When Corleone pushed open the doors to the Tower of the Hand, the first gray light of dawn was bleeding across the eastern sky.
He paused on the threshold for half a second, steadying his breath. Then he pulled the visor down on his helmet, the cold metal sealing against his skin.
He stepped outside.
The morning chill hit him hard, carrying the sharp salt bite of the sea.
His eyes swept the ground in front of the tower.
Four bodies lay sprawled in dark pools of blood, each twisted in its own ugly death.
The blood had started to thicken, turning that deep, ugly red against the pale stone. In the growing light it looked like some twisted painting of violence left half-finished.
Corleone didn't slow down.
He walked down the steps toward the path that led to the White Sword Tower, the usual route for Kingsguard shift changes.
He never made it.
Footsteps came from ahead. More than one set.
Four Lannister knights in bright red armor appeared, clearly the relief shift heading up to replace the dead men.
They stopped twenty paces away.
Talbot's hand snapped to his sword hilt. His three companions did the same, dropping into ready stances.
"Stop!"
Corleone halted.
"Visor."
Talbot took three steps forward, still gripping his sword. "Take it off, ser."
Standard procedure. When something felt wrong, a guard captain could demand any unknown person show their face, even if they wore white Kingsguard armor.
Corleone didn't obey. He took one slow step closer instead.
"Are you questioning me?"
Not an answer. A challenge. His voice came out low and edged with contempt, like he was speaking to something beneath him.
"Your armor's covered in blood."
"I need an explanation, ser."
Talbot didn't back down, but his tone softened just a fraction. Even his men looked like they were starting to buy the white armor and the attitude.
"Explanation?"
Corleone's voice sharpened, cutting through the visor. "I'm a Kingsguard. What the hell gives you the right to demand explanations from me?"
The shout echoed across the square and sent pigeons exploding off nearby rooftops.
"I should be the one asking questions!"
"Where the fuck were you supposed to be guarding the Hand's Tower?"
Corleone jabbed a finger at them. "I just killed three assassins who tried to take him out. The fourth ran. The Hand's shaken but alive. He ordered me to report to the king and lock down the Red Keep."
He gestured at the blood on his chest.
"I saved his life. Now I'm carrying out his orders while you idiots stand here wasting time."
He took another step, voice turning ice-cold. "So tell me, Ser Talbot Hightower… are you doubting me? Or are you stalling so that last assassin can slip out of the Red Keep?"
The air went still.
Talbot stood frozen, hand still on his hilt but his grip slack now. His mind was spinning, trying to fit the pieces together.
Blood-covered Kingsguard. Assassins hitting the Hand. It explained everything, but…
Why no alarm? Why weren't the patrols reacting? Why was this one man chasing alone instead of calling for help?
And why was his scabbard empty?
Talbot's eyes flicked down to the empty sheath.
"Ser?" One of the younger knights spoke up nervously. "Should we check the bodies—"
"Shut up," Talbot snapped.
The knight went silent.
Talbot stepped forward until he was close enough to smell the blood on Corleone's armor.
"You're right," he said, voice steady but respectful. "We were late. That's on us."
He relaxed his stance and stepped aside. "Go report to the king. We'll secure the tower."
Corleone gave a single nod and strode past them.
As he passed Talbot, he murmured, "Good man."
Talbot didn't turn. He waited until the footsteps faded completely into the distance.
Then he faced his men. "Move. We protect the Hand."
Up in the Hand's bedchamber, Tywin Lannister still stood in the center of the room, gripping the sword that should have gone through Corleone's throat.
The blade felt heavy. Not from weight, but from the impossible thing that had just happened.
He had tried. With everything he had.
The tip had pressed right against Corleone's bare throat. It should have slid in like a hot knife through butter.
It hadn't.
The skin never broke. The sword had bent instead.
Tywin had even thrown his full weight behind it. The blade had curved dangerously, whining under the strain.
Corleone's throat had shown nothing. No mark. No blood. Nothing.
Those black eyes had stared back, completely calm. Like the statues in the Great Sept.
Then Corleone had spoken. "Now you understand, Lord Tywin."
"Killing me isn't something you can choose lightly. Not because of politics. Because you can't."
"At least not yet."
He had gently pushed the sword away with two fingers.
Tywin's fingers tightened on the hilt now.
He looked down at the blade. It gleamed in the dawn light, edges still sharp.
Everything normal. Everything as it should be.
Except it wasn't.
He raised his left hand and pricked his own finger on the tip.
Pain. Blood welled up, dark red, dripping onto the carpet.
Real. All of it.
So why had it failed against Corleone?
Magic? Sorcery? Some trick from across the Narrow Sea?
No. Tywin shook his head. He'd dealt with Braavosi assassins and Lyseni spies. Tricks and poisons, sure. But nothing like this.
Vito Corleone…
What the hell are you?
The question hammered at everything he'd built over sixty years.
Power. Gold. Predictable human weakness. That's how he'd ruled.
Now a farmer from the mud had shown him something that didn't fit.
Shae's voice cut through the silence. "My lion…"
She had woken at some point. Now she slid off the bed, barefoot on the cold floor, wearing only her thin silk shift.
Her body was young and full, the fabric clinging in the candlelight.
She wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing close. "You look tired…"
The words were practiced, seductive, the way she'd learned in the brothel.
Tywin didn't respond. His body stayed rigid as stone.
Shae pulled back and circled in front of him. "My lord?"
Tywin looked down at her. At her eyes, her lips, her throat—soft, pulsing with life.
So fragile.
"Kneel."
Shae dropped instantly, looking up at him with wide eyes.
Tywin raised his left hand, the one with the fresh cut, and smeared blood across her cheek, then down to her throat.
His right hand gripped the sword tighter.
He pressed the tip to her neck.
It slid in easily. Too easily.
Shae's body jerked. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, blood bubbling out.
Her eyes locked on his—confused, terrified, then empty.
Tywin held the sword there until the light in her eyes faded completely.
Then he pulled it free.
Blood dripped onto the carpet, spreading.
Normal. All of it.
So why had Corleone been different?
Tywin walked to the window and pushed it open. Cold wind rushed in, clearing the blood smell.
King's Landing was waking below.
A new day.
He needed time to figure out what that farmer really was.
Until then…
He turned back to his desk, picked up a quill, and began writing.
"Ser Adam Marbrand. By sunset today, all Gold Cloaks are to withdraw from Flea Bottom…"
The pen scratched across the parchment.
Outside, the sun climbed higher, light and shadow playing across the Red Keep.
Life, death, promises, betrayal, reason, and the unknown.
All of it waiting.