The purse traced an arc through the air.
"Not enough?" Corleone reached out and caught it, his brows slightly furrowed.
Upon hearing this, Bronn's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
His eyes were fixed intently on the purse in Corleone's hand, his gaze filled with greed and reluctance.
It was as if his deep-seated instincts were screaming, "Take it back, it's yours, that's two hundred gold dragons, you fool!"
But there was something deeper pulling at him.
"No."
Bronn's voice was hoarse, he swallowed a mouthful of saliva: "This money is enough to buy ten Dothraki, but..."
He stopped.
The muscles in his jaw were tight, his teeth clenched so hard they clicked, as if he were engaged in a silent, intense wrestling match with his own instincts.
Jaime stood to the side with his arms crossed, watching this scene with great interest.
Finally, as if having made up his mind, Bronn abruptly tore his gaze away from the purse and turned toward the morning light at the end of the alley, as if looking for one more second would make him change his mind.
The movement was as painful as... preparing to cut out a piece of his own flesh with his own hands.
"I want to make a deal with you." Bronn took a deep breath and turned back: "Not with this bag of gold dragons, but with... something else."
"For example?"
Bronn's gaze swept over the unconscious Iggo on the ground and returned to Corleone's face: "I helped you save your Dothraki Warrior, and now, I need you to do one thing for me, or rather, do one thing for my former employer."
"That the dwarf might be ugly, have a poisonous tongue, and a foul temper... but he pays promptly and never asks about the details."
These words were spoken very softly, but Corleone heard the weight behind them.
In King's Landing, the way nobles viewed mercenaries like Bronn was either as tools, hyenas, or pawns to be sacrificed when necessary.
But Tyrion Lannister, that the dwarf who suffered endless scorn due to his own defects, actually gave Bronn a kind of equal respect.
"So you want me to save him." Corleone said.
"The trial begins in three days." Bronn's tone became a bit more urgent: "I know Tyrion is not loved by his father, the hand of the king, and I know the trial tactics of those nobles all too well."
"I witnessed it at the The Eyrie; the noble lords don't listen to any defense at all. They call it a trial, but in reality, it's just going through the motions to kill someone legally. When the time comes, no one will listen to Tyrion's defense."
"He will definitely be found guilty."
Such a certain prediction made Jaime's expression sink immediately.
He knew these tactics, of course; after all, he was a noble too, and one of the most powerful great lords in Westeros.
Corleone looked at Bronn, a flicker of genuine confusion flashing in his eyes.
This confusion made Bronn somewhat uncomfortable, as if it were saying, "I can't believe there's a time when you don't love money."
To think that just a moment ago, he was still trying to ask how much gold Iggo could earn in a month to be so loyal to Corleone, but now he was pulling something like this.
Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, this doesn't fit your character at all.
The air suddenly went quiet for a few seconds.
Bronn's expression froze, and his face, usually practiced in deception, rarely showed a trace of embarrassment and awkwardness.
"Damn it." He spat, rubbing his face hard, as if trying to wipe away that moment of hesitation: "Don't look at me with that look."
"Listen, I'm not that noble. I'm helping Tyrion purely because that the dwarf is the only employer I've ever met in King's Landing who never pays late and often pays extra."
"You can't find many suckers like that in the entire Seven Kingdoms!"
Bronn spoke more and more fluently, as if he really believed this excuse: "If he dies, I have to find a new employer. Do you know what that means?"
"It means I have to haggle with those noble lords all over again, endure their arrogant attitudes, and worry about whether they'll welch on the deal."
He spread his hands in a "you know" gesture: "So, I'm not saving Tyrion Lannister. I'm protecting my long-term investment, maintaining a stable source of income."
"This is called... business acumen."
These words were high-sounding and logically consistent, almost enough to make one believe it.
Almost.
But neither Corleone nor Jaime were people easily fooled; the two exchanged a glance, and in that glance was the same understanding.
"Anyway." Seeing their gaze toward him becoming increasingly strange, Bronn became gruff, trying to use volume to cover his guilty conscience: "Don't misunderstand, I just hate to see an employer who pays promptly get hanged. That's reasonable, right?"
The alley was silent for a moment.
Then Corleone nodded, his expression calm: "Very reasonable."
But the look in his eyes that said "I'd be a fool to believe you" made Bronn even more uncomfortable.
The morning light brightened, and now one could clearly see the tiny wounds on Iggo's face and the dried blood on Bronn's armor.
Corleone tucked the purse back into his cloak, squatted down to check Iggo's pulse again; it was stronger than before, but still weak.
"If you want to save Tyrion."
Corleone said without lifting his head, his voice clearly audible in the silence of the morning: "The method is actually quite simple."
Once these words were out, both Bronn and Jaime immediately pricked up their ears: "What method?"
"Have him demand a trial by combat." Corleone said: "According to the laws of The Seven Kingdoms, a noble accused of a serious crime has the right to demand to prove their innocence before the gods, in the manner of a warrior."
"Tyrion is a Lannister, a former master of coin, he has every right to this, and his request for a trial by combat will absolutely not be denied."
Jaime nodded thoughtfully from the side: "That is indeed a way. If Tyrion can find a sufficiently powerful champion to win in the trial, the gods will declare him innocent."
"Exactly." Corleone continued: "You are a proper knight now, Bronn."
"The Mountain is severely injured and will need at least several months to recover. There aren't many people in King's Landing right now who can beat you, and as for the other so-called knights..."
Corleone's tone carried undisguised contempt: "Most are just embroidered pillows wearing fancy armor. Bronn, you've been crawling through the mud on the battlefield for twenty years, you've killed more people than they've ever seen. If a trial by combat actually takes place, your odds of winning are at least seventy percent."
These words were logically clear and thoroughly analyzed, almost enough to tempt Bronn.
But the expression on the mercenary knight's face gradually shifted from initial excitement to gravity.
He was silent for a long time, his lips pressed into a thin line.
In those eyes accustomed to calculating, there actually appeared a hint of fear and retreat.
"The Mountain..."
Upon hearing this, Jaime frowned in confusion: "The Mountain's cheek was run through horizontally, his tongue cut out by the root, and he has dozens of sword wounds on his body. He won't even be able to get out of bed for three months."
This was a fact.
Back in front of the The Hall of Order, it took four men to carry that most terrifying giant of The Seven Kingdoms back to the Red Keep.
Many maesters shook their heads and whispered privately that even if he survived, Ser Gregor Clegane was ruined, and would spend the rest of his life drooling on his bed.
But Bronn's expression told Jaime that things were not that simple.
The mercenary knight took a deep breath, as if summoning the courage to say something terrible.
His gaze swept over Corleone, over Jaime, and finally settled deep in the alley, as if confirming there was no fourth person listening.
"When I snuck into the Red Keep to save Iggo, I passed through an abandoned storage room deep beneath Maegor's Holdfast."
"But there, I heard a conversation between the Queen Regent and an old man."
"Cersei?" Jaime asked immediately.
Bronn nodded and continued his story, his tone becoming increasingly grave: "I didn't want to meddle in other people's business, but the content of their conversation... was too bizarre."
"I couldn't understand a damn thing they were discussing, but I heard a few words clearly..."
As he spoke, he looked up and stared straight into Corleone's eyes: "The Mountain has already recovered, and is even stronger than before!"
Once these words were out, Jaime straightened up abruptly, his eyes wide: "Impossible! Absolutely impossible!"
However, Bronn ignored him, instead licking his cracked lips and continuing: "I also heard that old man... talking about how the surgery was already complete, and he even swore that the Mountain can no longer feel pain, doesn't need sleep, and his muscle strength can reach twice what it was before..."
The alley was deathly silent.
Jaime's face turned extremely ugly.
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but his throat felt as if it were blocked by something.
The Mountain recovered? Stronger than before... twice as much? What kind of joke is this!
The Mountain's strength was famously powerful throughout The Seven Kingdoms; apart from him, Jaime had only ever seen one other person in his life capable of wielding a greatsword with one hand.
That was the sword of the morning Ser Arthur Dayne, recognized by everyone back then as the strongest knight in The Seven Kingdoms!
Of course, although the difference in strength between the two wasn't large, perhaps the Mountain was even stronger, but in terms of technique, he could absolutely not be compared to Arthur Dayne.
At least before Jaime lost his right hand, he had at least a seventy percent chance of defeating the Mountain, yet even now, he didn't think he could be compared to Ser Arthur.
He was too strong, strong to an outrageous degree, strong to the point where no one had the confidence to contend with him in swordsmanship.
Therefore, Jaime was so certain that Eddard Stark could never defeat Arthur Dayne, even if he brought ten of the strongest warriors from the North, it would be impossible!
At least in a head-on fight, that is.
But now, Bronn was actually saying that the Mountain, who possessed such strength, had not only recovered but his strength had increased to twice what it was?
The Seven Above! This defied all medical common sense, defied logic, and even defied the laws of nature.
And unlike Jaime's shock, the moment Corleone heard Bronn's description, a name suddenly flashed in his mind.
"Qyburn." Corleone spat out softly, and Jaime and Bronn turned their heads simultaneously.
"Who?" Jaime asked.
Corleone closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Qyburn." He repeated, opening his eyes, his gaze sharp as a knife: "Former maester of The Citadel, expelled for conducting unethical live-subject experiments."
"He later defected to Vargo Hoat, becoming a maester for the Brave Companions, skilled in... or rather, obsessed with exploring the human body."
He paused, his tone turning cold: "When I left Harrenhal, I heard that Roose Bolton had executed all the remnants of the Brave Companions. It seems the intelligence was incorrect; Qyburn not only escaped but also ran to King's Landing and defected to Cersei."
Upon hearing this, Jaime's expression became even uglier: "You mean, Cersei used a mad maester who was expelled from The Citadel for conducting live-subject experiments to treat the Mountain?"
"Not just treat."
"She is modifying" him, perhaps..."
Corleone didn't finish, but the meaning was already clear.
And Bronn, standing to the side, swallowed a mouthful of saliva: "So, the path of trial by combat is a dead end."
"If the Mountain is really like they said... let alone me, even ten Bronns of the Blackwater together couldn't beat that kind of monster."
Hearing Bronn say this, Jaime clenched his fists, his knuckles white.
"It's starting to overlap with the original plot again, is it a coincidence..." Corleone muttered to himself, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible.
"What?" Bronn didn't hear clearly.
Corleone shook his head and didn't explain.
Thoughts raced through his mind; Qyburn, a character who was supposed to appear in the original plot, had actually surfaced in this manner and at this point in time.
Was it a coincidence, or was something manipulating all of this?
The Three-Eyed Raven? Some... so-called gods?
He had been too busy lately, busy reorganizing the forces of Flea Bottom, busy dealing with Tywin, and planning for the future.
He had sent Rorge to gather intelligence, but it was mainly focused on the Gold Cloaks, merchants, and low-level bureaucrats.
As for the Queen Regent and the others deep within the Red Keep, Corleone had completely ignored them, or rather, he simply didn't have the time to deal with these matters.
Corleone hadn't expected that even though he had severely injured the Mountain earlier than in the original plot, the "biochemical Mountain" had still been created by Cersei and Qyburn.
No, perhaps even stronger than in the original plot.
It looks like I need to plan this out carefully.
Three days later, inside the Great Sept of Baelor, there wasn't a single empty seat.
All the nobles of King's Landing, as long as they could still walk, had appeared here today.
They wore the most magnificent silks and velvets, adorned with house sigils, whispering to each other, exchanging glances, and occasionally emitting suppressed laughter.
After all, a public trial targeting the interior of House Lannister was not something one could see every day.
On the high platform beneath the statues of the Seven, three high-backed chairs were placed.
In the center sat Tywin Lannister, wearing deep red with lion patterns, the badge symbolizing the hand of the king pinned to his chest, his hair groomed meticulously, and his beard trimmed neatly.
From the outside, this actual ruler of The Seven Kingdoms still looked as majestic as a mountain, unshakable.
But if one observed carefully, one would find faint dark circles under his eyes, the traces left by several consecutive nights of insomnia.
His gaze swept over the dense crowd of heads inside the Great Sept of Baelor; Tywin's eyes were deep, reflecting no emotion.
But inside, he was far from as calm as he appeared on the surface.
For these three days, the hand of the king had used almost all the resources he could mobilize to investigate that mysterious power of Vito Corleone that "could not be pierced."
He had summoned the most learned maesters from The Citadel to ask if there were any records in ancient texts of similar sorcery or magic, and he had sent people across the Narrow Sea to hire mysterious scholars from Asshai and Qarth with heavy gold.
The result was nothing.
The maesters cited classics, talking about everything from Valyrian blood magic to the green sight of the Children of the Forest, from the curse of the Drowned God to the miracles of the Lord of Light, but none could explain what happened in the hand of the king's bedroom that night.
AI Model: gemini-3.5-flash
A sharp sword, thrust with all one's might, could not pierce human skin.
This made Tywin even more wary than dragons.
For in history, dragons had weaknesses: their eyes could be pierced by Scorpion bolts, they could be killed by other dragons, or they would die of old age or disease.
But what about a man who could not be killed by conventional means?
What did this mean?
It meant that all power structures based on the "deterrence of force" could fail before this man.
What was even more terrifying was that Corleone clearly knew this.
That night, he had deliberately displayed this power, not to deal with Tywin once and for all, but to establish a new balance.
To Tywin's left sat Kevan Lannister, and to his right was Lord Mace Tyrell.
The Lord of Highgarden was dressed flamboyantly today, his emerald-green velvet doublet embroidered with golden roses, and a fresh, dew-kissed real rose pinned to his chest.
In such a season, one could imagine how difficult it was to find a blooming rose.
Mace did not actually want to sit here.
But as Margaery's father, he knew that his daughter had shared that poisoned chalice with Joffrey at the feast.
That damned dwarf had to be made to pay!
Time ticked away, and once everyone was seated, the High Septon stood before the statues of the Seven, trembling as he read the opening words.
Immediately after, the heavy sound of chains dragging across the floor echoed from behind.
Every noble turned their head in unison.
Tyrion Lannister, escorted by four Gold Cloaks, slowly walked from the passage of the dungeons to the dock.
He walked very slowly, his strides restricted by the leg irons, making his already small frame look even more ridiculous, like a tethered walking toy.
The four Gold Cloaks kept their hands on their sword hilts at all times. It was highly ironic that a dwarf under five feet tall required four fully armed soldiers to be so heavily on guard, as if they were escorting a dangerous beast that could lash out and harm someone at any moment.
Some nobles could not even help but let out chuckles.
With every step, Tyrion raised his head, scanning every face in the gallery with his mismatched, grey-green eyes.
He saw it.
He saw the contempt in the eyes of those nobles, their gloating expressions completely undisguised.
These people, who had once feasted at his banquets and flattered him, now looked at him as if he were garbage.
Then, he saw Cersei.
His sister sat in the front row of the gallery, dressed in a magnificent crimson gown, her emerald eyes filled with madness and resentment, as if she wished she could rush down right now and tear him to pieces with her lioness claws!
But he did not see Jaime.
Tyrion sighed, lowered his head, and walked listlessly through the sept to the open space in front of the judges' dais, stopping there.
Then he straightened his back, though even fully erect, his height only reached a normal person's waist.
"The accused, Tyrion Lannister."
The High Septon read in a trembling voice, "You are accused of using poison to murder King Joffrey I at His Majesty's wedding feast. How do you plead?"
Tyrion raised his head and looked at his father on the high platform.
Tywin looked back at him.
"I am guilty," Tyrion said, his voice clear. "I am guilty of being a dwarf. I am guilty of having a sister who wants me dead, of having a father who sees me as a disgrace, and of living in a world where even a dwarf's breathing is a sin!"
He paused, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "But I do not plead guilty to murdering Joffrey, because I did not do it."
At these words, a low murmur rippled through the Great Sept.
The nobles exchanged glances; some shook their heads, others curled their lips, but no one dared to speak aloud.
Tywin's expression did not change at all.
He had long anticipated that Tyrion would deny it. After all, if his dwarf son lacked in other areas, he had certainly inherited the Lannister stubbornness and eloquence.
Immediately after, he gave a nod to his brother, the master of laws.
"Call the witnesses," Kevan Lannister said in a deep voice.
Soon, a young prostitute walked barefoot into the sept, as the septons deemed prostitutes unclean and forbade them from wearing shoes inside.
She wore a cheap but revealing dress, heavily made up, and was trembling with nerves as she entered.
"My lord... my lords."
"I work on Silk Street. About a month ago, Lord Tyrion... no, the dwarf, he came to see me. He drank a lot of wine, and then... then he said..."
She paused, catching the cold glare of the Queen Regent from the front row of the gallery out of the corner of her eye, and could not help but shudder.
He said the King was a 'little bastard,' and that 'one day I wi
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