"What did you say!"
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a low growl was heard, and a cold blade was instantly pressed against Corleone's neck.
Iggo stepped forward, one hand holding the arakh, the other gripping Vargo's chin, turning his face to the side for easier inspection.
Sure enough, the edge of the wound at the base of the ear had clearly turned grey and necrotic, accompanied by a small amount of viscous yellow-green secretion. A faint scent of rot wafted out.
The Dothraki had seen too many wounds and deaths; he knew what these signs meant.
"You promised!"
"You promised you would cure him! You liar!"
He turned his head and shouted angrily at Corleone, feeling like a fool who had been played!
The cold touch of the arakh was real. With the enhancement of [Insight Lv1], Corleone could even clearly see Iggo's anger twitching every muscle on his face.
However, he did not struggle. He let the blade press against his skin, his voice unusually steady.
"I am a doctor, Iggo. A professional doctor."
"I cleaned all the rotting flesh from his wound. I did my best. But even the most professional doctor cannot cure a patient who is determined to die!"
Corleone stared intently into Iggo's eyes, gradually increasing the weight of his tone. "He pressed a necrotic organ onto the wound, then drank like a dead pig during surgery."
"It is not that my medical skills are lacking. It is the gods taking back his life. It is his own foolish actions that rang his death knell in advance."
Iggo's breathing remained heavy, his teeth clenched tight, but he didn't know what to say.
Corleone caught the wavering in his eyes and knew the time had come.
He actively took a step forward, completely disregarding the cold blade at his neck, and leisurely began to re-bandage Vargo.
"Face reality, Iggo."
"The fever will return repeatedly. The wound will ooze foul pus. Within three days at most, he will turn into a corpse in painful torment."
Even with a blade at his neck, Corleone displayed a calmness far beyond normal.
He stared into Iggo's eyes. The [Insight] skill allowed him to clearly capture the sharp contraction of the other's pupils and the flickering gaze beneath that feigned calm expression.
Just as I thought.
Corleone said to himself.
Dothraki will not give their loyalty to a Khal who has lost his ability to lead and is about to die.
Iggo wasn't fully loyal to Vargo the person; he was loyal to the position of Khal that Vargo represented and his decisive power.
When this source of power was about to dry up and collapse, the Dothraki warrior's instinct was awakening his primal anxiety for survival and belonging.
"Why tell me this?"
Iggo withdrew his arakh, staring coldly at Corleone. "You could have clearly pretended nothing happened and dragged it out for a while longer."
"What is your purpose?"
Although he came from a nomadic tribe and lacked formal education, that didn't mean he was a fool.
Quite the contrary. Compared to his fellow Dothraki, Iggo was much smarter; otherwise, he couldn't have survived in Westeros for over a decade.
Hearing this, Corleone smiled calmly and actually took a step forward to close the distance between them.
His voice dropped lower but carried ample power: "Urswyck wants me to tamper with the surgery and quietly kill Vargo Hoat!"
"I agreed."
Corleone's words were shocking, and the look of shock in Iggo's eyes grew heavier.
However, just as he instinctively wanted to shout for his companions, Corleone stepped closer again, his voice deep. "Dothraki only follow the strongest steed on the grassland, Iggo."
"When a Khal has lost the ability to lead, the best choice is undoubtedly to find a new, more potential-filled person to guide one's direction."
"You want me to pledge loyalty to Urswyck?"
Hearing this, a cruel arc floated on Iggo's lips, and his right hand quietly tightened around the arakh.
It seemed that if Corleone said one more word, he would immediately cut off his head.
After all, for Iggo, although Urswyck was cruel and insidious, in terms of strength, swordsmanship, or even ferocity, he was far inferior to Vargo Hoat.
Asking a Dothraki warrior like Iggo to serve him was practically an insult.
Under the enhancement of [Insight], the other party's movements naturally didn't escape Corleone's eyes. However, he just slowly raised his hand and gently tapped his own temple under Iggo's incredulous gaze.
"Power sometimes does not lie only between blades, my friend. It lies here. Eyes that pierce the fog to see through hearts, and wrists that control fate."
"A person who sees the essence in one second and a person who spends half a lifetime unable to see the essence of a matter naturally have different destinies."
"People like Urswyck will never see the essence of power in their lives. Once let to control power, he will soon be destroyed by it."
"What exactly are you trying to say..."
"I, Vito Corleone."
Looking at the shocked Iggo, Corleone's tone was solemn, as if making a sacred contract:
"You can choose—to pledge loyalty to me!"
Iggo laughed loudly. "Based on you? A farmer? Can you even lift a sword?"
Facing this sharp questioning, Corleone didn't get angry. Instead, a strangely confident smile appeared on his face.
"The Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister—how many years has it been since he personally wielded a longsword to charge into battle? Ten years? Twenty years?"
"But he only needs to speak a sentence, make a judgment, and he can decide the life and death of tens of thousands!"
Corleone's tone was incredibly confident, as if he possessed an innate kingly aura, causing even Iggo to be stunned for a moment.
"But you are not Tywin Lannister. You are just a farmer hung from an apple tree. If we hadn't happened to pass by, you would be a dried corpse by now!"
"On what basis does a man who can't even guarantee his own life talk about power?"
Hearing this, Corleone's gaze seemed to pierce through time, returning to that apple tree.
"Hung on a tree?" He chuckled, a laugh that carried the meaning of being reborn.
"You're right. That cowardly, ignorant, slaughtered Corleone indeed died on that tree."
Corleone spread his arms, as if embracing the world with a brand new posture, his voice suddenly becoming resonant and powerful: "I am no longer who I was!"
"I gained new life on that apple tree. The gods gave me revelation, gave me eyes to see through the fog and power to control fate!"
Saying this, under Iggo's bewildered gaze, Corleone slowly took out a... Gold Dragon that shimmered with a dull golden light from his pocket.
He pinched the Gold Dragon between his fingertips, holding it up between them. Under the firelight, the Gold Dragon seemed to come alive, emitting a faint, almost inaudible hum.
Corleone raised his head, his eyes becoming incredibly sharp, filled with provocation and confidence.
"You don't believe me?"
"Very well. Dothraki like to let strength do the talking, right?"
Saying this, Corleone flicked his finger, sending the Gold Dragon spinning into the air. The coin symbolizing wealth tumbled continuously, its reflected light alternately illuminating the faces of the two men in the wooden hut.
"Let's make a bet."
"Swing your blade at me, Dothraki."
Catching the Gold Dragon, Corleone grinned, his voice seemingly filled with a special, indescribable power.
"Bet on whether your blade can cut off my head!"