The night wind swept through the entrance of the Hall of Order, carrying the heavy scent of blood and dust. It tugged at Corleone's bloodstained cloak, making the black hand sigil stand out sharply against the gray fabric.
The square had gone dead silent. The Mountain lay twitching in a growing pool of red, his breathing shallow and wet. Every eye had shifted from Corleone's calm figure to the man now walking toward him.
Tywin Lannister.
The Hand descended the steps with the same unhurried pace he used in the Tower of the Hand, as if he were simply out for an evening stroll. He didn't glance at the bleeding giant on the ground. His cold green eyes locked straight onto Corleone.
"You killed him," Tywin said. His voice was flat, almost conversational. It wasn't a question. It was a statement that somehow carried the weight of a lion's roar.
Corleone sheathed his sword in one smooth motion and gave a respectful bow, right fist pressed to his chest. "No, my lord Hand. I simply taught him a necessary lesson."
He straightened and met Tywin's stare without flinching. "Given Ser Clegane's actions tonight—attacking my friend, insulting my guests, and trampling the order I built here—I removed his tongue. A dog that can't bark will bite harder when it finally does."
Tywin raised one eyebrow. "A dog that can't bark…" He repeated the words slowly, as if tasting them. "You make a fair point, Ser Corleone. A silent dog can be far more dangerous."
The old lion finally looked down at the Mountain. The huge man was still jerking, blood pouring from the ruin of his face. Tywin studied the damage for a long moment, then turned back to Corleone.
"Are you certain he's still alive?"
"I'm a physician first, my lord," Corleone replied calmly. "The cuts are deep but clean. No major arteries were severed. For a man of Ser Clegane's size and constitution, he has an excellent chance of survival… with proper care."
He paused, then added with perfect professionalism, "Of course, if you'd like, I can personally oversee his treatment. Medical services of this quality are rarely free."
A cold ripple ran through the watching crowd. Even hardened knights felt a chill. This man hadn't just beaten the Mountain—he'd turned the victory into a business proposition.
Tywin stared at Corleone for several long seconds. The old lion had allowed the Mountain to test him tonight, expecting the new knight to handle the threat with clever schemes or borrowed strength. Instead, Corleone had met raw violence with superior skill and then left the man alive but broken in the most humiliating way possible.
It was ruthless. It was efficient. It was exactly the kind of move Tywin respected.
"You must be tired, Ser Corleone," Tywin said at last, his voice returning to its usual measured tone. He gave a slight nod, as if deciding the matter was settled. "Take the Mountain to the Red Keep. Tell Grand Maester Pycelle to keep him alive at all costs."
Red-cloaked Lannister guards moved in. It took four of them to lift the massive, armored body. Blood trailed behind them as they carried him toward the waiting carriage.
Tywin turned to address the stunned guests. His voice carried across the square. "Ser Gregor Clegane drank too much, lost control, and disgraced himself. He has paid a heavy price for his arrogance. This matter ends here. Any further retaliation will be treated as direct defiance of the Hand's command."
Corleone bowed again. "Of course, my lord. Your judgment is wise and just."
Tywin studied him for one final moment, then said, "Come to the Tower of the Hand tomorrow morning. Bring your plans for the Flea Bottom expansion. We'll discuss funding and support."
"I won't disappoint you, my lord."
Tywin gave one last nod and walked away without another glance at his son Jaime or the bleeding Mountain. The carriage rolled off into the night, heading for the Red Keep.
Cersei watched from the shadows, fingers clenched tight around her skirts. Corleone had won again—beautifully, decisively—and it made her blood run hot with a dangerous mix of admiration and hatred. He was becoming too strong to control.
Olenna Redwyne approached with Margaery's help, leaning on her cane. She looked Corleone up and down and gave a dry chuckle. "Well now, boy. You certainly know how to put on a show. That sword work reminded me of Ser Arthur Dayne in his prime."
"You flatter me, my lady," Corleone said with a modest bow. "I've only been training seriously for two months under Lady Brienne."
"Two months?" Olenna snorted. "Then every knight in the Seven Kingdoms should jump into the Blackwater right now."
She gave him a sharp look. "But watch your back, child. You cut the Mountain's tongue out tonight. When that dog heals, he'll come for blood."
"I'll knock out every tooth in his head if he does."
Olenna laughed, a short, raspy sound, and patted his arm. "Spirited young man. Get some rest."
She and Margaery moved toward their carriage. Most of the guests didn't leave. If anything, the mood grew even more electric. Watching the Mountain get publicly humiliated was better than any entertainment the night had offered.
Corleone raised his voice. "Music! Wine! The feast continues!"
Cheers answered him. People began flowing back inside, many of them nodding or bowing slightly as they passed him. The fear and disdain that had once colored their eyes were gone, replaced by something closer to respect.
Rorge appeared at his side, speaking low. "Iggo's ribs are cracked, maybe a punctured lung. He coughed up some blood, but we patched him like you taught us. He'll live."
Corleone nodded. Iggo had taken a monstrous hit. Surviving at all was impressive.
"We kept the smallfolk inside tonight, just like you ordered," Rorge continued. "No one from Flea Bottom saw what happened out here. Our own people are fine except for Iggo."
"Good," Corleone said. "Clean the blood off the stones. Then tell the kitchens to bring out another barrel of Arbor gold for every table."
Rorge hurried off.
A familiar Dornish voice spoke beside him. "Tsk. I thought you were only good at that knife-dancing game. Turns out you're damn good with a real sword too."
Corleone turned to face Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper had sheathed his poisoned blades, but his dark eyes still held a mix of admiration and something sharper.
"Living in this world means learning whatever skills keep you alive, Your Grace," Corleone replied. "Sword work, medicine… I can even climb trees and pick apples."
Oberyn laughed. Then his expression grew serious. "I have to ask. You had the Mountain dead to rights. Why leave him breathing?"
"Because dead men can't learn lessons," Corleone said. "And because I wanted everyone watching to understand something important."
Oberyn studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "You're not just another Lannister pawn, are you?"
"No," Corleone answered. "I'm building something bigger than that."
Oberyn glanced toward the hall where Jaime and Brienne were approaching, then looked back at Corleone. "I wanted to kill that dog myself. But watching you cut out his tongue… that was almost as satisfying."
He sighed. "I should leave before I lose my temper around so many lions."
"Stay for a drink," Corleone offered. "The wine's good."
Oberyn shook his head. "Drinking under the same roof as Lannisters sours the wine."
He met Corleone's eyes. "You'll get another chance at the Mountain. When that day comes, you'll owe me one more favor."
Corleone smiled. "I'm counting on it, Your Grace."