The moment his voice fell, the arena fell into a heavy silence. It was as if the sound had been sucked out of the air, leaving only the sharp hiss of collective inhalations. People drew breath so forcefully that it felt like the air itself was being stolen, leaving those nearby light-headed and suffocating.
But… one thousand gold dragons.
A thousand.
The number echoed silently in every mind, thundering louder than any war drum. It was madness. It was the kind of sum that could make even the rats in Flea Bottom fight to the death for a chance at it. One thousand gold dragons was not merely a wager—it was a life, a future, an entire family's salvation.
Not even a Lannister would casually drop that kind of coin.
Heads turned. Necks craned. Nobles, commoners, thieves, swindlers, sellswords, and spectators alike leaned forward, desperate to know which fool, which lunatic, which dream-chasing imbecile had dared to gamble such a fortune in a single breath.
King's Landing, battered by years of war, inflation, hunger, and political unrest, was full of ruined young heirs and reckless fortune-seekers. It wasn't rare for noble sons, stripped of family wealth and desperate to restore their names, to wager everything they had left on a single, delusional hope.
Why, only last month, the eldest son of House Kettleblack had wagered five hundred gold dragons, setting this year's record for a single bet. Bards had sung about it. Drunks had argued about it. The poor had cursed his privilege.
Yet now, even that foolish milestone was about to be reduced to dust.
On the registrar's high stool, the man holding the ledger felt his hand tremble violently. His charcoal pencil nearly flew from his grip.
One thousand gold dragons.
Their entire monthly intake.
If the arena could claim this sum, the boss could finally gather enough wealth to purchase a minor title—even a small landed estate. And if the boss acquired land and status, the trickle-down would be sweet. The registrar imagined bonuses, imagined nights in Silk Street, imagined soft embraces and perfumed sheets.
They needed to fleece this fat sheep. Skin him. Salt him. Roast him. And do it with a smile.
He swallowed hard and lifted his gaze toward the man who had spoken.
His eyes met Rorger's.
Clatter.
This time the charcoal pencil did fall—clattering loudly against the stone floor.
"Ro– Ro– Ro– Ro—!"
The registrar's face drained of color. He slipped from his stool and landed hard on his backside, staring up at Rorger as though staring at death itself. His finger shook as he pointed, his lips quivering, unable to form a full word.
Rorger grinned.
It was a terrible grin—wide, crooked, revealing yellow, uneven teeth. A grin of mockery. A grin of old blood and older grudges.
"Long time no see, Maji."
"M— Maji" jolted violently as though a spear had been thrust into him.
"Rorger!!!"
He screamed the name, scrambling backward, palms slipping against the filthy floor. Panic twisted his features, and terror widened his eyes. He stammered breathlessly:
"You— you were taken by the Gold Cloaks! I saw it! They chained you— loaded you onto a wagon— sent you north to the Night's Watch! I saw it with my own eyes!"
"How did you— how are you—"
"Because I missed you 'good brothers' too much, Maji."
Rorger bent down, staring into his eyes, his tongue slipping out to lick the corner of his mouth. His voice dropped into a slow, chilling rasp:
"So… I crawled back from that damned hell."
A shudder ran through Maji so violently that it seemed to rattle his bones. His legs kicked weakly; his hands flew to his head; and from the dark patch spreading across his crotch, it was clear that his bladder had surrendered completely.
The three burly guards nearby did not recognize Rorger, but they didn't need to. Maji's reaction, the whispered name, the tremor in the air—it all painted a clear picture.
There was history here.
And it was not pleasant history.
Before Rorger could step closer, the three men moved in smoothly, forming a defensive wall.
"Get lost, you noseless freak," the leader growled. "If you're here to stir up trouble, you picked the wrong den. Keep pushing, and we'll break your arms and legs and drag you out like the mongrel you are."
Rorger lifted his hands, smirking, allowing himself to be pushed half a step back.
"Mind your manners, friends!"
Then he raised his voice—loud, theatrical, designed to draw attention.
"I came here to give you money! What's wrong? Is the mighty Blood Cellar too rich to accept a wager of a thousand gold dragons?"
Gasps rippled outward.
Then he added, louder:
"Or is that dog-spawn Ralf afraid he won't be able to pay if he loses?"
Silence snapped tight and sharp.
The guards froze.
Ralf.
The name mattered.
Everyone knew Ralf. And from Rorger's tone, it sounded as if not only did he know Ralf… he might once have stood where Ralf stands now.
People around them began whispering under their breaths. Because if they refused a wager now—if they backed down in front of this crowd—the arena's reputation would rot.
Then—
"Who said I wouldn't dare take it?"
A voice cut through the noise.
The crowd parted.
A man limped forward, slender, in an extravagant purple velvet coat—far too fine for Flea Bottom. He leaned on an amber-inlaid cane worth more than most families earned in a year. Tap… tap… tap… Each step rang sharply, demanding space, demanding attention.
Ralf.
His gaze drifted over Maji, collapsed and trembling, before settling on Rorger.
The two men locked eyes, and tension pulsed through the room.
From across the arena, Corleone watched, an odd feeling washing through him, as though dramatic music should begin swelling.
"…soft laughter brings me warmth… you inject me with strong happy electricity…"
The absurdity made him blink.
Then Ralf spoke at last.
"I, Ralf, take bets as large as the dragons you can pile on my table," he announced, voice low but iron-hard. "If you win, you will be paid every coin according to the listed odds. That is the rule of my Blood Cellar."
He paused, let silence settle, then added with a crude grin:
"Everyone in Flea Bottom knows I've got the biggest balls—super big."
Laughter exploded around them—thugs, gamblers, and drunkards roaring in approval.
Rorger's breathing hitched, hatred flickering hot in his eyes. But he forced it down and crafted a smile instead.
"Well now, look at you, Ralf," he drawled. "All dressed up. Wearing fine velvet. Carrying an amber cane. Seems you walk far faster than I ever could these days."
Ralf's eyelid twitched. His jaw clenched. Murder flickered in his stare.
"Enough, Rorger," he snapped. "I don't care how you crawled back from the snow and the chains. I don't care why you've come. Bring your thousand gold dragons. Put them down, and we'll record the bet."
Rorger's smile faded.
"What, is my name not worth a thousand gold dragons anymore?" he hissed. "Don't forget—you'd have been stewed into broth at that brown soup stall if I hadn't bought you out!"
Ralf sneered.
"Rules are rules. Money first. Bet second. Or did a little northern cold freeze your memory?"
Rorger stiffened.
His eyes flicked toward Corleone.
Corleone did not look back.
He simply examined dried blood on the arena sands, indifferent, detached—as though Rorger's struggle had nothing to do with him at all.
But that indifference made it worse.
Rorger knew the truth.
Corleone was powerful.
Corleone was connected.
Corleone could end him with a word.
Rorger swallowed, face twisting as pressure closed around his skull. He gritted his teeth—then made
a decision.
He leaned close to Ralf, whispering:
"I don't have the gold on me."
Ralf's eyes flashed triumph—
But Rorger finished:
"But don't you want… that thing?"