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Dust hung in the torchlight at the entrance of the Hall of Order, framing the lone figure standing tall with his sword. He wasn't tall, but he was straight-backed and unyielding.
The entire square stared in stunned silence. No one could quite believe what they'd just seen. The Mountain—Gregor Clegane—had been brought to his knees by a man half his size.
Near the front of the crowd, Shae's lips parted. Firelight caught Corleone's silhouette and made it glow in her eyes. She remembered the night he'd shared dinner with her right here, calm and confident. Now, watching the Mountain kneel like a broken dog, a rush of worship, ambition, and raw desire nearly knocked the sense out of her.
She could already picture herself in fine silk, standing proudly at his side as his lady. Her thighs pressed together. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her. "Ser Corleone…"
Several people nearby heard it. No one seemed surprised. After what they'd just witnessed, plenty of noblewomen were looking at him the same way.
Shae clapped a hand over her mouth, cheeks burning, and glanced around. When no one reacted, she relaxed.
Tyrion caught the sound anyway. He frowned, shot her a quick look, then turned his gaze back to Corleone. Envy and jealousy twisted in his chest. If he'd been born whole, with a strong body and a sword arm that worked… he could have done this. He could have earned his father's respect instead of being called a disgrace.
A farmer's son had just done what Tyrion had dreamed of his whole life.
He shook his head hard and glanced at Sansa beside him. Quietly, he stepped back and pulled Shae behind his small frame, trying to block her from view.
Sansa didn't notice. Her eyes were locked on Corleone. She remembered the Mountain from tourneys—how he'd split warhorses in half with one swing. Yet this knight named Vito Corleone had toyed with him like a cat with a mouse.
If a man like that swore to House Stark… if he became her sword and shield… she could take back Winterfell. She could avenge her father and brothers.
The thought burned bright in her blue eyes. She wanted him. She wanted him to be hers.
A few feet away, in the shadow of a pillar, Petyr Baelish watched it all. His smile had vanished. His fists were clenched so tight his nails cut into his palms. That familiar, bitter failure clawed at his chest again.
Twenty years later, it was happening all over again. Just like with Catelyn Tully and Brandon Stark. Now Sansa—her daughter—was looking at Corleone with the same hunger.
Why him? Why did this farmer get to wield that kind of power? Why did he get to earn those eyes?
Petyr forced himself to breathe. Anger wouldn't solve anything. He studied Corleone and the kneeling Mountain, mind racing. The man had risen too fast, too bright. He was already a threat—especially where Sansa was concerned.
But Petyr still had time. He could wait. He always waited. No one beat him in the long game. Not Brandon. Not Ned. And not this upstart either.
Sansa would be his.
In the center of the square, Corleone seemed unaware of the stares. His focus stayed on the Mountain. Night wind stirred his cloak. He slid his sword back into its sheath with a clean, practiced motion.
"Ser Gregor Clegane," he said, voice cold and formal. "I didn't invite you tonight. Yet you came anyway. You attacked my friend without cause. You insulted my friends with the filthiest words you could find. You ruined my knighting feast and trampled the order I built here."
Every word landed like a hammer. The crowd listened in silence.
Corleone took one step closer. "Every single thing you did tonight deserves punishment. So I'm holding you responsible."
The Mountain's eyes blazed with murder, but pain kept him on his knees. Corleone had landed nearly twenty precise cuts—every one at a joint or weak point.
"Now," Corleone said quietly. "Apologize."
The Mountain's chest heaved. Blood and spit flew as he roared, "Apologize? Fuck you, you peasant bastard! You worthless worm hiding behind whores and cripples! I'll tear you apart! I'll feed your guts to dogs!"
The vilest curses poured out of him. Even on his knees, he refused to bend.
Corleone didn't flinch. He'd expected this. Brute force alone wouldn't break a beast like the Mountain—especially not in front of an audience. Push too hard and the man might go berserk, just like he had with Oberyn in the stories.
But did Corleone really want an apology?
His ears caught the sound of heavy footsteps coming from inside the Hall of Order. A small, satisfied smile touched his lips.
Here we go.
"Enough, Ser Gregor," came Tywin Lannister's commanding voice from the doorway.
At the exact same moment, Corleone moved.
He didn't step back. He stepped forward—straight into the Mountain's reach.
"RAAAAGH! DIE, YOU FARMER SCUM!" the Mountain bellowed, lunging with both massive hands to crush Corleone's throat.
Too close. Too fast. Jaime and Brienne shouted in alarm. Several knights started forward, but they were too late.
Then steel flashed.
Shing.
The Mountain's hand and cheek were suddenly pinned together by Corleone's sword—blade driven clean through the palm and out the opposite side of his face.
Tywin's eyes widened. "Stop—"
He was too late.
Corleone smiled up at the impaled giant, then yanked the sword sideways in one savage, deliberate cut.
The sound was wet and terrible. A mangled chunk of flesh, blood, and several teeth hit the stones with a sick splat.
It was most of the Mountain's tongue.
"Guh… hhh…." The Mountain made a horrible, wet choking sound. Blood poured from the gaping hole in his cheek. His massive body swayed once, then crashed to the ground like a felled tree.
Corleone flicked the blood from his blade with a casual snap of his wrist. He looked down at the twitching giant, voice perfectly calm.
"I changed my mind, Ser Gregor Clegane. My friends and I no longer need your apology."
He paused.
"And you… no longer need a tongue."