"This is impossible!"
Inside the room, the sound of a dagger thudding into the wooden table rang out repeatedly. Oberyn Martell's right hand rose and fell mechanically, his mouth murmuring incessantly, "Impossible... absolutely impossible..."
"1..."
He looked like a man possessed.
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He was The Red Viper of Dorne, a warrior who struck fear into the hearts of the Second Sons, Oberyn Martell, whose fame was forged in Essos through the countless defeats of his opponents!
Yet, today, he had actually lost completely in speed in the Blade Dance he took such pride in... to a doctor?
He could not accept it!
Pride burned through his sanity like venom!
Oberyn frantically raised and lowered his hand, trying to break his limits with even greater speed, to reach or even surpass Corleone's previous level, to prove he was still that invincible Red Viper.
However, reality was incredibly cruel.
Whether it was Ellaria watching him with concern from the side, or Petyr silently watching with a playful expression, or even Oberyn himself, they could all easily see that his speed simply couldn't keep up!
Just as Corleone had said before, when faced with the threat of injury, the brain takes over control, inevitably causing a person to have instinctive resistance.
Even the battle-hardened Oberyn could not be completely exempt.
As long as he remained within the realm of humanity, that survival instinct deep in his marrow would forcibly drive his body to avoid danger once it sensed it.
But Oberyn was already obsessed.
His eyes were bloodshot as he stared fixedly at his fingers, trying to use pure willpower to break through this physiological cage, to challenge and shatter that seemingly impossible limit.
He was possessed, wanting to challenge his limits and break them.
Yet, that was easier said than done.
The wall of limits was called a limit precisely because it was insurmountable.
Of course, if his eyes were to close and then open, and he began to feel cold and shaking, then that would be a different matter...
Thud!
With a somewhat muffled sound, Oberyn's movements instantly froze.
He slowly lowered his head in disbelief and looked at his left hand.
At the edge where his pinky and ring finger met, a tiny red line was rapidly appearing and expanding.
Bright red beads of blood, like tears shed by his body in betrayal, seeped out, gathered, and then trickled down the gap between his fingers.
That crystal-clear pain forced him to admit it.
He... was injured.
"Oberyn!"
Seeing this, Ellaria, who had been worried about his state, cried out and lunged forward to snatch the dagger from Oberyn's hand, pointing it at Corleone.
"Get out, Vito Corleone! Get out of here right now!"
"I will never... allow you to hurt Oberyn!"
She was like a female cheetah, her eyes burning with rage and desperation as she bared her teeth at Corleone.
The sharp tip of the blade trembled in the candlelight, but it was very steady.
"Put down the knife, Ellaria."
Just then, Oberyn spoke.
His voice was somewhat raspy. He raised his uninjured right hand and gently pressed down on Ellaria's tense arm.
Ellaria turned back in disbelief, seeing a pair of dark eyes that had regained their composure.
The previous madness and obsession seemed to have faded, leaving only an undeniable sense of command.
"Put it down," he repeated, his tone deepening as if he had returned to being that proud Prince of Dorne: "I lost. If you lose, you must admit it."
"
...No!"
Ellaria bit her lower lip, stubbornly gripping the dagger as tears welled in her eyes: "I will never watch him hurt you...
"
But unfortunately, her persistence was of no use.
Oberyn had already replaced words with action.
He forcibly grabbed Ellaria's wrist with such strength that she couldn't resist, easily snatching the dagger away.
Without the slightest hesitation, he flicked his wrist, and the dagger landed at Corleone's feet with a "clang."
"Do it, Corleone," he said calmly. "According to the bet, my life is yours now."
Seeing this, Ellaria's tears finally fell. She glared at Corleone with immense anger and despair, as if he were the root of all tragedy.
Facing this tragic and heroic scene, Corleone couldn't help but roll his eyes inwardly.
What was this situation?
It was as if he were some shameless villain who had forced someone's family into ruin and kidnapped their women. What kind of Yang Bailao act was this?
These two were simply ridiculous. He almost thought he had wandered onto the wrong set and become the moon worship cult leader in some drama.
And...
Under the enhancement of [Insight Lv3], he could very clearly see that beneath Oberyn's posture of seemingly offering his neck for slaughter, his right hand was very covertly reaching for his waist.
Do you think I don't know how the hell you got the title "The Red Viper"?
Corleone grumbled to himself.
If he really moved to take Oberyn's life at this moment, would this kid just obediently accept it?
If he were really that honest, he wouldn't have slept with other people's mistresses, poisoned his sword during a duel to kill someone, and then fled to Essos.
Just then, Petyr, watching the tense scene from the side, quickly stepped forward. His face was filled with a seemingly anxious expression as he advised, "Lord Corleone, please do not be impulsive!"
He waved his arms, his tone exaggerated: "Although... although Prince Oberyn did indeed humiliate you repeatedly and even insulted your character, please, you must put the big picture first!"
"If something happens to the Prince of Dorne in King's Landing, the consequences will be unimaginable!"
He was advising with his words, but his heart was already blooming with joy.
Fight! Kill!
It would be best if they beat each other's brains out right now!
Chaos is a ladder!
If Tywin Lannister's subordinate and the Prince of Dorne formed a blood feud, or even triggered a direct conflict between Dorne and the iron throne, the situation in all of Westeros would become even more chaotic.
Only then could he, Petyr Baelish, catch bigger fish in the muddy waters!
As for the incident happening on his turf?
Not an issue!
I'm about to become the Lord of the Eyrie. As long as I play my cards right, I can completely shift the blame.
After all, he couldn't be blamed for this at all; from beginning to end, it was caused by these two stubborn madmen who insisted on betting their lives.
While the several of them were harboring their own schemes and the atmosphere was incredibly tense, Corleone finally moved.
He leaned over slightly, nonchalantly picked up the dagger, and weighed it casually in his hand.
Then, under everyone's gaze, he casually flicked his arm and tossed the dagger backward like a piece of trash.
The dagger traced a bright silver arc in the air. Its landing point was precise, right where Petyr Baelish was standing, falling straight toward his head!
"Ah!"
Petyr was so startled he jumped, hurriedly stumbling back half a step, nearly falling onto his backside.
"Thud!"
The dagger fell past the tip of his nose, the sharp blade embedding itself deep into the floorboards where he had just been standing, the hilt vibrating violently.
Petyr's back was instantly drenched in cold sweat, his heart pounding wildly, his face pale.
"I'm so sorry, I just wanted to throw this thing away."
Hearing Corleone's insincere apology, he stared at the dagger in shock, looking at Corleone with a mix of shock and rage, yet unable to say a word.
This guy did it on purpose...
He definitely did it on purpose!
Absolutely!
But he had no evidence at all, so he just had to swallow his pride.
And just then, Corleone stood up leisurely and straightened his slightly wrinkled robes.
He looked at Oberyn with a calm gaze, showing neither a victor's boastfulness nor a loser's contempt.
"To me, Your Highness, the Prince."
Corleone spoke, his voice still flat and certain: "Your head, remaining intact on your neck, is far more beneficial than becoming a useless decoration in my study."
"So, please do take good care of it."
He bowed slightly, his tone even carrying a hint of almost polite concern: "But please do not forget our previous agreement."
"I am still looking forward to you personally taking the stage to provide a sufficiently spectacular performance for the people of King's Landing, and for our cooperation."
With that, he said no more, turned, and walked out of the door quite decisively.
Just as Corleone's figure was about to disappear out the door, his low voice echoed in the room: "However, a bet is a bet. Although I don't want your head, please remember."
"You owe me a favor, Your Highness."
Bang.
With those words, the door to the room closed completely.
Only after confirming that Corleone had truly left did Ellaria let out a complete sigh of relief, turning back to embrace Oberyn and kissing him frantically.
Oberyn responded passionately as well, though his dark eyes remained fixed on the door. The hand tightly gripping the poisoned dagger at his waist silently relaxed as he thought to himself, "Vito Corleone...
"
"Quite interesting."
Walking along the winding stone steps leading up to The Red Keep, Corleone's pace was steady and unhurried.
He idly surveyed the surrounding scenery, his thoughts replaying the "Blade Dance" that had just ended.
His original intention in going to Silk Street was to find Oberyn Martell.
The arena plan needed a gimmick, a star who could ignite the audience's frenzy, and The Red Viper was undoubtedly the perfect opening guest.
If he could find another opponent whose fame and strength were equally matched, that would be even better.
However, Corleone hadn't expected this viper's temperament to be even fiercer than he had anticipated. A deal that could have been settled peacefully had turned into a crazy game of betting lives, wasting quite a bit of his time for nothing.
Before the competition actually began, he really hadn't been sure he could win against Oberyn.
But so what?
Even if he lost, he still had a Gold Dragon in his pocket; at worst, he'd just add a real duel.
Then again, the huge advantage brought by several complementary skills was indeed powerful.
For a game that relied so heavily on control, focus, and psychological pressure resistance, this combination was practically tailor-made for him.
Lost in thought, he had already arrived outside the magnificent and solemn iron throne hall.
The captain of the Gold Cloaks who had led him there stopped and turned around: "Wait here for a moment. I need to announce your arrival first."
His tone sounded somewhat unhappy.
"Thanks for the trouble."
Seeing this, Corleone just nodded slightly and casually pulled out two shiny Silver Stags, stuffing them into the man's hand.
The movement was natural and smooth.
Feeling the cool touch of the Silver Stags, the Gold Cloak captain's face immediately warmed up. He grinned and whispered, "I'll go in right now, Master Corleone. I won't keep you waiting long!"
He then turned and entered the hall that symbolized the peak of power in The Seven Kingdoms.
Money makes the world go 'round, and it can even make the devil turn the millstone.
Watching the man's figure disappear behind the tall doors, Corleone quickly calculated the reason for Tywin's emergency summons.
Less than an hour ago, just as he had left Silk Street, Rorger had come running toward him, panting, to inform him that the master of laws had an urgent matter and wanted to see him, and the tone was pressing.
Tywin's messenger hadn't said what it was specifically, and Rorger naturally didn't dare to ask.
That was why Corleone had temporarily set aside his subsequent plans and rushed over in a hurry.
Was it that the cleanup of Flea Bottom had touched someone's interests, and they had complained to Tywin?
Or did that dwarf go to his old man to complain after being extorted?
Unlikely; he wasn't that stupid.
Various possibilities flashed through his mind, each weighed in turn.
But...
I feel like I've forgotten something at Silk Street?
What exactly was it?