The special operating room on the third floor of the Hall of Order had the best light in the whole building.
Sunlight poured through a long row of high windows just past noon, softened by frosted glass so it wouldn't blind anyone working. Brass candlesticks in the corners held smokeless white candles for the shadows.
Oberyn Martell lay naked from the waist up on the table, skin scrubbed clean. The dagger wound sat an inch from his heart. His left shoulder was laid open to the bone. The right thigh was still leaking, the ankle swollen purple, and at least four ribs were broken. Blood loss had turned his face a sickly gray. His breathing was shallow and fast.
Corleone stood beside the table in a clean white robe and thick leather gloves he'd had made special. A cloth mask covered his mouth and nose. Only his eyes showed, sharp and focused. With skill that went far beyond anything this world had ever seen, he still wasn't sure he could pull the Red Viper through.
The room stayed quiet except for the soft click of steel and Oberyn's thin breaths. Sunlight crept slowly across the floor.
The Hound leaned against the wall by the door, arms crossed, burned face looking even uglier in the bright light. He had watched the whole thing—cleaning, tying vessels, setting bones—for three straight hours. His usual sneer had faded into something closer to respect.
"You sew straighter than any tailor in King's Landing," he said at last.
Corleone didn't look up. Needle through skin, pull tight, knot, cut. One smooth motion.
"Tailors fix cloth," he answered. "I fix people. Fuck up the cloth and you start over. Fuck up the person and they're gone."
"So you're careful," the Hound snorted. "Scared he'll die on you?"
"Scared he'll die on my table," Corleone said, finishing the last stitch and straightening. "That would be a real pain in the ass, especially when my fighting pit needs him to draw crowds on opening day."
He rolled his stiff neck. Three hours bent over the table had his shoulders screaming.
"Pity," the Hound said, pushing off the wall. Heavy boots crossed the stone. He stopped beside the table and looked down at Oberyn's gray face. "Doesn't look like he'll be fighting in your pit anytime soon."
Corleone peeled off the bloody gloves and dropped them in a copper basin. The water had gone dark red.
"At least he won't die today. Alive means there's still a chance."
The Hound nodded once, remembering his own close call on the Kingsroad. He stepped closer and studied the neat line of stitches across Oberyn's gut—perfect spacing, clever little knots like some forgotten craft.
"Your hands are better than any maester's," he said. "They should hang the chain around your neck instead of letting that useless old bastard who only knows how to drug people sit on the Small Council."
Corleone kept washing his hands. "Pycelle got the chain for history, law, astronomy, and six other subjects. Medicine was just one link, and not even the important one."
The Hound gave a short, ugly laugh. "So all those maesters are book-smart fools while the ones who can actually save lives get nothing."
He looked straight at Corleone. "Where'd you learn this shit? Don't tell me some farmer taught you."
Corleone didn't answer. Instead he studied the Hound's ruined face—burn scars pulling from forehead to jaw, nose half-collapsed, lips crooked, one ear barely there. A face that made children cry and grown men look away.
"I can fix it," he said.
The Hound's mouth went flat. "What?"
"Your face. Third-degree burns, deep scarring, contracture. I can graft skin, release the scars, rebuild the tissue. Sixty, maybe seventy percent function and looks. Not perfect, but people won't stare like you're a monster anymore."
The Hound went still. His fingers touched the twisted skin without thinking. Ten thousand gold dragons. Enough to buy a castle or hire five hundred men for a year. He could have paid it once.
"I've got enough debts already," he said. "And your favors cost too much."
"To pay you back for saving me and the wolf girl on the Kingsroad, I spent two months hunting Amory Lorch through fishing villages. Broke three arms before anyone talked."
Corleone raised an eyebrow. "But you found him."
"I found him," the Hound said coldly. "Then you dragged him in front of the Small Council and the Mountain crushed his skull before he could finish a sentence. Real fucking bargain. I owe you a favor, you get a dead witness, and the Dornish prince gets a corpse."
"Lorch was never walking out of that room alive," Corleone said, pouring two cups of ale and sliding one across. "Tywin wasn't going to let him name names. At least now everyone knows he was silenced. That carries more weight than his testimony ever would."
The Hound took the cup but didn't drink. He stared into the liquid like it held answers.
"Fuck it," he said after a long silence.
"What?"
"My face." The Hound drained the ale in one swallow and set the cup down hard. "I don't have that kind of coin and I don't want to owe you another favor. Besides, this face works. Kids cry, women hide, men grab their swords. At least they're honest about it. No fake smiles, no noble bullshit."
Corleone watched him for a long moment, then nodded.
"Makes sense. A real face beats a fake smile every time."
"So," the Hound said, ready to end it. "Surgery's done. He's breathing. Where's my pay?"
Corleone unhooked a small pouch from his belt and tossed it on the table. It landed with a solid clink of gold.
"Two hundred dragons."
The Hound stared at the pouch without touching it.
"Two hundred?" His voice was flat with disbelief. "I saved the Red Viper's life and that's worth two hundred? His life's that cheap to you?"
"Every life has a price," Corleone said evenly. "Oberyn Martell's life is worth plenty. Right now he's only got half a life left. Saving what's left of it is worth exactly two hundred."
"You can turn it down."
The Hound's hand went to his sword hilt, then dropped. He remembered the Kingsroad.
"You short on coin?"
The Hound's face twisted. "That little bitch stole everything while I was asleep—forty-seven gold dragons and a good steel dagger. Then she ran."
Corleone's mouth twitched. "Arya Stark?"
"Who the fuck else? I dragged her from Harrenhal to the Trident. Taught her how to use Needle, how to kill, how to stay alive out there. She steals my purse and doesn't even leave me a horse. Forced me to rob five hedge knights just to keep moving."
Corleone couldn't quite hide the smile. He could picture the scene—the Hound waking up broke and horseless, the stubborn little girl long gone.
"You look for her?"
"Tried. Two weeks down the Green Fork, asked every inn and village. Nothing. Eventually I gave up. Maybe she died. Maybe she got caught. Maybe she found her family. Who knows."
The room went quiet except for the distant city noise.
Then the door slammed open.
Rolje strode in, ignoring the Hound completely.
"Ser! You were right. It's already happening. The whole city's saying House Ilenwood plotted to kill the prince. Dorne's about to tear itself apart!"
Corleone's eyes narrowed.
The rumor had spread fast—too fast. Oberyn had only been attacked hours ago. This felt like a script someone had written in advance, waiting for the blood to hit the stones before they started shouting the name.
House Ilenwood was being painted as the villains in broad daylight. If they really were behind it, they'd be covering tracks, not making noise. This smelled more like someone else was framing them.
But that wasn't his problem.
Dorne could burn.
His fighting pit opening, though—that mattered. Months of planning, gold poured in, even clashing with Tywin to build hype. The star attraction had been Oberyn Martell versus Gregor Clegane—the Red Viper's revenge match everyone in the city was already betting on. Tickets gone, betting pools stacked high.
Now Oberyn couldn't fight.
The whole opening day spectacle was dead in the water.
The financial hit would be brutal.
Worse, his reputation would take its first real public hit.