to Jaime, and crouch down to examine his injuries.

"Criminal! Abettor of evil!"

"That man should've died from infection—but you healed him! Do you know how many more innocent people will die because of you?"

Before Ronin could even touch Jaime's severed wrist, a torrent of abuse reached his ears.

"Save it, lady."

He didn't get angry. Instead, he calmly lifted the severed hand and said, "Don't try lecturing me from a moral high ground. I don't have enough morality for that to work."

"You… shameless!"

Brienne froze, unable to find a sharper insult. Her face flushed red.

"Shameless?" Ronin chuckled. "That doesn't matter, Miss Brienne of Tarth."

He looked up at her as he spoke. She was half a head taller than Jaime even while kneeling.

"Everything I do is for survival. Innocence doesn't exist here. Can you honestly claim you've never lied or done anything wrong?"

"And if I remember correctly, you swore to protect Renly Baratheon. Yet he died right in front of you."

Brienne stiffened at this. Her fury faltered, then surged again, but she still found no words to refute him.

However, Ronin continued relentlessly, not intending to let her off.

"I'm alive because I have a skill. That alone makes me fortunate compared to those who were killed."

"And by the same measure, both of you are fortunate as well. Even without a claw, a lion is better off than a corpse."

"At the very least, you have me—this 'abettor of evil'—tending to your wounds so the two of you can safely wait for your families to pay the ransom. Isn't that right?"

Though his words were directed at Brienne, his real target was Jaime.

Ronin had already noticed the way the proud Kingsguard had withdrawn into silence since losing his hand. If his plan was going to work, he needed Jaime to be cheerful and lively again.

Sure enough, Jaime, who had been unresponsive, suddenly stirred and raised his head. Under the shadow, his emerald eyes looked dull and clouded.

He watched Ronin clean his stump with a heated cloth and muttered:

"What difference is there between a lion without claws and a lion already dead?"

Ronin's lips curled up.

A reaction was exactly what he needed.

Given Jaime Lannister's mental fortitude, how could the mere loss of a right hand crush him? He was simply stuck and just needed a direction.

But Ronin didn't launch into a speech. Instead, he lifted the recently cleaned severed hand and studied it.

"Let's see… uneven cut, the kind you get from hacking. Not a good sword—more like an axe."

"Bone and cartilage mixed, heavy festering. The fact you're not burning with fever shows just how strong your constitution is, Ser Jaime."

Hearing Ser instead of Kingslayer made Jaime's eyes flicker. He lowered his head, tapping the stump lightly with his left hand.

"If you can reattach it… I promise my father will make you Grand Maester…"

"One million gold dragons."

"…What?"

Jaime stared at him, startled.

"One million gold dragons, and I'll give it a try," Ronin repeated, his tone perfectly sincere.

He wasn't exaggerating. If he could acquire enough gold dragons to upgrade his Surgery to Lv5, the procedure might actually succeed.

However, this infuriated Jaime.

"Get away from me! I don't need your treatment!"

He felt like Ronin was mocking him and tried to yank his arm back but Ronin suddenly pressed his thumb into the wound!

"Agh!!"

Jaime cried out in pain and his body began to convulse.

"What are you—"

"The nerves still respond. Good. That means the system is still intact."

Brienne's reprimand died as she realized Ronin wasn't acting out of cruelty but assessing the wound.

"Congratulations, Ser. You're not in immediate danger."

When Ronin finally eased off, Jaime panted heavily and glared daggers at him.

Ronin ignored the glare and continued working.

"There's a ranger in the Night's Watch—one of their best. Qhorin Halfhand."

"As his name suggests, half his sword hand is gone."

"But the will of a ranger is stronger than that of a certain Kingsguard. He trained his left hand until it surpassed his right."

"That's impossible," Jaime snapped. "No one becomes stronger with their off-hand unless they were born left-handed."

Ronin simply shook his head.

"Don't say impossible. Nothing is impossible. Qhorin Halfhand's reputation is well-known. You can ask anyone in the North about him."

Hearing this, Jaime's gaze flickered, and a flame of hope seemed to ignite in his emerald pupils.

He was not the type to wallow in self-pity after a setback as long as he had a way out. Otherwise, he wouldn't have served as a Kingsguard for over a decade while bearing the moniker 'Kingslayer.'

Now, hearing of such a precedent, he didn't believe he couldn't accomplish what a mere Night's Watch ranger could as well.

He looked at Ronin, whose eyes seemed full of wisdom, and asked skeptically, "Why do you know so much?"

"Unlike you great lords, Ser Jaime," Ronin answered patiently, "humble men like me must always keep their eyes wide open."

"I study my enemies instead of hating them. I keep them close so I can learn."

"You're planning to resist," Jaime murmured, lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile. "With you? A… peasant who knows a bit of medicine?"

"Not me."

Ronin finished wrapping the stump, patting Jaime's arm lightly.

"Us."

"Us?" Jaime scoffed. "Look at us. A peasant. A Kingsguard who's lost his sword hand. And a woman who was nearly—"

Brienne stiffened.

"I bet as soon as we reach Harrenhal, they will chop off your head."

"Of course. I know that," Ronin said with a shrug.

Expecting gratitude from Vargo Hoat and his men was more foolish than expecting Brienne to turn into a court lady.

However, under Jaime's gaze, Ronin subtly leaned closer and whispered into his ear, his voice tinged with seriousness unlike a moment ago.

"But there's a rule I live by: women and children can afford to make mistakes. Men can't. So, Ser Jaime Lannister—let's talk business."

"I'll deal with the trouble ahead, and get the two of you back to King's Landing."

"And after that, I expect my payment."

Jaime flexed his stump, then exchanged a glance with Brienne.

In her eyes, he saw only one word.

Do it.

Their situation couldn't get any worse anyway.

"A Lannister always pays his debts," Jaime said at last, confidence returning to his voice. "Help us return to King's Landing, and you'll have enough gold to fill a bathtub."

"But first—I need to know your plan."

"I can't tell you everything," Ronin said, nodding. The candlelight split his face between shadow and flame. "But I can tell you the first step."

"That second-in-command, Urswyck."

"He'll be our opening."

"Are you thinking of helping him seize power?" Brienne asked, her disapproval evident from her tone. "Jaime tried bribing them earlier. These sellswords have no honor—"

"No," Ronin cut in, shaking his head. His lips curved into a meaningful smile. His gaze flickered to his magical skill 'Pause' at the corner of his consciousness.

"Urswyck will help us—not because he wants to, but because he'll have no choice."

"I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse."