Scraping the Bone to Remove the Poison

Paisell stood there nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

"Sir, what's your decision?"

James glanced at the saw lying beside him and closed his eyes.

"If you dare to cut off my right arm, you'd better remove my left arm as well."

"Otherwise, I promise I'll strangle you with it," he promised.

Paisell wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Alright then, Sir, I'll just use maggots to eat the rotten flesh inside, and then use leeches to suck out the venomous blood. I won't do anything else."

"Then treat it with boiling wine, and finally apply bread mold."

"This will cure it?" James asked.

"Maybe," Paciel replied vaguely.

Joffrey leaned against the doorway in the hallway, holding his breath and eavesdropping on the sounds inside.

"This will cure it?" he asked in a low voice.

"I don't think so," the hound replied.

Joffrey rubbed his temples; he had just learned of James's crushing defeat.

But the Red Keep was spreading the news that they had killed thousands of enemies and that Stannis had fled in terror.

Of course, the truth cannot be revealed at this time.

Regarding James' injury, things didn't seem like a coincidence.

His Destiny Points are still stuck, and he hasn't drawn the healing skill yet.

Cersei has it.

In order to expand her army, she recruited all sorts of people to King's Landing.

The bandits active in the river region came over.

Warriors Team.

Behind their backs, everyone called them the Blood Opera Troupe.

That's just how coincidental things are.

The members of the Blood Play Troupe come from all over the world, mostly criminals and exiles from various places.

For example, the dark-skinned Dornish, the blond-haired Reiss, the Dothraki with their braids and bells, the hairy Iban, and the charcoal-black Summer Isles.

The leader of the group was named Waghot, a Kohor man with a speech impediment, nicknamed Goat.

But Joffrey wasn't looking for him.

They are their bachelors.

A well-trained doctor.

Cobain.

God knows what you did.

It seems that James is destined to suffer this blow.

When Joffrey found Cersei, she was pacing anxiously back and forth in her room.

"Can a maester expelled from the Citadel really manage?"

"Mother, he was banished because he was engaged in some immoral live experiments and researched evil necromancy."

"That's why he's so good at human anatomy," Joffrey said.

Cersei stared at him for a moment, her emerald eyes filled with distrust: "How do you know all this?"

"Well..." Joffrey considered for a moment, "Jaqen told me."

This is the truth.

"That strange man with red and white hair?" Cersei's eyes flickered; it seemed she also knew Jaqen.

"Then let him come."

So Coburn was kidnapped.

"We can't let him come, Your Majesty," Pacier strongly disagreed.

He straightened his chest, trying to appear more authoritative.

"He's someone who was expelled from the academy! His methods defy medical common sense, desecrate the human body, and even..."

"Will your method work?" Cersei interrupted him.

Paisell opened his mouth, but couldn't say a word.

Under his meticulous treatment, James's arm successfully swelled up to a full circle, and the festering flesh was gradually spreading.

He also developed a high fever.

Koben gently stepped forward, carrying the suitcase.

He wore a simple gray robe, was slightly hunched, but still appeared to be very tall, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes indicated his age.

Compared to Paisell's upright and dignified demeanor, he appeared gloomy and strange.

Coburn bent down to examine the wound, then gently pressed the edge with his fingertip. Pus oozed from the ulcer, mixed with dark brown blood.

He leaned closer to sniff, then looked at Cersei.

"Your Majesty the Empress Dowager."

"It is unknown who performed the treatment on Sir James, as it only addressed the surface of the problem."

"They even deliberately used the pleasant fragrance of herbal paste to cover up the strong stench."

"If we don't treat it soon, not only will this arm be useless, but my life may also be in danger."

Paisell blushed: "Nonsense!"

"I have served five kings, held the position of Grand Secretary for forty years, cured countless illnesses, and more..."

"Can you heal Jaime?" Cersei interrupted him.

"Well..." Paisell wiped his sweat again, "Sir James forbids amputation of the arm, so I can only resort to conservative treatment, which means it will take longer to take effect."

"I can detox without amputation," Coben said.

Everyone looked at him.

"I used a sharp knife to dig out all the rotten flesh, then cut open the skin and flesh to expose the bone underneath."

"Next, scrape the arrow poison off the bone with a knife, then apply the medicine directly inside, and finally suture the wounded arm with catgut, then apply the medicine again. This will cure it."

Cersei's mouth gaped open.

"This sounds terrifying, no way!"

"Yeah, yeah," Paisell quickly chimed in, "It's complete nonsense."

"Let him do it." James opened his eyes. "I'll do anything to save my arm."

The patient has already agreed, so what else is there to say?

"I'll go get the poppy milk," Coburn said.

"No!" James turned his head away. "What if you're all ganging up on me and cut off my arm while I'm asleep?"

Coburn's brown eyes began to glow slightly.

"This will hurt a lot," he said.

"I'll scream," James replied.

"This will hurt a lot, a lot."

"I'll scream really, really loud. Bring me the wine."

Coburn opened the wooden crate, revealing neatly arranged knives, pliers, and needles and thread inside.

He tied James's arms to the frame and secured them tightly with leather straps, then gestured for two Kingsguards to come forward and hold down his shoulders and legs.

The blade fell.

James's body tensed up suddenly, and large beads of sweat instantly appeared on his forehead.

Koben's movements were very steady.

The red-hot blade slowly sliced ​​through the muscle fibers, the skin peeling back to reveal the dark red flesh beneath. The flowing blood trickled down the arm into the copper basin below, making a monotonous dripping sound.

"The bone is showing." His voice was filled with unusual excitement.

Paisell initially adopted a disdainful demeanor, with his hands behind his back and his chin slightly raised.

But as Coburn's movements deepened, the Grand Scholar's neck involuntarily stretched longer and longer.

A barely perceptible hint of awe flashed in those cloudy old eyes.

James kept his word; his screams were loud enough to rival those of a woman in labor.

Interspersed among them were various oaths and vows.

He will respect the seven gods from now on, and will never again mock those who are disabled, nor chant prayers mixed with all sorts of profanities.

One cut after another, and another cut after another.

After an unknown amount of time, Cobain stopped.

He carefully examined the exposed bone surface and nodded: "It's ready."

James took a breath.

But then, boiling liquor was poured over it.

"Ahhhhh—"

Coburn finally began stitching.

The needle and thread pierced through the skin and flesh, closing the cut wound again. Finally, ointment was applied, and a clean linen bandage was wrapped around it.

After doing all this, he washed his hands and then carefully dried them with a handkerchief.

"Sir, that's enough," Coburn said. "You can't move this arm for three days."

James nodded weakly.

He's not stupid; as long as he can keep this arm, he's willing to stay still for ten days.

"Scholar, if I recover, I'm willing to pay you a thousand gold dragon coins and even make you a knight."

Koben shook his head.

He looked at Cersei, then at Joffrey, "Your Majesty."

"I don't need money, and I don't need a title."

"I only ask that you grant me a pardon so that the Citadel can restore my bachelor status."