Upon hearing this, a glimmer of interest flashed in Oberyn's narrow eyes.
He motioned for Ellaria in his arms to stay calm, then adjusted himself into a more comfortable position, watching Corleone at his leisure and signaling with his eyes for him to continue.
Seeing this, Corleone slowly elaborated, "I plan to establish an unprecedented Free Fighting Arena on the edge of Flea Bottom!"
As soon as these words were spoken, Oberyn couldn't help but yawn, asking disappointedly, "Something like a coliseum?"
"No, no..."
""
Corleone wagged a finger: "Your Highness, it is far more than a simple, crude arena."
As he spoke, his [Majesty Iv3] aura silently unfurled. He spread his arms, his voice carrying immense charisma as he declared, "What I intend to build is a city that never sleeps on the banks of the Blackwater River, a comprehensive palace of entertainment!"
"There will be no rules, only winners and losers. Knights, mercenaries, wildlings, even beggars—as long as you have enough strength and courage, you can win everything here!"
Then, his tone shifted: "It's not just fighting; the most luxurious hotels in The Seven Kingdoms will be built there,"
He continued, "hiring the best chefs to provide customers with the finest service."
"And of course, there will be no shortage of luxury casinos where nobles and wealthy merchants can spend lavishly."
Corleone's fingers lightly tapped the table, as if gold coins were clinking: "From the board games of Braavos to the dice of Dorne, every conceivable form of gambling will be provided, and I personally guarantee absolute fairness."
"By then, it will not only become the center of desire and consumption in Westeros, but it will also transcend the Narrow Sea to become the most luxurious, most exciting legendary land connecting Essos and Westeros—a place that truly embodies the value of power and gold!"
This highly inflammatory description caused the interest in Oberyn's eyes to grow even deeper.
He was naturally someone who loved novelty, excitement, and breaking conventions; otherwise, as the Prince of Dorne, he wouldn't have run off to the other side of the Narrow Sea to be a mercenary for several years.
Though, part of that was also because he had bedded Lord Yronwood's mistress and poisoned his weapon during a duel, leading to the old Lord's death, which forced him to flee.
Corleone's description suited his palate perfectly.
However, Oberyn remained cautious, his lips pursing slightly: "It sounds like a place that could make one's blood boil."
"But... what does that have to do with me, Vito Corleone?"
Knowing the critical moment had arrived, Corleone sat up straight and looked Oberyn in the eye, his tone filled with a perfectly measured amount of esteem: "That is exactly the point, Your Highness."
"No matter how magnificent the stage, it needs matching stars to light it up."
"On opening day, I need a warrior whose fame and strength are enough to awe the entire crowd and ignite everyone's passion to serve as the opening performance and set the tone for the venue."
"And looking across The Seven Kingdoms, whose name is more resonant and whose martial arts are more exquisite than the The Red Viper of Dorne, Prince Oberyn Martell?"
This near-flattery accurately scratched Oberyn's itch.
He had always possessed absolute confidence in his own strength and charm, so far from finding Corleone hypocritical, he nodded with great satisfaction, as if acknowledging a most obvious fact.
"You are very honest, Ser."
Oberyn grinned: "But why should I stand for you? What tangible benefit is there in this for me?"
Upon hearing this, a confident smile appeared on Corleone's face.
"As you have seen, I am first and foremost a doctor."
He pointed to the bloodstains on the table, saying suggestively: "I presume you have already seen some of my methods."
"And I happen to have heard that your brother, Prince Doran Martell, has long suffered from gout, to the point where he can no longer walk and has been confined to a wheelchair for many years."
"If you are willing to grant my request and grace us with a performance at the arena's opening,"
"Then, in return, once the matters in King's Landing are settled, I am willing to personally accompany you to Sunspear and do everything in my power to treat Prince Doran myself."
As soon as these words were spoken, the lazy expression on Oberyn's face vanished completely.
His brother Doran's illness was no secret; many were aware of it, and because of it, he rarely saw guests in person, unwilling to expose his weakness before others.
However, Oberyn did not believe anyone could cure it.
"I told you, I studied at the Citadel in Oldtown for several years, Doctor."
He sneered, making no effort to hide the suspicion and disdain in his voice: "I earned six links. The Archmaesters all praised my talent, but because of that, I also know the boundaries of medicine."
"Gout... is a curse of the gods. There is no cure, only relief."
"Over the years, we have searched across The Seven Kingdoms and even the Free Cities for maesters, healers, septons, and even woodswitch, and the result has always been helplessness."
"You... why should I believe you?"
Facing this doubt, Corleone did not panic, but simply threw out an irrefutable example.
"Ser Jaime Lannister."
He clearly stated the name: "After he escaped Riverrun, his right hand was severed at the wrist. When I met him, the wound had been soaked in mud, horse dung, and foul blood for a full three days."
As he spoke, Corleone stared into Oberyn's eyes and asked word for word: "Your Highness, with the knowledge you gained at the Citadel, you should know very well what the chances of a mortal surviving such a situation are."
"Infection and high fever are enough to take anyone's life within ten days; even someone as strong as an ox could not possibly be spared."
"But now, not only is he alive and well, his wound healed cleanly, he has even begun to practice with his left hand."
"This is enough to prove that my skills are entirely different from those quacks!"
"And..."
""
Seeing the expression in Oberyn's eyes begin to soften slightly, Corleone struck while the iron was hot: "You should know very well that I am a doctor, not a madman."
"In this world, besides a madman, no one would dare to easily deceive you—Prince Oberyn Martell."
These words were backed by ironclad facts and mixed with a clever flattery of Oberyn's Majesty.
The The Red Viper from Dorne fell silent.
Yes, he had indeed heard that the kingslayer's right hand had been cut off, but he didn't know it was under such terrible conditions.
If it was truly as the man before him said, then Corleone's medical skills might indeed far surpass everyone else's.
After all, even the top maesters could not heal a severed limb infected to that degree.
"You saved Jaime Lannister."
But just when everyone thought the Prince of Dorne would agree to the task for the sake of his brother's health, Oberyn suddenly spoke coldly.
As soon as he said this, the atmosphere that had slightly eased due to the deal Corleone proposed instantly froze.
"You saved the kingslayer!"
He growled, grabbing the still-bleeding dagger from the table and slamming it into the wood: "Do you know that the thing I hate most in my life is a Lannister, every single one of them!"
As he spoke, he stared intently at Corleone and said one word at a time: "You want me to help you? Fine."
"Just as Petyr Baelish said earlier, let's have a 'Blade Dance'!"
"If you win, I will not only grant your request, but I also guarantee I'll fight a beautiful match in the arena; no matter who the opponent is, I will achieve the final victory!"
"But if you lose..."
Oberyn leaned forward, his face almost touching Corleone's, his voice full of threat: "I will personally cut off your right hand, and then, I'll watch with my own eyes as you, the doctor, demonstrate your superb medical skills to reattach it!"
At these words, the room fell into a dead silence, and even Ellaria stopped smiling.
She knew Oberyn too well; with that tone, there was no way he was joking.
Hearing this, Corleone felt a wave of speechlessness.
This Dorne The Red Viper's logic was truly bizarre!
Didn't he think that if he really lost and his right hand was ruined, how would he demonstrate any medical skills? How would he treat any gout?
While currently [Surgery Iv3] was indeed insufficient to cure such a condition—which was considered a difficult problem even in modern times—if he could raise it to Iv4, he would have at least a sixty to seventy percent chance of significantly improving Prince Doran's quality of life.
After all, gout was essentially an inflammatory disease caused by the deposition of sodium urate crystals in the joints. Once he reached Iv4, he would master joint aspiration and minimally invasive cleaning techniques.
But the prerequisite for all of this was that he had to have a pair of intact, nimble hands!
Just as the room fell into silence, Petyr, who was standing to the side, seemed to recover from his shock and hurriedly spoke up: "Please, do not be impulsive, Lord Corleone!"
"The 'Blade Dance' is too dangerous; you could get hurt if you're not careful. You are the chief special agent of the small council personally appointed by the hand of the king, and you bear heavy responsibilities!"
"If you accidentally injure your right hand, how will you serve Lord Tywin? How will you maintain order in King's Landing?"
"Please, you must consider this carefully!"
His face was full of worry, and his voice sounded incredibly anxious, as if he were truly concerned for Corleone.
However, Corleone instantly saw through his thoughts and couldn't help but glance at Petyr, sneering in his heart.
This bastard was simply adding fuel to the fire!
Oberyn had just said he hated the Lannisters most, and Petyr couldn't wait to emphasize that he was "personally appointed by Tywin."
This was clearly forcing Oberyn to vent his anger toward the Lannisters on him. His heart was truly malicious!
Just you wait, you failure. Sooner or later, I'll let you see what Mafia style really means!
Seeing Corleone cast a glance at him, Petyr also sneered in his heart.
Corleone's inflammatory description earlier had already sparked jealousy and vigilance deep within him.
He had painstakingly managed Silk Street for years to build it into King's Landing's premier integrated network of eroticism, intelligence, and secret deals.
But with those few casual words, the blueprint Corleone sketched was ten or a hundred times the scale of his own industry. This was no longer simple competition; it was a total subversion of the entertainment and gray industry landscape of King's Landing, which would marginalize him, Petyr Baelish!
What kind of joke was that?
Sure enough, as Petyr's words fell, Oberyn's gaze toward Corleone became even colder, filled with mockery: "So that's how it is..."
"You are not only the kingslayer's savior, but also Tywin Lannister's dog."
"I serve the iron throne, Your Highness. That is a fact."
Meeting Oberyn's hostile gaze, Corleone's expression remained calm as he clearly responded: "But that does not conflict with the respect I express to you or the deal I proposed, does it?"
"Since you want to play a game..."
As he spoke, under everyone's gaze, Corleone directly reached out, firmly grasped the handle of the dagger embedded deep in the table, and pulled it out with a jerk!
Clang! The friction between metal and wood made a crisp sound.
Corleone skillfully handled the dagger, performing a clean and sharp flourish in the air before placing it gently back in the center of the table, the tip pointing toward himself and Oberyn.
He looked up, his gaze incredibly firm, and said word for word: "It's just a Blade Dance, isn't it?"
"I, Vito Corleone, accept!"