From the depths of the shadows, a grim and hardened face slowly emerged—Worton.
His eyes shifted, cold and calculating, locking directly onto Corleone as if weighing his very existence.
"How did you know I would come?" he asked, voice low and rough, almost devoid of emotion.
To Worton, there was no real threat standing before him. He remembered clearly the training grounds at Harrenhal, where he had personally witnessed Corleone attempting sword drills. Those awkward, clumsy movements—like someone chopping stubborn logs—convinced him that this young knight was nothing more than a novice who had only recently learned to hold a blade.
As for The Hound… yes, that man had a reputation, had won a tourney, and was known for brutality. But at this moment? He could barely stand straight, let alone fight properly.
Corleone shifted his wrist lightly, and the sword tip traced a cold gleaming arc beneath the pale moonlight. His voice carried a playful tone, as if amused by a private joke only he understood.
"I've been thinking about it the entire journey," he said calmly.
"What exactly was the so-called 'reward' Roose Bolton wanted you to retrieve from King's Landing? I considered countless possibilities, but none of them quite fit."
His smile widened, small but sharp.
"Until yesterday, when I happened to see the look in your eyes when you gazed at Miss Stark. Then I understood."
A slow breath. A deliberate pause.
"They say Lord Bolton's only legitimate son is dead. But he still has a bastard. And if a man wants to control the North, then marrying a Stark daughter is the simplest and cleanest way to do it."
Corleone tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze.
"But unfortunately for him—and you—he didn't know Arya Stark escaped King's Landing. And even more unfortunate… she ran straight into you."
Worton listened silently, studying him with an expression that gradually shifted from surprise to something resembling admiration.
"You are truly clever, Ser Corleone," he finally said. "I have never met anyone smarter than you. Sometimes, I even think your wisdom surpasses Lord Bolton's."
He raised his sword slightly.
"But clever people rarely live long. I must take her today."
"You bastard! Did you forget someone else is here?!"
The roar came from The Hound, who suddenly lurched forward, raising his sword with both hands and swinging down at Worton.
But Worton didn't even flinch.
Just as he had judged—The Hound couldn't maintain his balance, let alone execute a proper strike.
Worton stepped aside effortlessly.
Bang!
A brutal backhand punch struck The Hound square in the face, sending him crashing to the ground beside Arya. He didn't get up again.
"Move aside," Worton said calmly, not even sparing a second glance. Defeating a tourney champion felt no different than swatting a fly.
He pointed his sword back toward Corleone.
"You are an interesting man. I don't want to kill you."
But Corleone didn't move. Instead, the corner of his mouth curved upward.
"To be honest, Worton… you're interesting too. But I genuinely want to find out what it feels like to kill you."
He shifted into a fighting stance, steady, grounded, unwavering.
Worton let out a cold laugh.
"Don't be naive. Your Dothraki guards and that big woman are still fighting those men from Caho City."
"You cannot stop me. You don't have the ability."
"There is no such thing as 'cannot' in this world," Corleone replied calmly.
Worton gave him a long, deep look, as if considering those words. But duty overrode hesitation.
He stepped forward and delivered a fierce diagonal chop toward Corleone's right shoulder.
"Ugh!"
The strike was not the fastest, but it was heavy—brutal in its intent. Given Corleone's supposedly poor swordsmanship, Worton expected the outcome to be immediate.
The beginning of the fight would mark its end.
However—
Clang!
A sharp metallic ring cut through the night.
Worton froze—eyes widening. Corleone had parried the blow. Cleanly. Smoothly.
Once might be a fluke.
Twice was not.
Frowning, Worton twisted his wrist, withdrawing the blade and launching a rapid succession of straight thrusts aimed at Corleone's abdomen and chest—his signature technique, famed throughout Dreadfort.
But again, Corleone's reaction defied expectation.
His footwork appeared messy, almost clumsy, yet it always shifted him just enough out of danger. Even though he was slightly slower, he carved space using broad sweeping movements—ugly, unrefined, but effective.
It reminded Worton of someone.
Brienne.
Yes. These were her forms. But how? At Harrenhal, Corleone couldn't even hold a stance without swaying.
How many days had passed since then?
Even if he trained day and night, it would be impossible to improve to this degree.
This level required years of blood, grit, and battlefield experience.
Had he been hiding his strength?
Or was this boy… a true genius?
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Steel clashed faster and faster. Time stretched.
Sweat began forming on Worton's forehead—not from fatigue, but from unease.
Corleone was adapting. Not slowly—rapidly. With every exchange.
His stance stabilized.
His parries grew sharper.
And he even began attempting counterattacks.
Worton blocked them all—but the timing and angles were NOT those of a beginner.
"This is impossible!!!"
With a furious snarl, Worton delivered another powerful overhead chop.
Corleone braced, lifting his sword with both hands, catching the blow.
Their blades locked.
Corleone's arms trembled, the webbing between his thumb and forefinger tearing painfully, muscles burning. The pain was sharp—real—alive.
And it thrilled him.
Thrilling!!!
No wonder Jaime and Brienne seized any excuse to duel. No wonder they sought the blade like others sought wine or warmth.
Fighting was exhilarating. intoxicating. Addictive.
Corleone drew a breath and grinned.
He was holding on—not through power or speed, but through the boost of Insight Lv1, combined with years spent as a surgeon whose hands reacted faster than thought.
He shook his head inwardly at the glowing text on his system panel:
[Basic Swordsmanship Lv2]
He had awakened Level 1 after killing Reg, then used the gold he'd taken from Stao to upgrade it.
But it still wasn't enough to defeat someone like Worton—one of the strongest fighters under Bolton.
Even so, Worton was a perfect sparring partner. The clash had already allowed Corleone to refine Brienne's teachings with his own instincts.
Worton cursed low in his throat.
He didn't know Corleone was near his limit. He only saw the astonishing speed at which Corleone was improving.
If this fight continued…
Would Iron-Leg Worton truly lose to a beginner?
He could not allow himself to be dragged into a prolonged duel.
Grinding his teeth, Worton roared and gathered his full strength.
He abandoned defense entirely and unleashed a full-force horizontal sweep aimed directly at Corleone's waist.
This strike was absolute.
Armor versus unarmored flesh.
If Corleone struck him, the armor would absorb it.
If Worton struck Corleone, even once…
Corleone would fall, broken and bleeding.
Worton committed to the trade—he would end it here.
The strike was unavoidable.
But just as W
orton believed victory was certain…
He saw it.
Under the moonlight, a single gold coin flicked upward—
Floating.
Turning.
Spinning.
Ding~~~~
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