Oberyn's narrow eyes flashed with genuine interest.
He waved a lazy hand at Ellaria in his lap—easy, my love—then shifted into a more comfortable sprawl on the velvet couch, watching Corleone like a viper deciding whether the mouse was worth the strike.
Corleone didn't rush. He let the silence stretch just long enough before he spoke.
"I plan to build something the Seven Kingdoms have never seen," he said, voice low and steady. "On the edge of Flea Bottom, right along the Blackwater—a city that never sleeps."
Oberyn gave a theatrical yawn. "Another fighting pit? How original."
Corleone smiled and wagged a finger. "Not a pit, Your Grace. Far more than that."
He spread his arms, [Majesty Lv3] unfolding around him like invisible wings. The air in the private room thickened; even the distant moans from the other suites seemed to quiet.
"What I'm building is a palace of sin and splendor. A true entertainment empire. No rules except win or lose. Knights, sellswords, wildlings, beggars—anyone with balls and skill can step into that arena and walk out rich, famous, or both."
His voice dropped, painting the picture. "Beyond the sand there'll be the finest hotel in Westeros. The best chefs from Oldtown to Pentos. Every luxury a lord could crave. And upstairs… the most decadent casino the Narrow Sea has ever seen."
Corleone tapped the table once, the sound sharp as falling coins. "Braavosi cyvasse tables, Dornish dice, Tyroshi hazard—every game worth playing. And I personally guarantee the games are clean. No weighted dice. No shaved cards. Just pure, honest greed."
He leaned in. "This won't just be the pleasure capital of Westeros. It will eclipse anything across the Narrow Sea. The one place where power, gold, and desire collide. A legend."
Oberyn's boredom had vanished. The man who'd crossed the sea to fight as a mercenary because court life bored him was leaning forward now, lips parted.
"Sounds like a place that could set the blood on fire," he admitted. "But what does any of that have to do with me, Vito Corleone?"
Corleone sat straighter, meeting the prince's gaze head-on. "Because even the greatest stage needs the right star to light it up on opening night."
He let the compliment land. "Who better than the Red Viper of Dorne? The man whose name alone makes lords reach for their swords and ladies reach for their thighs. Your reputation, your skill—your presence—would tell every soul in the Seven Kingdoms that this place is the real thing."
The flattery was thick, but it was honest, and Oberyn knew it. He smirked, clearly pleased.
"You're direct. I like that. But why should I stand on your stage? What's in it for me?"
Corleone's smile turned knowing. "Because first and foremost, I am a physician."
He gestured at the bloody dagger still quivering in the table. "You've already seen a taste of my work."
Then he dropped the real bait.
"I've heard Prince Doran has suffered from gout for years. So badly he's confined to a wheeled chair. If you agree to headline my opening night—give the performance of a lifetime—I will travel to Sunspear myself when this business in King's Landing is finished. I will treat your brother personally."
The lazy smile on Oberyn's face died.
Ellaria's fingers froze against his chest.
For the first time since Corleone had entered the room, the Red Viper looked deadly serious.
"My brother's condition is no secret," Oberyn said slowly, voice low. "We've brought every maester, every healer, every witch from Qarth to Norvos. They all failed."
He leaned forward, eyes like black glass. "I studied six links at the Citadel myself. I know the limits of medicine. Gout is the gods' curse. Incurable. You think you're better than every learned man in Westeros?"
Corleone didn't flinch. "I saved Jaime Lannister's life."
The name landed like a slap.
"After he was captured at Riverrun, his sword hand was hacked off. The wound sat in mud, horseshit, and blood for three full days. Infection, fever—by all rights he should have died screaming within a week."
Corleone stared straight into Oberyn's eyes. "Yet today he's alive, the wound healed clean, and he's already training with his left hand. Tell me, Your Grace—with all your Citadel knowledge—how many men survive that?"
Silence.
Even Littlefinger, standing by the curtain, looked stunned.
Oberyn's face darkened. The playful mask was gone.
"You… saved the Kingslayer."
His voice was a low growl. In one fluid motion he snatched the bloody dagger from the table and slammed it point-first into the wood again.
"You saved the man who murdered my sister's children!"
The room temperature plummeted.
"I will help you," Oberyn snarled. "But we do this my way."
He jerked his chin at the dagger. "Littlefinger spoke of knife-dancing earlier. Let's play a proper blade dance."
He bared his teeth in a smile that had nothing to do with humor.
"You win—I'll headline your fucking arena. I'll fight whoever you put in front of me and I'll win. But if you lose…"
Oberyn leaned in until their faces were inches apart.
"I take your right hand. Right here. Then I'll sit back and watch the great physician try to sew it back on."
Dead silence.
Ellaria's eyes were wide. Even Petyr Baelish looked genuinely alarmed.
"My lord!" Littlefinger stepped forward quickly, voice dripping concern. "The blade dance is far too dangerous! You are the Hand's own Grand Royal Commissioner of Special Affairs! If you lose your sword hand, how will you serve Lord Tywin? How will you keep order in King's Landing?"
He sounded perfectly sincere.
Corleone glanced at him and saw the knife twist behind the smile.
You bastard, he thought. Trying to make sure Oberyn hates me even more by reminding him I'm Tywin's man.
Corleone looked back at the Red Viper.
The dagger sat between them, blade still wet.
He reached out, wrapped his fingers around the hilt, and yanked it free with a sharp shing.
In one smooth motion he twirled the blade, reversed it, and drove the point into the exact center of the table—halfway between himself and Oberyn.
His dark eyes never left the prince's.
"Blade dance?" Corleone said calmly.
"Vito Corleone accepts."
The room held its breath.
Oberyn's grin returned—sharp, dangerous, delighted.
"Then let's dance, doctor."