Sven Rothesby felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine, despite the fact that Corleone's tone contained no anger, no sharpness—only calm certainty. That was precisely what frightened him. The confidence in Corleone's voice made him wonder whether this man truly had ties to someone powerful—someone Sven could never afford to offend.
"Are you threatening me?" Sven asked, his gaze locked onto Corleone's eyes, desperately searching for a flicker of guilt or hesitation.
But Corleone's dark eyes remained tranquil—steady, calm, and terrifyingly composed. There was no panic, no wavering, not even the subtle tension that betrayed a lie.
"I'm simply stating a fact," Corleone replied, shrugging lightly. "No matter what choice you make, the result will be the same."
He leaned forward ever so slightly.
"So why waste time pretending there's a process, when the outcome is already determined?"
Sven's jaw tightened. His expression shifted again and again as he weighed the possibilities. He, more than most, knew the importance of reading a situation correctly. A weaker man could never have climbed from a wretched gambler in a filthy casino to becoming a captain of the Gold Cloaks. Ruthlessness had been necessary, yes—but even more vital was knowing when to submit and when to advance.
And there was something else—something no one dared speak aloud.
During the Battle of the Blackwater, Tommen Baratheon—brother of the king—had been sent to the Rothesby household for protection. As a distant relative of the Earl of Rothesby, Sven had benefited greatly, receiving promotions and wealth after the war.
If he made one wrong move today, everything he had clawed his way up to could crumble. What if Corleone truly did have a powerful patron? What if Sven unknowingly trampled upon someone far above his station?
His future, reputation, livelihood—everything could vanish in an instant.
While Sven wrestled with his doubts, Ralf grew increasingly frantic. His heart pounded with panic, and the realization nearly caused him to leap off the ground.
If he couldn't get Sven to arrest Corleone and his companions, then the five thousand gold dragons he owed would swallow his entire fortune. Worse—his real boss, the shadow behind the Blood Cellar, would never tolerate such a loss.
And when that boss sent people to "settle accounts," money would be the least of Ralf's concerns.
"Liar!" Ralf shouted, stepping forward with desperation twisting his voice. He jabbed a trembling finger toward Corleone. "He's just bluffing! Don't listen to him, Captain Sven!"
"This man couldn't even bring out a thousand gold dragons for a wager! How could he possibly know anyone of status? He has no backing—he's just pretending!"
Sven's eyes flickered uncertainly.
Seeing that crack, Ralf pushed harder.
"Think carefully, Captain Sven!" Ralf insisted, voice rising with urgency. "I am the highest-taxed lawful merchant in all of Flea Bottom!"
He puffed up his chest and declared with righteous indignation:
"I swear upon the reputation of the Blood Cellar that this man is nothing but a lucky commoner! He picked up this mutt Rorger off the street and schemed with him to extort me!"
"If you don't uphold justice for businessmen like me, what message does that send to all honest traders in King's Landing?"
He looked like an upright citizen being wronged—but Sven knew better.
Ralf's words, beneath the surface, carried a threat.
Yes, Ralf paid taxes—large ones. But most of those taxes conveniently found their way into Sven's pockets. Without Ralf's bribes, Sven's modest salary could never sustain his indulgences—Silk Street, expensive wine, gambling tables stacked with silver stags.
A night with a courtesan cost dozens of silver stags. Without corruption, he couldn't afford a single evening, let alone the life of luxury he relished.
Yet his hesitation lingered.
If Corleone truly had influential connections… why was he dressed in common clothes? Why could he not bring forth a mere thousand gold dragons if he was so well-backed?
Sven's reasoning hardened. To jeopardize a stable stream of income for a stranger with no clear identity?
Only an idiot would make such a choice.
"Cuff them!" Sven barked suddenly, greed triumphing over caution. He waved sharply toward his men. "Arrest these fugitives and bring them to headquarters! I'll interrogate them myself!"
He placed heavy emphasis on the word fugitives, granting himself a veneer of legitimacy.
The Gold Cloaks stepped forward at his command, producing iron shackles with practiced motion. But as they approached, Yigo growled—a deep animalistic sound rumbling from his chest. Every muscle in the beast-like man tightened, and his eyes glared with feral hostility.
The Gold Cloaks faltered.
Two of their comrades still lay injured nearby. None of them wanted to be the first to engage. A few hundred copper stars a month was not worth dying over.
Before violence could erupt again, Corleone lifted his head and placed a calming hand on Yigo's shoulder.
"Do not act hastily, blood of my blood."
He stepped past him, voice low yet steady.
"Sometimes bending for a moment allows you to see the longer road ahead."
Yigo didn't understand the words, but loyalty mattered more than comprehension. He let out a cold snort, retreated a step, and restrained himself.
The Gold Cloaks exhaled collectively and moved in again.
To their astonishment, Corleone lifted his hands willingly, placing them into the shackles without resistance.
The metal clasped shut with a sharp click.
But Corleone did not bow, shrink, or tremble. He remained upright, regal—even elegant. Not like a criminal being subdued, but like a knight tolerating court protocol.
When the irons were secured, Corleone slowly raised his head and stared directly at Sven.
"You have greatly disappointed me, Sven Rothesby," he said calmly. "You complicated something simple. Tonight, I was meant to meet a true big shot. But you destroyed that opportunity."
His voice was not loud, yet the pressure behind it made Sven feel as though the air around him had thickened.
Trying to appear unfazed, Sven forced a mocking scoff.
"Drop the act, boy. I'm sure I'm the biggest 'big shot' you've ever stood before."
But Corleone's gaze pierced straight through him.
"Laugh while you still can."
He spoke slowly, each word landing with unnerving weight.
"You will pay a price far beyond what you can imagine for the choice you made today."
"Maybe not now—but when you believe yourself safe… when you finally relax…"
He leaned forward slightly.
"This is not a threat, Sven Rothesby."
"This is destiny."
Corleone turned away from him and began walking toward the exit, the shackles clinking rhythmically like armor-rings of a knight marchin
g onto a battlefield.
The arena fell silent—yet the echo of his words lingered like smoke that refused to disperse.
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