Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed through the cramped fighting pit, followed by the metallic clatter of armor. The Gold Cloaks shoved people aside with practiced brutality, forcing a path open through the crowded space.
At the front of the group walked Squad Leader Sven Rothesby, one gloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his expression carrying a confident sneer. His gaze swept across the restless spectators, pausing briefly as his eyes brushed past Ralf. Receiving a subtle nod from him, Sven's attention finally locked onto Rorger.
"Ralf! You filthy parasite—you've broken the rules!"
The moment the Gold Cloaks appeared, Rorger sprang to his feet, erupting into furious shouting.
"Didn't I teach you idiots that no matter what happens in Flea Bottom, you never call in the Gold Cloaks? Have sewer rats chewed apart your brains? I should have thrown you into—"
Bang!
Before he could finish, two Gold Cloaks descended on him with the speed of wolves. One hammered the back of his knee, forcing him to kneel, while the other smashed the shaft of his spear across Rorger's mouth.
Corleone watched from nearby, quietly impressed.
Too professional.
Disable the legs to stop escape. Strike the mouth to silence him. Smooth, efficient, perfectly coordinated.
Sven Rothesby approached slowly, polished boots stopping directly before Rorger. Looking down with theatrical disappointment, he clicked his tongue.
"Tsk, tsk… Rorger. For scum like you to crawl back to King's Landing is already a miracle—even the Seven should be ashamed for allowing it. Yet here you are, prancing in public as if you belong."
"Truly foolish."
Rorger lifted his swollen, bloodied face, struggling to speak through a twisted grin.
"Heh… Sven Rothesby? Haven't seen you in a year. Doing well now, are you? A Squad Leader. Tell me… do you remember who it was that lost everything at the 'Sow's Sigh' casino? Who pawned his own sword? Who fell to his knees crying and begging me for a hundred gold dra—"
Bang!
Sven kicked him in the face again, unable to contain his rage. Had Rorger possessed a nose, it would have sprayed blood across the floor.
"Shut up!"
The insult clearly struck deep. Sven half-drew his sword before remembering the crowd watching and the consequences of killing someone outright. With visible restraint, he slid the blade back into place.
"Damn fugitive! Still daring to spit nonsense!"
Straightening, Sven pointed directly at Corleone.
"Arrest this fugitive and his accomplice! Take them to the dungeon!"
The Gold Cloaks moved toward Corleone at once.
But just then—rapid footsteps thundered from behind.
Sven turned, confused—
Only to see a towering figure leap high through the air. His right foot slammed into the ribs of one Gold Cloak, sending him sprawling, while his left elbow struck another square in the face.
Bang. Bang.
Two clean, bone-deep impacts.
Before anyone could react, the muscular Dothraki warrior was already standing protectively in front of Corleone, weapon drawn. His posture was low, shoulders coiled like a warhound ready to tear out a throat, his sharp eyes locked on Sven.
"Shall I kill them, blood of my blood?"
Yigo's deep, rumbling voice carried through the stunned silence. The dozen Gold Cloaks around him seemed like little more than straw men to him.
The crowd stared—open-mouthed, breathless.
Sven, who moments earlier strutted with absolute authority, now grabbed for the hilt of his sword again—yet the tremble in his hand betrayed him.
Corleone spoke calmly.
"Put away your weapon, blood of my blood."
His voice did not need to be loud. The silence carried it clearly.
He brushed his shoulder where a Gold Cloak had touched him, as if flicking away dust.
"I have always believed that violence cannot resolve true conflict. Legal matters should be handled through the law."
He tilted his head, eyes steady.
"Am I wrong, Captain Rothesby?"
Sven froze—caught off guard. Corleone's composed demeanor and quiet confidence radiated an authority far beyond his appearance. Even an experienced officer like Sven hesitated.
He narrowed his eyes and spoke cautiously.
"Sir… what is your name? Do you hold a title?"
In Westeros, such questions were normal. Identity determined outcome. Nobles were treated differently from commoners. It was never truly about the crime—it was about the person.
"My name is Vito Corleone," he replied without hesitation.
Sven frowned slightly, mentally sifting through every noble lineage he knew. Corleone was not one of them.
Still wary, he pressed on.
"Do you serve under any Lord, or hold office in any castle?"
"There is no need to guess, Captain." Corleone smiled lightly. "Relax. I hold no title, no office, and come from no noble family familiar to you. In truth, King's Landing is entirely foreign to me. This is my first time here."
Ralf burst into loud laughter.
"Hahaha! I thought we had a great Lord here—but he's just a nobody!"
Even Sven straightened again, confidence returning.
But Corleone continued.
"But then again…"
His right eyelid lifted slightly. His gaze swept over Sven and Ralf with calm certainty.
"Though I hold no official position, I do know several individuals who sit on the royal council. They are powerful, highly placed—and they all consider me a friend."
He stepped closer, voice lowering to something sharp and cold.
"You can arrest me and my people right now. You can throw us into your filthy dungeon. You have the power to do so."
"But I can tell you what happens next."
He paused—letting Sven feel the weight of the words.
"It will not take a whole night. Perhaps only half. Before a certain man—one you do not dare offend—comes kicking down the door of your duty hall."
"He will not listen to explanations. He will curse you in front of all your men."
"And then you will face a choice."
"Not whether to release me—because that will not be in question."
"But whether you escor
t me out respectfully…"
"Or whether you are dragged out of the Gold Cloaks headquarters like a dead dog by your former colleagues."