Chapter 3: My Name Is Odin
Armando had spoken too soon.
The moment he tore away the bandages wrapped around Vargo Hoat's ear, the sight before him made his head buzz.
It was… absurd.
Absurd to what extent?
Put simply—his ear looked as if it had been torn clean off by some wild beast, then crudely slapped back into place, wrapped tightly in bandages like nothing had happened.
Staring at the mangled remnant—now badly infected, oozing pus and turning black—Armando's stomach churned violently. Still, relying on years of professional training, he forced himself to assess the injury.
The blood supply to the avulsed auricular cartilage had been almost completely cut off. Forcing it back into place had only turned it into a slab of necrotic tissue pressed against the wound—perfectly sealing off drainage and creating an airtight bacterial incubator.
Classic post-traumatic tissue necrosis with severe infection.
A textbook example of how not to treat an injury.
The consequences were far worse than simply losing an ear.
This was practically suicide.
As much as Armando would've loved to see this brute die sooner rather than later, if Vargo Hoat actually dropped dead, he wouldn't be far behind.
After all, those gleaming swords and knives were waving right in front of him.
"What are you staring at? Get on with it, boy!"
Seeing Armando hesitate, the gaunt man brandishing a short blade grew impatient and snapped irritably. From their earlier exchange, Armando knew his name—Urswyck, the Brave Companions' deputy commander.
"My lord."
Armando forced himself to calm down and explained steadily.
"The situation is extremely serious. The ear you pressed back into place is already necrotic. It must be removed immediately—along with all the rotting flesh. Otherwise, the infection will enter your bloodstream and cause a high fever—"
"Whore!!!"
Before Armando could finish, Vargo suddenly turned and screamed at Brienne.
"You filthy bitch! You bit off my ear! I'll cut off yours and stuff it into that ugly cunt of yours!"
"Heh…"
Faced with the threat, Brienne showed no fear at all. She sneered coldly.
"A fitting punishment for a man who tried to violate a maiden's chastity."
Her mocking tone only enraged Vargo further. He sprang to his feet and began raining blows on her with fists and boots alike.
Jaime, bound beside her, didn't move an inch—his head still lowered, his thoughts unreadable.
Seeing this, Armando could more or less guess what had happened between Brienne and Vargo earlier, and couldn't help but sigh inwardly.
The leader of the Brave Companions really was desperate—he'd try to eat anything when starving.
Still, it looked like he hadn't succeeded. Otherwise, with Vargo's temperament, Brienne wouldn't still be wearing armor.
No—more likely, she wouldn't be wearing anything at all.
After venting for a while, Vargo's anger subsided somewhat. He turned back and planted himself squarely in front of Armando, staring him down with naked menace.
"You'd better know what you're doing, boy."
"Rest assured, my lord. I'm confident."
Armando swore it with conviction—though inside, he had none.
Eight years of combined undergraduate and postgraduate study, endless residency rotations… he'd assisted with debridements and suturing, sure.
But handling an infection of this severity—combined with tissue adhesion—on his own, under conditions this primitive?
Even his mentor would've broken into a cold sweat.
"I need hot water!"
Whether the treatment actually worked was secondary. The priority was bluffing his way through and staying alive.
He turned without hesitation and barked orders at the Brave Companions.
"Boiling hot water! Clean cloths boiled in the water! Salt, honey, an oil lamp, and a sharp knife or dagger!"
"Spider silk or clean moss would be even better!"
The sudden string of commands left several of them stunned.
Yet just as some of the men were about to bristle, Vargo broke into a grin.
"Do as he says."
"The way this boy talks… it reminds me of Qyburn."
About half an hour later.
Inside the wooden hut, only the sounds of sizzle and crack, crack echoed without pause.
Armando was fully focused, gripping a blade heated red-hot as he swiftly excised the rotting flesh from Vargo Hoat's ear.
It was far from an ideal instrument—but it provided the bare minimum of sterilization and hemostasis.
The knife sliced through adhered fibers while cauterizing and sealing blood vessels at the same time. His movements were careful and precise, making absolutely sure not to tear into the dense vascular network at the base of the ear—otherwise, massive bleeding would follow.
And if anything went wrong during the operation, the two Brave Companions standing nearby would carve him into pieces without hesitation.
Vargo Hoat lay completely motionless.
Of course, this wasn't because he was some iron-willed tough man. From the moment the operation began, he'd been drinking nonstop to numb the pain—until he finally drank himself unconscious.
A patient downing vast amounts of alcohol mid-surgery—if Armando's mentor ever saw this, he'd skin him alive.
But in conditions like these, where even basic sterility was a luxury, no one had the right to demand better.
Minute by minute, a large chunk of tissue—necrotic ear included—was finally removed in one piece, exposing relatively fresh tissue beneath.
Armando didn't dare pause. He immediately flushed the wound again with hot saline, then smeared it with honey and bandaged it tightly.
In an environment like this, high-proof distilled alcohol was impossible to obtain. He had no choice but to settle for second best—fortunately, the farm had plenty of honey.
Its high sugar content drew moisture out of bacteria, inhibiting their growth. Most pathogens couldn't survive under such conditions. Armando had tested this himself in his previous life.
Once the bandaging was done, exhaustion hit him all at once. His legs gave out, and he slumped onto the floor.
He had independently completed a high-difficulty debridement under atrocious conditions—but there was no sense of accomplishment.
Debridement was only the first step.
Would the wound heal properly?
Would Pseudomonas take hold?
Would tetanus set in?
In a world without antibiotics, he couldn't guarantee the patient wouldn't succumb to postoperative infection.
Still—at least for now, the surgery had gone smoothly.
His life, at least, was probably safe.
As for whether Vargo Hoat would develop a raging fever in a few days and decide to sacrifice this doctor to the gods…
That wasn't Armando's problem.
He had no intention of sticking around these bloodthirsty maniacs any longer than necessary.
With that thought, he subconsciously touched the gold dragon in his pocket.
"Pretty quick hands you've got, kid."
A large hand suddenly landed on Armando's shoulder.
Urswyck, the deputy commander, leaned in close with a grin, his eyes bloodshot and feverish. Armando could clearly see the strange dark-blue veins bulging across the back of his hand.
"Looks like the operation went well, yeah?"
Armando smiled back instinctively.
"Seems that way, my lord."
But to his shock, Urswyck's smile vanished instantly, replaced by naked malice. He clamped one hand around Armando's throat.
The man was terrifyingly strong.
As the grip tightened, Armando began to suffocate, a very real shadow of death creeping in.
His right hand clenched around the gold dragon in his pocket, ready to activate Fate's Wager at any moment.
"Let him go, Urswyck."
A deep voice cut in.
"The boss still needs this kid alive to treat his wound."
The speaker was a burly man covered in scars, small bells woven into his hair. Seeing Urswyck ignore him, he immediately drew a curved blade and raised it threateningly.
"Let. Him. Go."
"Heh…"
Urswyck glanced at him, sneered, and released Armando.
"Such a loyal mongrel, Iggo."
"Back on those stinking Dothraki grasslands, if you'd been half this loyal to your khal, you wouldn't have been hunted down and forced to flee to Westeros."
Iggo said nothing.
He simply lifted his chin and stared Urswyck down.
They locked eyes for a moment. Finding no satisfaction, Urswyck snorted coldly.
"Go on then. Kneel and lick your master's boots, Dothraki dog."
"I'm off to find some fun."
With that, he turned and left the hut.
Armando clutched his throat, coughing violently—when a large hand suddenly appeared before him.
He looked up, grasped Iggo's forearm, and was pulled back to his feet.
"You saved Vargo," Iggo said bluntly.
"That made Urswyck very unhappy. He was hoping you'd kill the boss."
"He's wanted the captain's seat for a long time."
"So that's how it is."
Armando nodded, committing the information firmly to memory.
Seems the Brave Companions weren't as united as they appeared. Internal strife could be exploited.
"Thank you."
"Dothraki don't say thanks."
Iggo spoke stiffly.
"Until we reach Harrenhal and Qyburn takes over Vargo's treatment, you must keep him alive."
"Otherwise, I'll kill you myself."
"Don't worry," Armando replied with a smile.
"You just saved my life. I'm sure we can be friends."
"I never refuse a friend's request."
"I believe in friendship—and I'm willing to show it first."
Iggo looked genuinely surprised.
He'd roamed Westeros for over a decade, and words like these were something he'd only ever heard from highborn nobles.
With a Dothraki's straightforward way of thinking, he couldn't quite understand this thin, unassuming farmer—but instinct told him Armando was fundamentally different from the peasants who had been slaughtered outside.
After a moment's thought, Iggo picked up a flat wheat cake from the table and handed it to him.
"Eat, Westerosi."
He then pointed toward the corner, where Jaime was still bound together with Brienne.
"If you have strength left after eating, take a look at that man's wounds."
"Vargo forbade us from treating him—he offended him."
"Then why—"
Seeing Armando's puzzled look, Igo continued.
"But his father is Tywin Lannister. People say even the shit he takes turns into gold."
"I don't want shit. But if it's gold, no one can refuse it. So he can't die."
"In the Dothraki Sea, a man who loses an arm rarely survives."
He fixed Armando with a steady gaze.
"Can you do it? Can you keep him alive until we reach Harrenhal?"
Armando glanced at the wheat cake in his hand, took a large bite, then broke into a grin.
"I told you—I never refuse a friend's request."
"But I won't force friendship on someone who thinks I'm disposable."
"When the day comes that I need your help, I hope you won't hesitate to lend a hand, my friend."
"You're called Iggo, right?"
"Remember this."
"My name is Odin."