"I will use this... to make you kneel and admit your wrongs!" Corleone's voice echoed before the Place of Order, the tip of his sword pointing unswervingly at the chest of the Mountain.
The night wind caught the black palm sigil on his grey-white cloak, snapping loudly.
The Mountain lowered his head, looked at the sword, then at Corleone's face.
Then he laughed.
"Hahaha!!" Possessing a massive chest and lung capacity, the Mountain's laughter was incredibly loud, clear to everyone present.
"Kneel?" The Mountain repeated the word in a muffled, booming voice, as if he had heard the most absurd joke in The Seven Kingdoms.
He slowly raised his left hand, splayed his fingers, and then clenched them into a fist.
"The last time I knelt was the day Tywin Lannister knighted me."
"Since then, my knees have never been able to bend again!"
As he spoke, his eyes, deeply sunken in the shadows of his brow, remained fixed on Corleone.
That gaze was not like looking at a person, but more like sizing up a piece of wood waiting to be split, or a corpse about to be torn apart.
Perhaps for Ser Gregor Clegane, there was no one in this world worth regarding, save for Lord Tywin.
Five steps away, Prince Oberyn Martell had retreated to the doorpost.
He still gripped his curved blades, but he did not step forward, merely staring at Corleone's back, complex emotions flashing in his eyes.
He was curious.
How exactly was this Farmer, who claimed he could establish order, going to make that damn rapist "kneel and admit your wrongs"!
Meanwhile, inside the hall, almost all the guests had surged toward the doorway.
Nobles, merchants, knights, servants—the vast majority stretched their necks, waiting to watch the show.
Human curiosity for violence never distinguishes between classes.
But at the head of the round table, two people remained unmoved.
Tywin Lannister picked up his goblet and took a small sip.
His movements were slow, his eyes fixed on the deep red liquid in the cup, as if admiring the arc of the wine clinging to the glass, seemingly turning a deaf ear to the commotion outside.
"Your little friend is going to die, My Lord."
Across the table, the voice of Olenna Redwyne rang out.
She had not moved either, not even turning her head, simply looking at Tywin with those seemingly cloudy yet incredibly sharp eyes.
A servant approached trembling, wanting to refill her goblet.
Olenna suddenly raised her hand, grabbing the servant's wrist with a speed that didn't look at all like an old woman's.
"Stop, boy."
She narrowed her eyes, staring at the servant's trembling fingers: "Didn't you hear that there's about to be a fight outside? Pouring wine at a time like this, what if your hand shakes and you spill it on my dress?"
"Get lost, you unobservant wretch."
Hearing her scolding, the servant turned pale and retreated in a hurry.
Only then did Olenna let go, pulling a handkerchief embroidered with golden roses from her bosom, wiping her fingers deliberately as if she had just touched something dirty.
Then, she said with feigned nonchalance: "That big fellow is your man, aren't you going to stop him from causing trouble here?"
Upon hearing this, Tywin set down his goblet, his voice without a single ripple: "He is a knight."
"Serving the kingdom."
"A knight?" Olenna scoffed, her wrinkled face revealing undisguised mockery: "Yes, a knight."
"'Maegor the Cruel' was a knight, the 'The Mad King' Aerys was a knight; titles, well, are always easy to give."
"Oh, I seem to recall that the The Mad King's knighthood was also bestowed by you personally, wasn't it?"
As she spoke, she leaned back in her chair, lazily saying with sarcasm: "But a title cannot change one's nature, Lord Tywin. A dog, even if you put a crown on it, is still just a dog that bites."
These words were venomous.
But there was no change in expression on Tywin's face.
He didn't even look at Olenna, instead casting his gaze toward the doorway, seemingly able to see, through the gaps in the crowd, Corleone's back as he held his sword, and the mountain-like figure of the Mountain.
"Dogs have their uses."
Tywin spoke slowly: "They are loyal, obedient, and don't ask why. You tell it to bite someone, it bites; you tell it to stop, it stops."
"As long as the hand holding the leash is steady enough, and strong enough."
Watching Tywin's confident demeanor, Olenna first frowned slightly, then suddenly laughed: "But no one can say for sure if a dog will suddenly go mad and turn around to bite the master's hand."
"I saw it once when I was a child on The Arbor. It was a hound, usually very docile, but one day, for no apparent reason, it suddenly lunged at the trainer who had raised it for ten years, nearly tearing the man's throat out."
Once these words were spoken, Tywin finally turned his head to look at Olenna.
In those cold, emerald eyes, for the first time, there was a different emotion—something like scrutiny, something like a warning.
"What are you implying, Lady Olenna."
"If you believe Ser Gregor's actions are in any way inappropriate, then please speak clearly, and I will consider your advice fully in my capacity as Hand of the King."
"Yo ho ho~~ I am just an old woman with a poor memory; I didn't imply anything."
Upon hearing this, Olenna picked up her goblet and took a small sip, smacking her lips: "I was just talking about dogs. As for how you choose to interpret it, that is your business, Hand of the King."
As she spoke, however, her eyes darted toward the doorway.
Outside, the sound of metal scraping could already be heard, sounding like the edge of a greatsword dragging across the stone floor.
"But then again," Olenna said, as if suddenly remembering something: "Those two fellows outside seem to both be knights you personally dubbed, right?"
As she spoke, a cunning glint flashed in her eyes: "Now, outside the door, one knight you dubbed wants to use his sword to make another knight you dubbed kneel"...
"Would you say this counts as... the left hand fighting the right hand?"
These words were almost a naked probe.
If Tywin admitted that the Mountain represented him, then Corleone opposing the Mountain was opposing the authority of the Lannister.
If Tywin said the Mountain did not represent him, that would be equivalent to publicly admitting that his most "loyal" knight was out of control.
No matter what he chose, it was a loss.
But Tywin Lannister was never a man to fall into a linguistic trap.
"They are both maintaining order."
Tywin said slowly, his voice carrying immense confidence, derived from decades of holding power: "Ser Gregor is a soldier; he is accustomed to speaking with his sword. Sir Corleone is an establisher of order; he needs to prove with action that the rules he has established are inviolable."
"As for who is right and who is wrong..."
"I believe."
Tywin's emerald eyes cast toward the doorway, not giving an answer, but instead saying something quite cryptic: "Sir Corleone has the ability to handle all of this well."
Olenna's pupils contracted slightly.
She understood.
Tywin was expressing trust on the surface, but in reality, it was a public test.
The authorization of "order" he gave to Corleone was not free.
Now, the Mountain was the first test.
If Corleone could not even suppress the violence at his own doorstep, if he were crushed by the Mountain like a bug...
then Tywin would withdraw all support without hesitation and look for the next "hand in the darkness."
Olenna said in a low voice, but the corners of her mouth curled into a smile: "Throwing two people you personally promoted into the Colosseum, and then sitting in the best seat to watch the show."
"How truly wise, Lord Tywin Lannister."
At the doorway.
Looking at the two, whose disparity in size was despair-inducing, the crowd could no longer restrain themselves and erupted into a flurry of whispering.
"By the gods, has Sir Corleone gone mad?"
Sir Balman Bych exclaimed: "That is the Mountain; his strength is so great it's not human!"
"Back at the tourney, I was unhorsed by him in a single lance strike. We have to go and persuade him, he must not be reckless!"
"Hush! Keep it down!"
Beside him, his wife Farris Stockworth pulled at Sir Balman Bych, her eyes glancing in terror toward Tywin's direction.
"The Hand of the King hasn't made a single move, you idiot, is it your place to do anything?"
She grabbed Sir Balman Bych's arm and instructed in a low voice: "We are only here to attend the banquet today; we must not be dragged into this mess, do you hear me!"
Upon hearing this, Sir Balman Bych was somewhat indignant, but thinking of how he had offended so many people over the decades, leading to his current situation, he clenched his fists and couldn't help but shake his head.
Like Sir Balman Bych and his wife, almost everyone, whether noble, merchant, or even those underground Mafia members who had once witnessed Corleone's methods, felt the same thought rise in their hearts.
This cannot be won.
"The size difference is too great."
An elderly knight whispered to the person beside him: "The Mountain's sword is longer than many people's height, and the difference in strength is like heaven and earth!"
"I remember at last year's tournament, he chopped the head off a tall warhorse with a single swing, and the blood spraying from the horse's neck splashed all over his face!"
"Sir Corleone is indeed a courageous knight, it's a pity…"
He sighed, shook his head, and didn't continue, but the implication was self-evident.
Listening to such bloody descriptions, countless noble ladies half-covered their faces with their hands while staring excitedly at the two people in the arena, as if afraid of missing any explosive scene.
In a position slightly ahead of the crowd, Cersei Lannister toyed with the tips of her hair, the corners of her mouth curling upward into a smug arc that she could hardly suppress.
Her emerald eyes sparkled with anticipation.
"Fight, hurry up and fight!"
She thought to herself, let The Mountain teach this ungrateful Corleone a good lesson!
She had even conceived a script in her mind: the moment Corleone was about to be killed or humiliated to the extreme and his psychological defenses collapsed, she would step in as a savior and call out to stop The Mountain.
By then, since she would have saved Corleone's life, how could he dare not be grateful and subservient to her?
Thinking of the scene where Corleone would be forced to kneel before her and swear allegiance, Cersei almost laughed out loud.
No, she actually laughed out loud.
Hearing the irrepressible laughter from Cersei beside her, Margaery Tyrell tightly gripped her skirt with her slender fingers, her knuckles turning white.
Corleone's previous remarks about "endless life" had shown her a kind of wisdom and vision that transcended the common nobility; she instinctively felt that this person might be very important to the future of House Tyrell.
Seeing that the conflict was unavoidable, she parted her red lips slightly, wanting to say something.
However, a hypocritical voice rang out faster than hers, breaking the brief silence.
"Everyone, everyone!"
"Please calm down, this must be a misunderstanding!"
It was Petyr Baelish, who should have left in disgrace, but had returned at some point and squeezed to the front of the crowd.
He wore that seemingly sincere smile on his face, spread his hands, and appeared to be a peacemaker.
However, he maintained an absolutely safe distance, bowed slightly toward The Mountain, and said in a very earnest tone: "Sir Corleone! Ser Gregor!"
"You are both noble knights of the kingdom, why damage the harmony over such a small matter?"
"Tonight is a good day, I think it would be better if you, Sir Corleone, apologized to Ser Gregor and made amends, and let this matter pass, how about that?"
As he spoke, his eyes darted toward Tywin's direction, clearly wanting to seize the last opportunity to play the role of someone who "understands the bigger picture," and perhaps plant a thorn in Corleone's heart.
Moreover, these words sounded like persuasion, but in reality, they pushed Corleone one step closer to the cliff's edge.
Apologize to The Mountain in public?
The "Order" that Corleone had just established would instantly become a laughingstock!
"You… want me to apologize to this guy?"
"Of course!" Hearing Corleone's cold voice, Petyr turned his head slowly, saying to himself: "Although Ser Gregor injured your people, after all, that was just a lowly commoner."
"As a noble knight, you cannot hold onto such a trivial matter, right…"
Petyr's words came to an abrupt end.
Because he suddenly realized that Corleone's incomparably cold, pitch-black eyes were staring straight at him!
Just one look.
The smile on Petyr's face froze instantly, as if he had been pierced to the marrow by the icy wind of the North in winter.
He felt as if his throat was being strangled by an invisible hand, and the eloquent words he had prepared were all stuck in his windpipe.
What kind of gaze was that?
Calm, pitch-black, bottomless, devoid of killing intent, yet carrying a pure and cold sense of superiority, as if looking at a noisy but meaningless insect at his feet.
— [Majesty Lv3]!
As the number of times he used this skill increased, Corleone was already able to control it very skillfully, focusing all his aura completely onto one person.
This intense sense of oppression made Petyr subconsciously take half a step back, his face pale, unable to say another word, and he could only stand there awkwardly, in a dilemma.
Just then, The Mountain's wild laughter rang out again.
He didn't care at all what Petyr had said; his attention was entirely on Corleone.
He raised his greatsword with one hand and pointed it at the striking Black Hand emblem on Corleone's cloak.
"Hahaha!!"
"Black Hand? What a ridiculous emblem!"
"How about this, Vito Corleone, if you cut off your own right hand, I will forgive you, how about that!"
His voice was full of anticipation, as if he were already imagining the scene of Corleone wailing with a severed hand.
To The Mountain, the screams of others were no different from the most beautiful music in the world.
Facing this naked humiliation and threat, Corleone finally looked directly at The Mountain.
His expression remained calm, and the corners of his mouth even curled into a faint arc.
"Kneel, Ser Gregor."
His voice was not loud, but it strangely overwhelmed the surrounding noise: "While you still can, while you still have a chance."
As he spoke, Corleone paused, his gaze sweeping over The Mountain's extremely burly physique and his incomparably heavy plate armor, and he shook his head as if evaluating a poorly made commodity: "Only wild dogs bark everywhere to show their strength, but everyone knows that is just a sign of insecurity."
This sentence completely enraged the already brutal Mountain.
"I will crush your bones inch by inch, then chew them up and swallow them into my stomach!!"
The Mountain's eyes turned blood red, and the veins on his forehead bulged like wriggling earthworms.
Without warning, his huge body lunged forward. The greatsword, which would require an ordinary person to use both hands to barely swing, was once again swung by him with one hand, a simple and violent full-force vertical slash, aimed directly at Corleone's head!
The speed of this sword was exaggerated, faster than his size would suggest, as if it were going to split the earth open!
"Stop, The Mountain!"
Jaime, who had just rushed down from the room upstairs upon hearing the news, happened to witness this terrifying scene, his heart almost stopping.
He knew The Mountain's power too well; he would never dare to take this sword blow head-on, even in his prime with his right hand!
In his eyes, Corleone's figure, which was "slender" compared to The Mountain, would be ruthlessly split in two the next second!
"Ah!!!"
Several noble ladies screamed and tightly covered their eyes with their hands, but the gaps between their fingers were wide open, and they didn't blink an eye.
Just at the moment when everyone thought the outcome was decided and the tragedy was inevitable.
Corleone… moved.
Facing this blow that could cut a person in half, he did not choose to dodge to a safe distance; instead, at the very last moment when the greatsword descended, the ordinary knight's longsword in his right hand slashed diagonally from bottom to top!
The angle of the blade was extremely tricky, and the moment the tip of the sword touched the heavy greatsword, his wrist twisted slightly!
Clang!!!
A sound of metal clashing, sharper and more piercing than crisp, exploded!
The scene of the longsword shattering and flesh flying, which everyone had anticipated, did not appear.
Under the stunned gaze of everyone, the greatsword in The Mountain's hand was suddenly deflected by a more powerful lateral force!
Bang!!!
The greatsword grazed less than half a foot from Corleone's side and slammed into the stone-paved ground, smashing a shallow pit, with stone chips flying, which was enough to show the great force of this sword.
But what was even more shocking was that not only the greatsword, but even The Mountain's huge body, due to the enormous inertia, was involuntarily pulled forward by his own force, stumbling heavily for several steps before barely using the greatsword to prop himself up and steady his figure.
When he turned back, he saw Corleone still standing in the same place, not even taking a step back, just performing a sword flourish with extreme proficiency, as if the exquisite strike just now was just brushing away a fallen leaf.
The night wind blew, fluttering his gray-white cloak, and the Black Hand emblem flew high.
Those pitch-black eyes stared calmly at The Mountain, whose face was full of disbelief.
The whole scene was dead silent.
Only the lights on the street illuminated Corleone's calm face as he spoke slowly: "It is a pity that you made this decision, Gregor Clegane."
"Now, this matter has become our personal vendetta, unrelated to any business, and you will pay the price for it."
"In the name of the Mafia."
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