Ralf's pupils shrank, his fingers tightening around the head of his cane.
"That thing… you still have it?"
Even though he suspected that Rorger was spewing nonsense as usual, the temptation—immense, intoxicating, impossible to ignore—forced him to lower his head and stare straight into the face hovering so close to his own.
"One thousand gold dragons."
Rorger didn't answer the question directly. Instead, he repeated slowly, word by word:
"Bet it all on the next match. If I lose, that thing is yours."
Ralf narrowed his eyes. He searched Rorger's expression, but the man's gaze was as slippery and cunning as ever, making it impossible to tell whether he was lying or telling the truth.
Finally, after a long inhale, he nodded.
"Fine. One thousand gold dragons."
Then Ralf spun and furiously barked at Maji, who was still sprawled uselessly on the floor.
"Get up, you useless coward! A trivial matter like this should have been handled with calm and competence!"
Maji flailed back to his feet and snatched up the betting board.
"What are the odds for the next match?" Ralf demanded.
"Five-to-one, Boss Ralf," Maji stammered.
"Five-to-one?" Ralf's brows furrowed deeply. "Why so high?"
Such ridiculous odds appeared only a few rare times a year. High odds meant the opposite odds would be painfully low—sometimes as low as 1.2-to-1—designed to prevent gamblers from placing bets on both sides for guaranteed profit. It also meant that the crowd's money would be overwhelmingly stacked on one side—low returns, but almost a guaranteed win.
"B-because the fighter entering next is Butcher Bode!" Maji swallowed. "And the challenger is a newcomer who just signed up. Nobody knows him, so—"
"Butcher Bode?"
Ralf nodded slowly.
Bode was the Blood Pit's beloved moneymaker, maintaining an undefeated streak of thirty-two brutal matches. Some even claimed that the moving mountain under Duke Tywin's command would fall before Bode.
Exaggeration, perhaps—but in Flea Bottom, Bode would not lose.
But then Ralf turned back toward Rorger, sneering.
"Even if you pull off some scheme, betting one thousand gold dragons on Bode would only win you two hundred at most. Is that enough for you?"
"Oh, Ralf… Ralf… still so naive." Rorger clicked his tongue and shook his head, looking almost disappointed. Then a wild smile stretched across his scarred face.
"Who told you… I was going to bet on Bode winning?"
He let the silence hang deliberately, then raised his voice so the whole pit could hear:
"One thousand gold dragons—on the newcomer!"
The crowd erupted instantly.
"He's mad! Completely insane!"
"No one survives a punch from the Butcher!"
"That newcomer won't last three breaths!"
"The noseless freak must've drunk too much brown soup—fried his brain!"
Mockery rolled through the pit like a wave. Not a single person favored Rorger. Bode's strength was already carved into the lore of Flea Bottom.
But Ralf didn't laugh.
He only stared—cold, sharp, suspicious.
He couldn't understand what Rorger was planning.
"It seems being gone for so long really scrambled that brain of yours," Ralf finally muttered. "Fine. I'll watch you lose."
He turned away, leaning on his cane, preparing to leave—until Rorger called out again.
"Hey, Ralf."
Ralf turned impatiently.
"What? Thinking of backing out already?"
"No, no, no… I'm not as indecisive as some people." Rorger wagged a finger mockingly. "But I think a gambler wagering one thousand gold dragons deserves proper treatment, don't you?"
He listed his demands without hesitation:
"Two excellent steaks. A jug of Arbor Gold—ten years or older. Delivered to my boss."
Then he raised a thumb and pointed toward a man standing in the shadows near the corner.
Ralf followed the gesture and saw him—a calm figure, hands folded, posture relaxed. The man noticed Ralf's gaze and offered a polite, elegant nod.
Boss?
Ralf frowned. The man wore nothing expensive, no rings, no sigils, no mark of status.
Why would Rorger follow someone like that?
"…Do as he says," Ralf ordered at last, striking the ground with his cane. Whatever doubts lingered, he swallowed them and walked away with his entourage.
Before they got far, one of his men leaned in and whispered nervously:
"Boss… Rorger suddenly returning like this—he must have a reason. After what we did to him back then…"
But Ralf's icy stare shut him up instantly.
"Hmph."
His gaze drifted back toward Rorger, now swaggering toward the spectator stands.
"Go investigate. Find out who he and his 'boss' really are."
"Yes, Boss!"
"Wait."
The subordinate froze.
"Go inform Captain Sven Rosby. Tell him the wanted criminal Rorger has returned to King's Landing—and he's right here."
"H-huh?" the subordinate stammered. "Call the Gold Cloaks? Boss… that's not how things are done. And we're running an illegal business here. If we bring in Gold Cloaks—"
"Idiot!" Ralf snapped.
A malicious grin twisted his lips.
"I've spent a fortune feeding those dogs in gold cloaks this past year. It's time they earned their coin."
---
Rorger returned to the stands and bowed deeply before Corleone.
"As you commanded, the matter has been handled, Lord Corleone."
He expected praise—admiration, even. He had completed the task flawlessly, and with flair.
Instead, he was met with a quiet, disappointed murmur.
"You seem quite pleased with yourself."
Rorger froze, stunned. He lifted his head, confused.
Corleone sat relaxed, legs crossed, half his face hidden in the shifting glow of torchlight—yet his presence radiated pressure like a coiled serpent ready to strike.
"I… I don't understand," Rorger stammered. "I carried out your instructions exactly."
"Oh?"
Corleone chuckled, tilting his head, eyes sharp with amusement.
"Did I instruct you to order food and wine on your own authority?" His tone sharpened. "Or to deliberately draw their attention toward me?"
Cold sweat burst across Rorger's back.
He had thought it harmless—just a small test, a subtle attempt to show initiative.
But Corleone saw through it instantly.
"I'm sorry! I was wrong!" Rorger blurted, dropping to his knees so quickly the wood beneath him thudded. He drew a dagger and held it above his head, offering it with trembling arms.
"Please punish me!"
Corleone took the dagger, turning it lazily in his fingers. Then, with a slow movement, he lowered it toward Rorger's mutilated face.
Rorger instinctively flinched.
"The pain of having one's nose cut off…" Corleone murmured. "It must be excruciating."
He let the words sink in, heavy and merciless.
"But pain is reversible. Death is not."
The pressure around Rorger grew suffocating—like invisible walls closing in. His breathing became ragged, sweat dripping down his temples.
Just before he broke completely, Corleone flicked his wrist and tossed the dagger back.
"You have harmed me, Rorger," Corleone said quietly. "You broke my trust. This is the first time."
"I will remember it. And you will remember it too."
"Do you understand?"
"Y-yes! Lord—"
"Furthermore," Corleone cut in, voice cold, "from now on, address me as Lord Corleone."
"Yes! Lord Corleone!" Rorger straightened instantly, shouting the title with desperate devotion.
Only then did relief wash over him.
He wiped his forehead, exhaling shakily—until Corleone's voice came again.
"Now then," he said calmly. "Let us discuss another matter."
Corleone leaned forward slightly.
"I am very curious—what promise di
d you make to Ralf that he believed was worth one thousand gold dragons… based solely on a single sentence?"
Rorger swallowed.
And the torches flickered—like they, too, were waiting for his answer.