As Corleone approached the gate of the Place of Order, the shouting outside had turned into the clashing of metal.
Clearly, the conflict had escalated.
He frowned and stepped quickly across the threshold, and the first thing that caught his eye was Iggo lying on the marble floor.
This tough Dothraki Warrior, accustomed to injury, now had a face full of pain and disbelief, seemingly unable to accept his defeat.
Corleone looked closely and saw a clear depression from a fist print on his chest; the leather armor was covered in cracks, making it obvious how powerful that punch had been.
He tried to prop himself up, but with every breath, his face grew paler, and blood-flecked foam bubbled from the corners of his mouth.
Broken ribs, possibly a punctured lung.
Corleone made an immediate medical judgment.
"Don't move, blood of my blood. Moving will only make the injury worse."
He spoke in a low voice, then instructed a servant nearby: "Find a stretcher and carry him to the side room. I'll be there to treat him in a moment."
There was no longer any doubt in Flea Bottom regarding the authority of Corleone's medical skills.
Soon, several people carried Iggo away.
Only then did Corleone look up at the culprit behind it all.
A man as tall and massive as a small mountain!
He wore no helmet; his forehead was low and narrow, his brow ridge protruded like a cliff, his eyes were deep in shadow, and his lips were thick and everted.
The man wore a full suit of plate armor, and the sigil of three black dogs on his breastplate gleamed greasily under the torchlight.
That extremely exaggerated size and the pitch-black armor allowed Corleone to recognize the man's identity at a glance.
The Mountain—Gregor Clegane!
Why would this guy be here?
He frowned; Corleone didn't recall inviting the Mountain, and they had never met before.
Turning his head, ten paces away, a man with eyes as sinister as a venomous snake was staring intently at the Mountain, holding two scimitars.
Prince Oberyn Martell...
Corleone felt a chill in his heart; although he didn't know why the Mountain was here, if these two met...
...then a conflict was not surprising at all.
The Prince of Dorne wore tight leather armor in scarlet and gold, with a silk cloak as light as a cicada's wing draped over it.
In his hands were two slender Dornish scimitars, their blades shimmering with a faint blue light under the firelight, clearly coated in poison.
His stance seemed loose, but every inch of his muscle was taut, like a fully drawn bowstring.
"Say it again, Dornishman!"
Looking at this troublesome fellow, the Mountain roared in a muffled voice that seemed to come from deep within his chest: "I never saw your sister!"
"Don't try to deny it, bastard!" The Red Viper hissed. "Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne."
"On the night King's Landing fell, you raped her, you killed her, you murdered her children!"
Hearing this, the Mountain tilted his head, his movements slow like a true beast in thought.
"Many women."
"What?" Oberyn froze.
"Many women that night," the Mountain's voice remained flat, as if he were talking about eating dinner. "I don't remember which one was your sister."
This sentence instantly stripped Oberyn of all reason.
"I will kill you!!!"
He let out a piercing roar, his twin blades crossing in the air to flash with cold light. His speed was incredibly fast as he lunged at the Mountain like a red shadow!
The two blades slashed at the Mountain's throat and eyes, attacking the most vulnerable spots like a venomous snake.
The Mountain didn't dodge.
He simply raised the ridiculously oversized greatsword in one hand to block one blade, then raised his steel gauntlet to parry the other.
Two clangs rang out, and sparks flew.
Immediately after, the Mountain swung his greatsword in a wide arc like a battering ram.
Whoosh!
Oberyn twisted his body at the last second; the massive blade swept past his ribs, the wind from the swing lifting his cloak.
But the Mountain's attack wasn't over. He followed through by raising his leg, his boot kicking toward Oberyn's abdomen.
The force of this kick was immense; if it landed, he would surely end up the same as Iggo.
Fortunately, Oberyn was very agile; he rolled away and was already five paces back when he landed.
His breathing was slightly ragged, but the look in his eyes was even more crazed.
"Tell me, who gave the order?"
He roared loudly, determined to catch everyone's attention: "Who told you to kill Elia and her children? Say it before the Seven!"
The Mountain looked down at the blade marks on his gauntlet, then stared viciously at Oberyn. "The child was crying too loudly."
"So I smashed him against the wall. Then it was quiet."
As soon as those words were spoken, the air completely froze.
Oberyn's lips trembled, his knuckles white as he gripped his blades.
In that moment, what flashed in his eyes was not just hatred, but the images that had tortured him every night for over ten years.
His sister's cold corpse, his nephew's shattered skull, blood that could never be washed away.
"Die!!!"
Just as Oberyn intended to close in again and kill the Mountain, a familiar back blocked his path.
Very familiar.
"Ser Gregor," Corleone first looked at the Mountain, his voice steady with a hint of warning. "Today is my celebration feast. Please do not cause trouble here."
However, the Mountain only looked down at him as if looking at a bug that had crawled to his feet and barked rudely, "Get lost."
At this point, Oberyn's voice also rang out: "This is none of your business, Corleone. Move aside."
Caught between two men of such high martial prowess, an ordinary person would have nearly pissed themselves, but Corleone didn't budge.
He turned his head slightly and saw Rorge hiding behind a pillar, then said deeply, "Come out."
"Tell me what happened."
Receiving the order, Rorge walked out from behind the pillar trembling, swallowed hard, and said with a shaky voice: "Ser... Ser Gregor returned to King's Landing from Harrenhal to report. Hearing the Hand was here, he came by."
"But he happened to run into Prince Prince Oberyn Martell at the door. Who knows... they started fighting after just a few words."
"Iggo went up to stop them, but I didn't expect that guy to take him down with one punch..."
After hearing his account, Corleone nodded slightly, indicating he understood.
He turned to the Mountain, his [Majesty Iv3] instantly flared, his voice filled with an undeniable sense of command: "Ser Gregor, tonight is my investiture feast."
"Whatever grievances you have with Prince Oberyn, please take them elsewhere. This is my place, and you must follow my rules."
Hearing this, the Mountain seemed to feel the aura from Corleone. He frowned and looked at him for two seconds, then said arrogantly, "Who are you? I don't know you."
"I only ever follow Lord Tywin's rules. Everyone else is horseshit!"
These words were spoken flatly, without much intent to insult.
In the Mountain's mind, Corleone was indeed not something worth remembering.
Corleone looked at him deeply and nodded.
Then he turned to Oberyn: "You owe me a favor, Your Highness, the Prince. Remember?"
"Now, please stop. Tonight is not the time."
Hearing him say this, Oberyn's eyes flickered, but then he shook his head.
His hatred was too deep, deep enough to burn away all reason and promises.
"I'll repay the favor later," Oberyn's voice was hoarse.
"But tonight, I must hear him admit his crimes with his own mouth! He must reveal who was pulling his strings!"
"And what if you hear it?" Corleone asked.
"Kill him here?"
"Lord Tywin will not allow anyone to kill his most loyal knight in front of him. Dorne and the Westerlands will go to war, thousands will die, and the truth... will never be made public."
He was talking sense.
But tonight, no one here seemed to want to listen to sense.
"Dornishman, the taste of your sister..."
""
"Enough!"
Hearing that the Mountain actually intended to continue with insults, Corleone suddenly raised his voice.
That voice carried an undeniable authority; even the Mountain paused and looked down at him.
Under the gaze of the crowd, Corleone took a deep breath, his pitch-black eyes fixed on the Mountain, and said word for word: "You disappoint me, Ser Gregor Clegane."
"Tonight is my celebration feast. You were not on my guest list. You came, and you struck my man."
"I did not blame you for it, but instead spoke so many pleasantries to you, hoping to preserve your dignity."
"Now, I order you to leave this place. Now!"
As the conflict in the foyer reached its climax, in the shadows of the inner hall, Petyr Baelish had already quietly retreated to the side door.
With everyone's attention drawn to the conflict at the gate, now was the perfect time to slip away.
However, just as his hand touched the door, a familiar voice came from behind: "In such a hurry to leave, Lord Petyr? The feast isn't over yet."
Petyr's body stiffened for a moment.
Turning around, he saw the short dwarf standing three paces away, holding a glass of wine. Beside him stood his wife, Sansa Stark; the girl was pale, clutching her skirt tightly.
Beside Sansa, a slim, black-haired handmaid held her hand, inseparable.
He turned slowly, his face already wearing that gentle, harmless smile: "Oh, Lord Tyrion!"
"I just... need some air. There are too many people in the hall. You know, my health hasn't been great lately."
"Not in good health?"
Tyrion scoffed, "That makes sense. Facing an empty vault and the endless debts on the ledgers all day, it's indeed difficult to maintain a healthy body."
"But you're lucky; that mess belongs to me now."
Hearing the sarcasm in his words, Petyr couldn't help but curse inwardly.
"Damn it... why is everyone giving me a hard time today!"
Still, he quickly explained: "Lord Tyrion must be joking."
"I am merely following Lord Tywin's orders to go to the The Eyrie and marry Lady Lysa Tully, to stabilize the Vale for the kingdom—"
"That's wonderful." Tyrion swirled his wine glass. "To gain the title of Lord of the The Eyrie just by putting in some effort with a woman—that's not a bad deal at all."
"Pity, the last time I saw that madwoman, I was nearly thrown off a cliff. Otherwise, with my talents, I might have been tempted to try."
"Haha..."
""
He joked and laughed, but didn't notice that Petyr's gaze had already fallen on his wife.
Sensing Petyr's gaze, Sansa subconsciously took half a step back, her fingers gripping tighter.
Petyr had once been her "friend," one of the few people in King's Landing she could talk to, but now she knew she was Tyrion's wife.
Although the dwarf was good to her and hadn't touched her yet, Sansa didn't dare gamble on what kind of punishment she would face if she angered him.
Petyr didn't seem to notice her anxiety and gave Sansa an elegant smile, which usually made young girls blush.
"Miss Sansa, you look much better."
"Perhaps you should come out more. While the air in the Red Keep is fresh, many new things have been happening outside lately."
Seeing him like this, Sansa's lips moved, but no sound came out.
She took another half-step back, almost pressing against the wall.
This silence... was more hurtful than any words.
It was as if she were saying, "Don't come looking for me anymore; I'm afraid Tyrion will misunderstand."
Petyr's smile finally vanished completely. He looked at Sansa, then at Tyrion, and finally at Corleone, who was dealing with the conflict in the distance.
Then he said nothing, turned, pushed open the side door, and disappeared into the dark corridor.
Tyrion stared at the open door for a long time in silence.
"He's fled," he finally said.
"Will he come back?" Sansa asked softly.
"Of course."
"Men like Petyr never truly leave the table. He'll only step away temporarily, reshuffle the deck, and then return with new chips."
Saying this, Tyrion drained his wine, then turned toward the gate. "Come, let's go see the excitement as well, my lady."
Faced with Corleone's warning, the Mountain indeed didn't move.
He even lazy to respond, simply looking back at Oberyn and raising his greatsword as if Corleone didn't even exist.
Oberyn also raised his blades again.
The persuasion had failed.
Failed completely.
Standing between the two, Corleone could feel the gazes coming from the hall behind him.
In those gazes were scrutiny, mockery, schadenfreude, and disappointment.
Tonight was the celebration of his knighthood; almost all the important nobles of King's Landing were present.
If he couldn't even handle a conflict at his own doorstep, if he allowed the Mountain and Oberyn to fight until blood was shed right here...
...then by tomorrow, the news would spread throughout King's Landing that Sir Corleone was a joke.
His "order" only applied to the poor of Flea Bottom; in the face of real power and violence, it was worthless.
His prestige, everything he had built since entering King's Landing, would crumble in this single night.
Corleone was silent for three seconds.
Then, under everyone's gaze, he did something no one could have guessed.
He placed his right hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist.
Shing—
The sound of metal friction was exceptionally crisp and cold, sounding very piercing.
He drew his sword.
The blade was ordinary steel, without the special patterns of Valyrian steel or any embedded gemstones.
It was just a sword, an ordinary tool for killing.
But when he held the sword in his hand, his entire aura changed.
Corleone, who had been as steady as water just a moment ago, suddenly became sharp and imposing, as if even his gaze could leave sword marks on a person.
"Back away, Your Highness, the Prince."
Corleone looked at Oberyn and said coldly, "Or, our agreement is void. The choice is yours."
Oberyn stared at him for five seconds, a struggle flashing in his eyes.
Finally, he gritted his teeth and slowly backed away.
Immediately after, Corleone turned to face the Mountain.
The Mountain looked down at him, at this person who didn't even reach his chest, then pointed at the ridiculous sword in his hand and said contemptuously, "You plan to perform for me with that?"
"No."
Corleone raised his sword, the tip pointing at the Mountain.
The night wind blew, lifting the grey-white cloak behind him, the pitch-black handprint sigil fluttering in the lamplight.
"I'm going to use this... to make you kneel and admit your mistake!"
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