At the entrance of the Place of Order, dust rose slowly in the halo of the lamplight, clearly outlining the figure standing there with a sword.
He was not massive, but he stood tall and straight.
Watching this incredibly shocking scene, everyone was dumbfounded, finding it difficult to accept for a moment.
After all, the two were worlds apart in terms of both size and reputation, yet who would have thought the defeated party would be the Mountain!
Near the front of the crowd, Shae's lips parted slightly.
Under the reflection of the firelight, Corleone's figure seemed to be plated with a dazzling halo in her eyes.
She couldn't help but recall that night not long ago; it was right here that this man had elegantly enjoyed dinner and conversed with her, possessing such a calm and unhurried aura.
And now, seeing the Mountain—that monster rumored to be more terrifying than a demon—kneeling at Corleone's feet like a lame stray dog, her reason was nearly overwhelmed by a surge of worship, longing, and ambition.
Shae seemed to see herself dressed in beautiful gowns, standing proudly as the lady of the house beside such a man.
She couldn't help but press her legs together, involuntarily letting out a suppressed low cry: "Sir Corleone!"
Her voice wasn't loud, but many nearby heard it; however, no one expressed any confusion at this moment.
After all, Corleone's victory was so magnificent that his composed demeanor had already attracted the favor of many noblewomen.
Realizing what she had done, Shae hurriedly covered her lips with her hand, looking around only to find no one cared, which finally put her at ease.
However, Tyrion, standing not far from her, keenly caught that soft cry.
He immediately frowned and shot a quick glance at Shae, seeing her watery eyes fixed intently on Corleone, and for some reason, he felt a pang of heartache.
But as Tyrion cast his gaze toward the figure standing with his sword in the center, what welled up from deep within was not just blame.
It was envy and jealousy.
If... if I wasn't born this way, if I had a whole body, then I could surely hold a sharp sword like him, win glory on the battlefield, and gain my father's approval!
Instead of being seen as a disgrace to the family by my father, as I am now!
Corleone...
...a fellow from a Farmer background had actually achieved the very thing he dreamed of but could never have!
Shaking his large head, he forced himself to look away and instead nervously observed his wife, Sansa, beside him.
Then, he inconspicuously moved back half a step, seemingly casually pulling Shae behind him, using his stunted body to block her as much as possible.
Of course, Tyrion's worries were entirely unnecessary.
Because the girl from Winterfell had not noticed the subtle interaction between her husband and her handmaid at all.
At this moment, her entire mind was completely occupied by the man who had just performed a miracle.
"The Mountain," Gregor Clegane.
She remembered that name clearly and had witnessed with her own eyes at the tournament how he crushed opponents, even possessing the terrifying strength to slice a warhorse in two.
Yet, such a monster was like a clumsy child in front of this knight named Vito Corleone, played with in the palm of his hand!
If... if I could gain his loyalty, if such a knight were willing to fight for Stark...
She seemed to see a glimmer of hope for retaking Winterfell and avenging her father and brother.
As if possessed, a firm thought rose in her heart, her azure eyes—inherited from her mother—shining brightly under the streetlights.
I want this man to be my sword, my shield, and take me home!
However, Sansa's gaze was seen entirely by Petyr Baelish nearby.
He stood in the shadow of a pillar, the smile on his face long gone, replaced by an extreme coldness and jealousy.
Clenching his fists, his nails dug deep into his palms, while a familiar, bone-deep sense of frustration echoed in his heart.
Again... it's happening again!
Nearly twenty years later, the scene at Riverrun resurfaced before his eyes like a nightmare.
Back then, young and arrogant, he had challenged her fiancé, the tall and handsome Brandon Stark, for the sake of his beloved Catelyn Tully.
And the result?
He was easily defeated, lying on the ground like a joke, while Catelyn, the girl of his dreams, looked at Brandon with eyes full of worship and dependence.
That natural admiration for a powerful protector was like a red-hot iron, searing his lowly soul.
He hated it—hated his frail body, hated his almost non-existent talent for swordsmanship!
And now, history seemed to be repeating itself.
Sansa Stark, Catelyn's daughter, was looking at that Vito Corleone with almost the exact same gaze!
On what grounds!
That Corleone didn't look much stronger than himself; why should he possess such shocking swordsmanship?
Why should he earn such a look?
But Littlefinger was Littlefinger after all.
After a brief loss of control, he quickly forced himself to calm down.
Anger solves nothing.
He looked at Corleone and the kneeling Mountain, his brain working at an unprecedented speed.
Corleone's rise was too fast, too dazzling, and had already seriously threatened his plans, especially regarding Sansa.
But it didn't matter; I still have time, I can wait for an opportunity!
No one can compete with me, just like Brandon Stark and Eddard Stark...
Sansa, you must be mine!
In the center, Corleone seemed completely oblivious to the gazes and wonder of the people around him.
His attention was entirely focused on the opponent kneeling before him.
The night wind blew, carrying the chill of late autumn and dispersing some of the smell of blood and dust.
With a slight flick of his wrist, he sheathed the ordinary longsword cleanly at his waist.
"Ser Gregor Clegane."
Corleone spoke again, using the formal title, but there was not a hint of respect in his voice.
"Tonight, I did not send you an invitation."
"Yet you came uninvited and stepped into my courtyard."
"You attacked without cause, seriously injuring my partner."
"You used the filthiest language to insult my friends."
"You disrupted the banquet I held to celebrate my knighthood and publicly trampled upon the order I established here."
Every accusation was delivered with weight, every syllable reaching everyone's ears.
As he spoke, Corleone slightly raised his head, firelight dancing on his well-defined profile: "Every action you took tonight is enough to see you severely punished."
"Therefore, I shall hold you accountable."
As his words fell, he took half a step forward, moving closer to the Mountain.
The Mountain snapped his head up, a violent killing intent erupting in his bloodshot eyes, but the intense pain in his body made it impossible for him to stand.
In that brief battle just now, he had received no fewer than twenty wounds; though none were too deep, every single one hit a vital joint!
Meeting the gaze that wanted to devour him alive, Corleone said coldly: "Now, apologize."
The physical pain and the extreme sense of humiliation made the Mountain feel as if his chest were about to explode.
But he still used all his strength to roar at Corleone, spit mixing with blood as it sprayed: "Apologize? Bah!"
"You damn Farmer bastard, lowly maggot, a weakling protected by whores and cripples!"
"I'm going to tear you apart, crush your bones one by one, and feed your guts to the dogs!!!"
The most primitive and malicious curses and insults poured out.
Clearly, even in a desperate situation, the Mountain still refused to submit; in his dictionary... well, he didn't have a dictionary.
But it had always been Gregor Clegane who bullied others!
Facing the Mountain's abuse, Corleone simply listened expressionlessly, his eyes not even flickering, as if the other party were merely making meaningless noise.
After all, he had already expected that the Mountain would not yield easily.
This beast's ferocity was rooted deep in his soul; simple military suppression was not enough to make him bow, especially in front of so many witnesses.
Pressing too hard might truly provoke a desperate counterattack from the Mountain, just as he had done to Oberyn in the original story.
But... was Corleone's goal really an apology from the Mountain?
His ears twitched slightly, catching the sound of footsteps coming from inside the Hall of Order, and the corners of Corleone's mouth curled up slightly.
Here they come.
"Enough, Ser Gregor."
The Hand's majestic voice rang out, but at that moment, Corleone moved.
Instead of backing away, he took a step forward, entering the attack range of the kneeling Mountain!
"Roar, die, you lowly Farmer!!!"
As expected, the Mountain's fury completely consumed his last shred of reason; he lunged instantly, extending his thick arms in an attempt to seize Corleone!
He wanted to crush this annoying insect's throat and feel the crisp sound of bones snapping in his palm!
"Not good!"
"Careful, Corleone!"
Jaime and Brienne's cries rang out almost simultaneously, and several experienced knights also widened their eyes in an instant.
The distance was too close!
They had no time to stop it and could only watch helplessly!
In their view, even if Corleone possessed incomparable swordsmanship, at such close range, once caught, the Mountain's strength could easily crush Corleone's body!
"Damn..."
"This kid is too careless. If it were me, I certainly wouldn't be so negligent; I'd have broken all that guy's limbs at the first opportunity!"
Oberyn, standing nearby, felt a chill in his heart, his fingertips instinctively gripping the hilt of his poisoned scimitar, but in his mind, he had already sentenced Corleone to death.
Too late!
The speed of throwing a knife could not stop the Mountain at such close range!
Just as all the onlookers seemed to foresee the tragedy of flying flesh and blood in the next moment.
Clang!!!
A cold light flashed, and everyone felt a blur before their eyes.
Puchi!
Immediately following, a sharp, ordinary longsword pierced through the palm of the hand the Mountain had closest to Corleone, and without losing momentum, it stabbed directly into the side of his cheek.
The blade pierced through muscle and fat, finally erupting from the other side of the Mountain's face!
Tywin, who had just stepped out of the Place of Order, caught this exact scene in his sight.
A cold light flashed in his green eyes, and he hastily called out to stop: "Stop..."
Before his voice could fade.
In the center, Corleone suddenly grinned at the Mountain, who was inches away, frozen by the longsword piercing his mouth.
He gripped the hilt with a reverse hold and violently pulled and sliced toward his own side!
Tear!!!
A large mass of mangled tissue, accompanied by spraying blood and several flying teeth, was pulled out from the sliced corner of the Mountain's mouth, falling onto the cold, dirty stone floor.
It was the Mountain's tongue, severed almost at the root.
It was very fresh, even still twitching.
"Ugh... hrrr..."
Strange, muffled sounds came from the Mountain's throat, as a massive amount of blood gushed uncontrollably from the gap in his sliced cheek.
His massive body swayed, seeming to want to say something, but he had already been forcibly stripped of his ability to express himself or hurl insults.
Boom...
Under everyone's gaze, the Mountain's tower-like body, once so arrogant, crashed heavily to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Blood quickly spread beneath him, forming a pool of dark red rivulets.
Corleone flicked his wrist lightly, elegantly shaking the blood droplets from the blade.
He lowered his gaze, casting a cold glance at the Mountain twitching on the ground, his tone incredibly calm: "I've changed my mind, Ser Gregor Clegane."
"My friends and I no longer need your apology."
"And you... no longer need a tongue."
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