The perfect parry hung in the air like a held breath. Every noble and commoner in the square stared in stunned silence. No one had expected this.
"Seven hells…" Ser Balman muttered, rubbing his eyes. "He actually caught it?"
It was the Mountain. Gregor Clegane. The man whose lance had nearly killed Balman years ago at a tourney. Everyone knew that strength. One wrong step and you were dead.
But Corleone hadn't just blocked the blow—he'd deflected it. Effortlessly.
"Luck," someone hissed from the crowd. "Had to be luck. The Mountain must've slipped on the stones."
The explanation spread fast. Whispers turned into open mockery. A commoner knight beating the Mountain? Impossible. He'd gotten lucky once. That was all.
Jaime's jaw tightened. He remembered Corleone swinging a sword like a farmer chopping wood just two months ago. No way he had this kind of skill already. It had to be luck. Or the ground. Something.
The Mountain's chest heaved like a forge bellows. His eyes burned blood-red with pure rage. No one had ever made him stumble. No one.
"Vito Corleone," he growled, voice like grinding stone. "You're going to die screaming."
He raised his greatsword with both hands, the massive blade whistling through the air in a brutal upward slash aimed straight at Corleone's midsection.
"Stop!" Jaime roared, charging in.
Steel screamed. Jaime's ornate longsword went flying, spinning end over end before clattering across the flagstones. The Mountain's greatsword barely slowed. It kept coming.
At the last second, Jaime's golden prosthetic hand slammed down on the flat of the blade, stopping the blow inches from Corleone's body. Sparks flew. The impact jarred Jaime's entire frame, but he held.
The Mountain snarled and yanked his sword back. "Move, Lannister."
Jaime stood his ground, blood dripping from his left hand where the hilt had torn his skin. His golden fingers were dented, but he didn't back down. "Stand down, Gregor. That's an order from the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
The Mountain laughed—a deep, ugly sound that rolled across the square. "Lord Commander? You can't even hold a sword without a fake hand, you crippled bastard!"
The crowd erupted. Some laughed. Some gasped. Jaime's face went white, but he didn't move.
Then a second voice cut through the noise.
"And me."
Brienne of Tarth stepped forward in full armor, Oathkeeper drawn. She planted herself beside Jaime, her massive frame a wall of steel. "Corleone is my friend too. I owe him more debts than I can ever repay. If you want a fight, you'll get one from both of us."
The Mountain's grin widened. "Look at this. The cripple and the freak cow protecting their pet farmer."
He spat on the ground. "Your 'order' means nothing, Corleone. You hide behind a one-handed joke and a woman who looks like a man. Pathetic."
Corleone finally moved. He stepped between his friends, placing a steady hand on Jaime's shoulder and another on Brienne's armored pauldron.
"Relax," he said quietly. "Both of you. This is mine."
Jaime started to protest. "You've only been training for two months—"
"I know." Corleone's voice was calm, almost gentle. "But I've had good teachers."
He looked at Brienne for half a second, just long enough for her to understand. Then he turned to face the Mountain, ordinary steel sword held low and loose.
The Mountain charged again, roaring like a bull. His greatsword came down like a falling tree.
Corleone didn't block. He stepped aside at the last instant, the blade missing him by inches. As it passed, his sword flicked out—precise, surgical—striking the gap between the Mountain's pauldron and breastplate.
Blood sprayed.
The Mountain bellowed and spun, swinging wildly. Corleone flowed around the attack like water, sword darting in again and again—always at the weak points, the joints, the seams. Every strike drew blood. Every movement was efficient. Controlled.
The crowd fell dead silent.
Corleone spoke between strikes, voice steady as he fought. "Power doesn't come from brute strength. It starts in the feet. Drive from the ground… through the hips… into the shoulders… then the arms."
Each word was punctuated by another precise cut. The Mountain's attacks grew sloppier, more desperate. Blood ran down his legs. His breathing turned ragged.
"You're not fighting," someone in the crowd whispered. "You're teaching him."
The Mountain's final, furious overhead chop missed completely. Corleone stepped inside the arc, sword flashing low in a perfect, economical arc.
Both of the Mountain's knees buckled.
With a thunderous crash that shook the square, Gregor Clegane—the Mountain That Rides—dropped to his knees in front of Corleone.
The entire square went still.
Corleone stood over him, breathing perfectly even, not a hair out of place. His gray cloak stirred in the night wind, the black hand sigil stark against the firelight.
He rested the tip of his sword against the Mountain's throat.
"Now," Corleone said, voice quiet but carrying to every corner of the square. "You're going to apologize to my friends, Gregor Clegane. And you're going to mean it."