Urswyck's pupils tightened.
He kept the dagger in hand as he swept a quick glance around them, only then lowering his voice.
"What exactly are you trying to say, doctor… Vito Corleone?"
Facing that hostile stare, Corleone didn't bother hiding anything. He spoke plainly, almost gently.
"I'm saying you've been wronged, my lord."
"Wronged?"
Urswyck narrowed his eyes, interest piqued.
"Yes. Wronged."
Corleone stepped forward. His voice wasn't loud, but every word landed with crisp precision.
"I heard the Brave Companions followed Captain Vargo Hoat all the way from the Free Cities to Westeros, conquering mighty Harrenhal for Lord Tywin Lannister."
"Yet Vargo Hoat betrayed the Lannister garrison to claim the title of Earl of Harrenhal, opening the gates for the northern army."
Urswyck snorted. A tacit admission.
The entire Riverlands had heard that story. Corleone knowing it hardly mattered.
As a veteran of the Brave Companions, Urswyck didn't care in the slightest about betraying one employer for another. In truth, Vargo's rebellion had been encouraged by several of the older members—including him.
They were sellswords, not knights. Honor meant nothing. Profit was the only creed.
"With respect, my lord," Corleone continued, a smooth magnetic timbre threading through his words, "the dirty work, the dangerous work, the thankless work—your brothers all shared it, didn't they?"
"But when Lord Roose Bolton handed out rewards, every benefit fell neatly into Vargo Hoat's lap."
His tone sharpened suddenly.
"'Earl of Harrenhal.' What a beautiful title."
"It represents the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms… and an enormous, fertile domain."
"And what about you?"
Half of Corleone's face slipped into shadow as he leaned in, whispering like the devil perched at Urswyck's ear.
"You, my lord. The lieutenant of the Brave Companions. The veteran brothers who bled beside him. What did you receive?"
"A handful of empty compliments? And a miserable farm where you spend your days torturing a child just to relieve boredom?"
"Tell me… is that fair?"
The words struck with surgical precision—straight into the deepest, sorest part of Urswyck's pride.
His expression darkened. His grip on the dagger tightened. But he didn't argue.
Seeing that spark of temptation, Corleone pressed forward immediately.
"To tell you the truth, my lord, our dear Earl Vargo Hoat… his good days are just about over."
"What do you mean?"
Urswyck's eyelid twitched. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, almost detached.
"Wasn't the surgery a success?"
"Oh, it was. A complete success."
Meeting Urswyck's sharp gaze head-on, Corleone smiled with quiet confidence.
"My skill is unmatched."
"Then why...—"
"He was already feverish before I ever touched a scalpel."
Corleone explained with clinical calm.
"I removed most of the necrotic flesh. I bought him time. But it's like extinguishing visible flames while the embers still burn underneath."
"Frankly, his medical knowledge is nonexistent. He shoved a severed ear back onto his head, causing severe infection. Then he drank heavily while running a fever. That's suicide."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice but infusing it with the authority of a seasoned physician.
"By tomorrow at the latest, the fever will return—worse than before. He'll burn up, ramble nonsense, and his strength will drain away."
"But given his resilience, he may survive long enough to reach Harrenhal. Lord Bolton left a maester there. And Qyburn—the other doctor—is present as well, isn't he?"
"If either of them takes over, Vargo may very well escape death."
"He must not reach Qyburn!"
The outburst tore free from Urswyck before he could stop himself.
"Exactly!"
Corleone nodded instantly, then smoothly presented the solution.
"We have to ensure this ends naturally along the way."
"And I can manage the timing precisely. A little… impurity on the wound would do it. Quiet. Undetectable."
"He'll remain feverish like any severely injured man until, one night, he simply drifts away in his sleep."
"Everyone will assume his wounds killed him. No one will suspect us. It fits the natural progression perfectly."
"But there's one problem we must solve."
"What problem?"
Urswyck leaned in, breathing quickening, completely hooked.
"The fever."
Corleone repeated the word slowly.
"When Vargo notices his temperature rising and his mind growing cloudy, even if he doesn't suspect me, he'll assume the surgery failed."
"And the first thing he'll do… is order someone to twist my head off."
He spread his hands helplessly.
"I don't want to die."
"And once I'm dead, no one will be able to guide the process. Our entire plan collapses."
Urswyck frowned deeply.
He didn't care whether Corleone lived or died. But right now, he needed him.
And Corleone made sure he realized that.
By exposing his vulnerability, he didn't appear weak—he made their interests inseparable.
Corleone's life was the key to Urswyck's ambition.
"I understand."
After a brief pause, Urswyck nodded hard. A cruel, knowing grin twisted his lips.
"Until that bastard rots completely, no one touches you."
"The company needs a doctor, doesn't it?"
Only then did Corleone smile in satisfaction.
As he'd said earlier—he would offer Urswyck a deal he couldn't refuse.
And what bargain is irresistible to an ambitious lieutenant?
Killing the old captain and taking his throne.
"Vargo Hoat will die of fever within three days. And as for you, my lord…"
Seeing the moment had come, Corleone leaned in with a smile.
He lowered his voice.
"Instead of dragging his corpse back to Harrenhal, you have a better option. A shortcut straight to power."
"The Kingslayer."
Urswyck's eyes flew wide open. He stared at Corleone, stunned.
But the young doctor simply continued painting the grand vision placed before him.
"Remember—Vargo Hoat took Jaime Lannister's right hand. Not you."
"You can deliver that… goodwill… directly to Lord Tywin Lannister."
"Think about it. His son just lost his sword hand. To him, it's a wound deeper than blood."
"If his army retakes Harrenhal, tell me, who do you think he'll grant the title of Earl to?"
The plan detonated in Urswyck's mind.
The risk was enormous.
But the reward…
Unprecedented.
An alliance with the King of the West himself.
A legitimate claim over Harrenhal.
He stared at Corleone—really stared—as if seeing him for the first time. After a long silence, he spoke slowly.
"You're a madman, Vito Corleone."
"But we just betrayed Lord Tywin to serve the King in the North. Why would he trust us again?"
"I need time to think."
"Of course, my lord. Prudence is a virtue. A decision of this magnitude deserves careful thought."
Corleone eased back, no longer pressing him.
Push too hard and suspicion takes root.
He had already planted the seed—an irresistible path to the seat of Harrenhal, and perhaps more.
Ambition would water it on its own.
The two men fell silent. Minutes stretched by as both considered their futures.
At last, Urswyck spoke.
"Vito Corleone."
His voice returned to its cold steadiness, though heat simmered beneath the surface.
He lifted the dagger and pointed lazily toward Derek, still tied to the tree.
"You've said a great deal. But I have no guarantee of your loyalty."
"So…"
"Prove your resolve. Right now."
"Use that 'precision' and 'efficiency' you boasted about. Send that fat pig on his way. Show me your technique."
Corleone's expression didn't flicker.
He had expected this moment.
In a world ruled by predators, nothing forged trust faster than staining your hands with blood together.
"Learning happens everywhere, my lord."
Corleone accepted the dagger and walked toward Derek, step by steady step.
Firelight wavered over his face, casting a cold, calm shadow across his eyes.
Strangely enough, though this was his first time killing someone, he felt nothing. No fear. No hesitation.
Just as he hadn't trembled the first time he'd held a scalpel.
"This is business, young master Derek."
He repeated softly.
"In every transaction… someone pays the price."
The instant the last word fell, Corleone struck.
He didn't aim for the heart or throat. Instead, his wrist turned sharply, and the blade slid into the tiny gap between Derek's carotid artery and trachea.
A wet, sharp sound.
Derek's body stiffened violently. His mouth opened wide, but no sound came out—only a fountain of hot blood gushing from his neck.
His pupils blew wide under the firelight. His limbs spasmed twice, then the massive head sagged forward, lifeless.
From start to finish, it took only seconds. Clean. Efficient. Easier than slaughtering a chicken.
Corleone turned and calmly returned the dagger to Urswyck. His face remained composed, professional.
Urswyck accepted the still-warm blade, studying the deep, pitch-black eyes lit by the fire.
Slowly, a savage smile stretched across his face—satisfaction, admiration, and the thrill of finding a kindred spirit.
"Excellent, Vito Corleone."
"Welcome… to the game of power."