The sudden roar of the crowd rolled through the fighting pit like a crashing wave, drowning out every other sound. People surged to their feet, craning their necks toward the arena entrance with burning anticipation.
Rorger had just opened his mouth to speak, clearly preparing to explain something important, but Corleone lifted a hand—calm, steady, and commanding.
"Not now," he said, his eyes fixed on the arena below. "Let's watch the match first."
Rorger swallowed whatever he'd been about to reveal and forced himself to settle beside Corleone. Though his curiosity and nervous excitement were obvious, he didn't dare interrupt again. The atmosphere was too loud, too chaotic, too exposed for secrets. Here, even whispers had a way of turning into rumors.
The crowd's fervor intensified as a hulking figure emerged from one of the side gates of the arena. The man lumbered forward, his girth shaking with each heavy step. He wore nothing on his upper body except a hardened brown leather vest, leaving his thick, powerful arms bare. Splattered across his chest was a leather apron stained with darkened blood—old, dried, and ominous.
He looked less like a pit fighter and more like a butcher dragged straight from his slaughterhouse floor.
"Bord," Rorger whispered eagerly, leaning close and clapping in rhythm with the crowd. "That one used to be a real butcher, slaughtering livestock for the tables of noble lords. He was skilled, hardworking, and he saved quite a fortune over the years."
A ripple of tension traveled along Corleone's jaw.
"And then?" he asked.
"Well…" Rorger clicked his tongue dramatically. "One day he came home and found his wife tumbling in bed with a male prostitute from Silk Street."
Corleone didn't even blink.
"So he killed her."
It wasn't a question—just an observation delivered with complete emotional detachment.
In Westeros, such tales were neither rare nor shocking. If anything, they were expected.
"Yes," Rorger confirmed. "Though at first, he didn't intend to kill her. He only meant to drive away that little peacock. But his wife insisted on leaving with him. No matter how Bord begged—on his knees, crying—she refused to stay."
Rorger leaned closer, voice lowering with relish.
"And then she took his life savings—half a lifetime's work—right in front of him. She meant to use HIS money to elope with her lover."
Corleone's lip curled ever so slightly.
"Foolish."
Women, he thought, often forgot the simple truth: a man's tolerance did not mean weakness. They mocked, scolded, screamed, and struck, believing themselves safe behind the shield of affection. But when a man finally reached his limit—when the restraint snapped—there was nothing in the world more dangerous.
"You are absolutely right, my lord," Rorger agreed enthusiastically. "So in a rage, Bord butchered both of them with his cattle-slaughtering knife."
"And then," he continued with a disturbingly admiring tone, "he sold their remains as meat to a brown soup vendor in Flea Bottom."
Corleone slowly turned his head.
"And how do you know that?"
Rorger grinned sheepishly.
"Oh, it caused quite the sensation. The Gold Cloaks were going to hang him for it. I paid fifty gold dragons to buy his freedom."
Corleone raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself.
Rorger continued, unable to resist boasting.
"He had nowhere to go after that, so I brought him here to fight. And let me tell you—he was one of my best. Other than Fang, Bord made me more money than any other."
At the mention of Fang, Rorger stopped abruptly, realizing too late that Fang had died at Corleone's hand. His lips trembled, and he darted a nervous glance at Corleone, fearing offense.
But Corleone merely waved a hand dismissively.
Dead men were of no consequence.
What mattered were the living—and what they could be used for.
"But," Corleone said, eyes narrowing with interest, "if you could bribe the Gold Cloaks to save Bord back then, how did you end up sentenced to death later?"
Rorger's expression twisted—resentment, self-mockery, bitterness all tangled into one.
"Heh… I got betrayed. My own subordinates turned on me because they thought I wasn't giving them enough money. Ralf was the one leading them. Pathetic, really—his life was saved by me once. But that's the gutter for you."
He rubbed his face before continuing.
"But the main reason was the change in leadership. The Gold Cloaks' former commander, Janos Slynt, was a greedy bastard. Black-hearted through and through, but if you paid him, anything was possible."
Corleone nodded. Greed was predictable. Predictable men were useful.
"But then Slynt was stripped of his cloak and sent north. His replacement—Jacelyn Bywater—was a knight to the bone. Wouldn't take gold, wouldn't bend rules, wouldn't compromise."
Rorger chuckled darkly.
"But I heard he got blown apart by wildfire during the Battle of the Blackwater. Serves him right!"
Corleone didn't react outwardly, but the information settled into his thoughts. King's Landing was a city where power shifted like tides, and men were swept away like debris.
Men like Rorger and Ralf were kings only in their tiny corners of Flea Bottom. To the powerful, they didn't exist. They were dust—unseen, unremembered, irrelevant.
Which made them perfect pieces to move.
Corleone tapped his knuckles lightly against his knee.
"Since you know Bord so well," he said, voice smooth and unreadable, "what are our chances of winning this wager?"
Rorger's chest swelled with confidence, and he beamed.
"We will definitely win, my lord! In fact, you should already start thinking about how we'll break Ralf's other leg when that cripple tries to wriggle out of paying!"
Corleone allowed himself the faintest smile.
Winning the match was only the beginning.
He was an outsider—no noble house, no lineage, no banners. The only thing he possessed was his mind and his golden-fingered hunger for wealth.
Jaime was a friend, yes—but friendship was a currency, too. If one side always paid and the other always took, the balance would break eventually. True friendship required equal standing. Corleone would not be a burden or a dependent.
He would rise.
And Flea Bottom—the filth, the stink, the chaos—was the perfect starting point.
Where others saw rot, he saw foundation stone.
Where nobles wanted to cut it away like diseased flesh, he saw labor, bodies, loyalty, information, and profit.
This would be the root of his power in King's Landing—the first brick of an empire no one could see coming.
His gaze swept across the roaring crowd, then toward the opposite end of the arena as the host raised his arms dramatically.
"Next up!" the announcer cried, stretching his voice to the point of cracking. "A brand-new challenger!"
The audience held its breath.
"From across the Narrow Sea!"
The drums thundered.
"—YIGO!!!"
And the arena erupted.
The match was abo
ut to begin.
The bet was about to be decided.
And Corleone's ascent—the true ascent—was about to take its first irreversible step.