As Corleone approached the doors of the Hall of Order, the shouting outside had turned into the clash of steel.
The fight had escalated.
He frowned and stepped quickly over the threshold. The first thing he saw was Iggo lying on the marble floor.
The hardened Dothraki warrior, used to taking hits, now wore a face full of pain and disbelief. He clearly couldn't accept his defeat.
Corleone focused on him. A clear fist-shaped dent marked his chest. The leather armor was cracked all over, showing exactly how much force had been behind that punch.
Iggo tried to push himself up, but every breath made his face whiter. Frothy blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth.
Broken ribs. Possibly a punctured lung.
Corleone made the diagnosis instantly.
"Don't move, blood of my blood. Moving will only make it worse."
He spoke softly, then turned to a nearby servant. "Get a stretcher. Take him to the side room. I'll treat him shortly."
No one in Flea Bottom questioned Corleone's medical skill anymore.
Moments later, several men carried Iggo away.
Only then did Corleone look up at the cause of all this.
A man built like a mountain.
He wore no helmet. His forehead was low and narrow, brow ridge jutting like a cliff, eyes sunk deep in shadow, lips thick and protruding.
Full plate armor covered him. The three black dogs on his breastplate gleamed greasy in the torchlight.
That massive frame and black armor made Corleone recognize him at once.
The Mountain—Gregor Clegane.
What the hell was he doing here?
Corleone frowned. He didn't remember inviting the Mountain. They'd never even met.
He turned his head. Ten steps away stood a man with venomous snake eyes, gripping two curved daggers and staring at the Mountain.
Oberyn Martell.
Corleone's heart tightened. He still didn't know why the Mountain had come, but these two crossing paths explained the violence.
The Dornish prince wore tight red-and-gold leather armor beneath a silk cloak light as a butterfly's wing. Two slender poisoned daggers gleamed blue in the firelight.
His stance looked loose, but every muscle was coiled like a drawn bow.
"Say it again, Dornishman!"
The Mountain's voice rumbled from deep in his chest. "I've never seen your sister."
"Don't lie, you bastard!" the Red Viper screamed. "Elia Martell. Princess of Dorne. The night King's Landing fell, you raped her, you killed her, you murdered her children!"
The Mountain tilted his head slowly, like a real beast thinking.
"Many women."
"What?" Oberyn froze.
"That night there were many women." The Mountain's voice stayed flat, as if discussing dinner. "I don't remember which one was your sister."
The words stripped away every last shred of Oberyn's sanity.
"I'll kill you!!!"
He let out a piercing roar. His daggers crossed with a cold flash, moving so fast he became a red blur charging the Mountain.
The blades aimed for throat and eyes, striking like vipers.
The Mountain didn't dodge.
He simply raised his massive greatsword with one hand and blocked one blade, then lifted his steel vambrace to parry the other.
Clang! Clang! Sparks flew.
Then the Mountain swung his greatsword in a wide arc like a battering ram.
Whoosh!
Oberyn twisted away at the last second. The huge blade grazed his ribs, the wind snapping his cloak.
The Mountain followed up with a kick aimed at Oberyn's stomach.
That kick carried enough force to end the fight instantly.
Fortunately, Oberyn rolled clear and landed five steps back, breathing hard but eyes burning wilder.
"Tell me who gave the order."
He shouted loud enough for everyone to hear. "Who told you to kill Elia and her children? Say it in front of the Seven—who was it?!"
The Mountain glanced at the knife mark on his vambrace, then glared at Oberyn. "The kid was crying too loud."
"So I smashed him against the wall. That shut him up."
The air froze solid.
Oberyn's lips trembled, knuckles white on his daggers. In that moment his eyes held not just hatred, but every nightmare that had tortured him for over a decade—his sister's cold corpse, his nephew's shattered skull, blood that would never wash away.
"Die!!!"
Just as Oberyn was about to charge again, a familiar back stepped in front of him, blocking the way.
Very familiar.
"Ser Gregor." Corleone looked at the Mountain first, voice steady with a hint of warning. "Tonight is my knighting celebration. Please don't cause trouble here."
The Mountain only looked down at him like he was staring at an insect that had crawled to his boot. "Get out of the way."
At the same time Oberyn snapped, "This isn't your business, Corleone. Move."
Caught between two extremely dangerous men, any normal person would be pissing themselves. Corleone didn't move.
He turned his head slightly and spotted Rorge hiding behind a pillar. "Come out."
"Tell me what happened."
Rorge crept out, swallowing hard, voice shaking. "Ser Gregor returned from Harrenhal to report to the Hand. He learned Lord Tywin was here, so he came. But he ran into Prince Oberyn at the door. One word led to another and they started fighting. Iggo tried to stop them, but that bastard punched him and…"
Corleone nodded once he understood.
He turned to the Mountain. [Presence Lv3] flared instantly, his voice filled with undeniable command. "Ser Gregor, tonight is my knighting feast. Whatever grudge you have with Prince Oberyn, settle it elsewhere. This is my place. You follow my rules here."
The Mountain seemed to feel the pressure. He frowned at Corleone for two seconds, then said arrogantly, "Who are you? I don't know you. But I only follow Lord Tywin's rules. Everyone else is shit!"
The words were flat, without much insult. In the Mountain's mind, Corleone wasn't worth remembering.
Corleone stared at him for a long moment, then nodded.
He turned to Oberyn. "You owe me a favor, Your Grace. Remember? Now stand down. Tonight isn't the time."
Oberyn's eyes flickered, but he shook his head. His hatred ran too deep to burn away all reason and promises.
"I'll repay the favor later. But tonight I have to hear him confess with his own mouth. He has to name the one who gave the order!"
"What good will that do you?" Corleone asked. "Kill him here? Lord Tywin won't allow anyone to kill his most loyal knight in front of him. Dorne and the Westerlands will go to war. Thousands will die, and the truth will never see the light of day."
He was making sense. But tonight, no one seemed interested in sense.
"Dornishman, your sister's taste—"
"Enough!"
Hearing the Mountain still trying to insult, Corleone suddenly raised his voice. The sound carried undeniable authority. Even the Mountain paused and looked down at him.
Under everyone's gaze, Corleone took a deep breath. His pitch-black eyes locked on the Mountain as he spoke, one word at a time.
"You disappoint me, Ser Gregor Clegane. Tonight is my celebration feast. You weren't on my guest list. You came anyway and attacked my man. I didn't blame you for it. Instead I spoke all those pretty words, hoping to save your face. Now I'm ordering you to leave. Right now!"
Just as the conflict at the entrance reached its peak, in the shadows on the inner side of the hall, Petyr Baelish had quietly slipped toward the side door. With everyone's attention on the fight, this was the perfect moment to slip away.
But the moment his hand touched the door handle, a familiar voice came from behind him. "In such a hurry, Lord Baelish? The feast isn't over yet."
Petyr's body stiffened for a second.
He turned to see the short dwarf standing three steps away, holding a cup of wine. Beside him stood his wife, Sansa Stark. The girl's face was pale, clutching her skirt tightly. Next to Sansa, a slender black-haired maid held her hand, never leaving her side.
He turned slowly, the usual warm, harmless smile already on his face. "Oh, Lord Tyrion! I was just needing some air. It's crowded in the hall. My health hasn't been the best lately."
"Health problems?" Tyrion chuckled. "Well, yes. Staring at an empty treasury and endless debts every day would ruin anyone's health. But you're lucky. That mess is mine now."
Hearing the sarcasm, Petyr cursed inwardly. Damn it… why was everyone giving him shit today?
Still, he quickly explained. "Lord Tyrion is joking. I'm simply following Lord Tywin's orders to go to the Eyrie and marry Lady Lysa Tully to stabilize the Vale for the realm."
"That's just wonderful." Tyrion swirled his wine. "Just give a woman a few thrusts and you get the title of Lord of the Eyrie. Not a bad deal at all. Too bad the last time I met that madwoman she nearly threw me off a cliff. Otherwise, with my talents, I might have given it a try."
He laughed and teased, not noticing that Petyr's gaze had settled on his wife.
Sensing the look, Sansa instinctively stepped back half a pace, gripping her skirt even tighter.
Petyr had once been her "friend," one of the few people she could talk to in King's Landing. But now she was Tyrion's wife. Even though the dwarf had been good to her and still hadn't touched her, Sansa didn't dare risk it.
Petyr didn't seem to notice her unease. He gave Sansa an elegant smile—the kind that usually made girls blush. "Lady Sansa, you look much better. Perhaps you should get out more. The Red Keep's air is fresh, but plenty of interesting things have been happening outside lately."
Seeing him like this, Sansa's lips moved but no sound came out. She took another half-step back, almost pressing against the wall.
That silence hurt more than any words. It was as if she was saying, don't come looking for me anymore. I'm afraid Tyrion will misunderstand.
Petyr's smile finally vanished completely. He looked at Sansa, then at Tyrion, then at Corleone in the distance dealing with the conflict.
Then he said nothing. He turned, pushed open the side door, and disappeared into the dark corridor.
Tyrion stared at the open door for a long time. "He ran."
"Will he come back?" Sansa asked quietly.
"Of course. Men like Petyr never truly leave the table. They just step away for a moment, shuffle the deck, and return with new chips."
As he spoke, Tyrion drained his cup and turned toward the entrance. "Come on, let's go see the show, my lady."
Faced with Corleone's warning, the Mountain didn't move. He didn't even bother responding. He simply looked back at Oberyn and raised his greatsword, as if Corleone didn't exist.
Oberyn also raised his daggers.
The persuasion had failed. Completely.
Corleone stood between the two men and could feel the eyes from inside the hall on him—scrutiny, mockery, schadenfreude, disappointment.
Tonight was his knighting celebration. Almost every important noble in King's Landing was present.
If he couldn't even handle a conflict at his own door, if he let the Mountain and Oberyn spill blood right here, then tomorrow all of King's Landing would be talking about how Ser Corleone was a joke.
His "order" only applied to the poor in Flea Bottom. In the face of real power and violence, it was worthless. His authority, everything he had built since arriving in King's Landing, would collapse in one night.
Corleone was silent for three seconds.
Then, under everyone's gaze, he did something no one could have predicted.
He placed his right hand on the hilt of his sword.
Shing—
The sound of metal sliding free was crisp and cold.
He drew his sword.
The blade was ordinary steel—no Valyrian steel ripples, no gem inlays. Just a sword. A perfectly ordinary tool for killing.
But the moment he held it, his entire presence changed.
The Corleone who had been calm as still water now radiated sharp, deadly intent, as if his very gaze could cut.
"Stand back, Your Grace." Corleone looked at Oberyn, voice cold. "Or our agreement is void. Your choice."
Oberyn stared at him for five seconds, conflict flashing in his eyes. Finally he gritted his teeth and slowly stepped back.
Only then did Corleone turn to face the Mountain.
The Mountain looked down at him, at the man who didn't even reach his chest, then pointed at the ridiculous sword in his hand and sneered, "You planning to put on a show for me with that?"
"No." Corleone raised his sword, the tip pointing at the Mountain. Night wind swept past, lifting the gray-white cloak behind him. The black hand sigil fluttered in the torchlight.
"I'm going to use this… to make you kneel and apologize!"