"She is mine, Doctor!"
Even though his body was shaking and he could barely stay upright, The Hound forced himself forward, planting his heavy boots in the dirt. With a strained growl, he lifted his longsword—far too heavy for someone in his state—and stepped protectively in front of Arya, fully shielding her behind his broad frame.
He held the sword in one hand, trying to make the gesture look threatening, but the trembling point betrayed him. The blade wavered—unsteady, exhausted, but still defiant—as he pointed it squarely at Corleone.
"Come one step closer, and I'll kill you like I killed that bastard before… I'll butcher you!"
Corleone studied him without a word. No mocking smile, no taunt, no visible amusement—only quiet observation.
Instead of stopping, he walked forward. One slow step. Then another.
When he reached the limit The Hound could tolerate, he finally dismounted his horse with calm, controlled movement.
CLANG—
Metal hissed as Corleone drew his sword.
It was Stao's former blade.
"No!"
Arya screamed, her voice cracking with fear. She lunged forward and threw her arms around The Hound's armored boot, clinging desperately.
"He was helping me! It was him!"
She spoke quickly, breathlessly.
"He told me to create chaos! He told me to make Halson rebel against Stao!"
Her voice shook with panic, but her words tumbled out clearly—because the blood and violence of the night had finally taught her something important:
Explain first. Don't wait until it's too late.
"What?"
The Hound blinked, startled. His single eye darted down toward Arya, then back up at Corleone.
He replayed the chain of events in his head. The pieces aligned. It made sense.
But Corleone still said nothing.
Sword raised. Steps steady. Eyes unblinking.
His presence, though not large or imposing, pressed against The Hound like a stone wall.
"Stay back!" The Hound barked, breath ragged. Arya's explanation helped, but the Doctor advancing with a naked blade was something he could not ignore.
This time, Corleone finally halted a few paces away.
The Hound's chest rose and fell heavily as he fought to maintain the illusion of strength.
"I don't know why you helped us," he growled. "But she is my captive now, and I'm taking her. Now. Immediately."
Only then did Corleone speak.
"That was indeed my intention, however…"
His tone was calm. Detached. Businesslike.
"…what benefit does that offer me, Lord Clegane?"
The Hound straightened, eye narrowing.
"Benefit?"
"The benefit is that you don't lose your life here. That enough for you?"
"Oh?"
Corleone tilted his head, as though genuinely considering the offer.
The Hound believed, just for a moment, that the threat had worked.
He turned, pulling Arya with him.
"Not enough."
The Hound froze. Surely he misheard.
"What?"
"I said…" Corleone lifted his gaze. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, reflecting sharply in his eyes.
For an instant, The Hound felt as though the man saw straight through him—past his armor, past his scars, past his bluffing strength—to the weakness beneath.
"The terms you offered are not enough."
He stepped forward once more.
A single step—yet it shattered any confidence The Hound had left.
Normally, he could cut down five men like Corleone without breaking a sweat. But now?
He was starved. Wounded. Exhausted. Barely standing.
And Corleone knew it.
Grinding his teeth, The Hound tried one final strategy.
"I have no gold dragons for you—not a single copper! Before those bastards captured me, Beric Dondarrion and his men robbed me! They lost trial by combat but still took near everything I owned—left me only my horse and armor!"
His voice cracked with anger.
"If not for that, I wouldn't have been starving for three bloody days!"
He assumed Corleone wanted the rumored forty thousand gold dragons. Why else would he corner him?
But Corleone shook his head slowly.
"No, no, no… forty thousand gold dragons are tempting, yes. But I am not here for them."
He sheathed no greed in his tone—only measured certainty.
"Dondarrion and his Brotherhood Without Banners hold the Riverlands like kings. I have no intention of stealing from the lion while standing in its jaws."
His gaze flicked between The Hound and Arya.
Then he smiled.
"I want you—no… I want both of you—to owe me a favor."
The Hound stared.
A favor?
This lunatic wanted a favor?
Not armor. Not a weapon. Not a kill order. Not money.
A favor.
Who asks for something so vague at sword-point?
The thought chilled him more deeply than any threat.
"…Fine!" he snapped, desperate to be done with this encounter. "I owe you a favor, she owes you a favor. Now can we leave?"
He hauled Arya up and turned again.
"Wait."
Corleone's voice slithered through the night like a curse.
The Hound nearly exploded.
"What now!"
The Doctor was more irritating than The Mountain on a rampage.
Corleone remained unruffled.
"You are not serious, my lord. Your answer was too casual—meaning you do not intend to honor it."
"You haven't even asked my name."
"Enough!" The Hound snarled. "I'll remember! I'll bloody remember!"
"No. You won't."
Corleone's voice sharpened—not loud, but cutting.
"People forget most easily the things they do not want to remember."
He lifted his sword—not threatening, but deliberate.
"I need you to remember this favor for the rest of your life. And when I call upon it… you will repay it. No matter what."
"So, to ensure you remember…"
Before the sentence finished, Corleone surged forward—a blur of motion.
CLANG!
The Hound threw up his blade, but there was nothing to block.
He spun—
—and saw Corleone's sword intercepting another blade lunging out of the darkness.
Steel rang. Sparks flew.
With a twist of his wrist, Corleone deflected the hidden strike and looked into the shadows, amusement tugging at his lips.
"You're slow."
His voice carried mockery—casual, confident, in control.
"What, has 'Iron Leg' rusted?"
A figure stepped from the darkness.
"…Captai
n Worton?"
The Hound stared, stunned—his mind overwhelmed, his strength gone, his situation now even more precarious.
And Corleone simply smiled.
Because the favor… was already unforgettable.