"Beautiful!"
Even though Oberyn still clearly hated the fact that Corleone was "Tywin Lannister's dog," the courage and sheer skill on display made the Red Viper whistle in genuine admiration.
He clapped slowly. The sound rang sharp and clear in the suddenly silent room.
"A man who spends his days holding a scalpel handles a killing blade just as smoothly," Oberyn said, lips curling. "I'm starting to find you interesting, Vito Corleone."
He glanced sideways at the man standing in the corner like a shadow.
"Littlefinger, come be our judge. This is your house—only fitting you witness the show."
"Seven save us, Your Grace!" Petyr cried theatrically, spreading his hands and taking one reluctant step forward. "Everyone knows I've never been fond of blood. Just the thought of it makes my poor heart flutter—"
His performance was wasted. Nobody was watching him.
Oberyn's gaze snapped back to Corleone. He licked his lips like a serpent tasting the air. "So… you first, or me?"
Corleone spread his right hand in an open, perfectly casual gesture. "You're the guest, Your Grace, and the one who called the game. Please—go ahead. Let a novice like me study how it's done."
Oberyn grinned and reached for the dagger.
But the moment his fingertips brushed the hilt, Corleone spoke again.
"Wait."
"Scared already?" Oberyn asked, eyes narrowing.
Corleone's smile turned sharp. "Not at all. I simply think that since we're already at the table, we might as well raise the stakes."
"Raise them?" Oberyn's thick brows shot up. The expression on his face was half offended, half thrilled.
He couldn't believe the sheer nerve of this man who had just admitted he'd never played before.
"What did you have in mind?"
"Simple," Corleone said, voice steady. "If I lose, you don't just take my right hand. You can take my head as a trophy and carry it back to Sunspear if you like."
He paused, eyes flashing. "But if I win…"
"Win against me?" Oberyn threw his head back and laughed. "Impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible," Corleone replied calmly. "Especially at a gambling table. No one can predict what happens on the next throw."
The laughter died in Oberyn's throat.
His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. The casual arrogance was gone; raw competitive fire burned in its place.
"Fine!" he snarled. "You put your head on the line? Then I'll match it."
"No!" Ellaria gasped, grabbing his arm. "Oberyn, this is madness!"
She had thought the wager was still the original stakes. Somehow it had spiraled into a game of life and death.
But the Red Viper was already beyond listening. He shook her off, cheeks flushed with battle-lust.
"Enough! When have I ever lost? I never lose!"
He locked eyes with Corleone like a predator about to strike. "By the name of House Martell, I swear it. Now shut your mouth and let's begin!"
"As you wish."
The air in the room turned to stone. Candle flames stretched their shadows long across the walls. Two men sat across from each other—Prince of Dorne and the Hand's own commissioner—both with their lives on the table.
Shing!
Oberyn moved first. Long, powerful fingers closed around the dagger. His left hand spread flat on the table.
"Watch closely, Corleone."
The blade flashed down, kissing the skin between thumb and forefinger, then between forefinger and middle, middle and ring, ring and little—each strike perfect, precise, deadly.
"The beauty of the blade dance," Oberyn said lightly, never once looking at his own hand, "is its progression."
"One full round is a complete cycle. Outside to inside, every gap around the fingers must be tested. Ten strikes minimum. One mistake and you're crippled for life."
His speed increased even as he spoke, the dagger becoming a silver blur between his fingers.
"I played this game more than twenty times with the Second Sons across the Narrow Sea."
The blade moved faster. The sound of steel biting wood filled the room.
"You know what it feels like when the edge slices skin, severs tendon? Like part of your body has simply… stopped belonging to you."
He described every sensation with calm, clinical cruelty—the exact psychological warfare he had perfected over years of duels.
Thud!
The final strike slammed home beside his little finger. The hilt quivered.
Oberyn lifted his left hand, spread the fingers, and wiggled them in front of Corleone's face.
"See? The hand of the finest sellsword in Essos. Twenty-plus games later, still perfect."
Ellaria exhaled in relief. The pressure swung fully onto Corleone.
Petyr's lips curved in a tiny, hidden smile. "Your turn, my lord."
Corleone's face showed nothing. He adjusted his collar once, then placed his own left hand flat on the table—fingers spread exactly as Oberyn had done.
He picked up the dagger, tested its weight, ran a thumb along the edge with the same gentleness one might use on a lover's cheek.
"Fair enough."
Then he began.
First strike—thumb to forefinger—identical placement, identical angle, same measured speed.
Second. Third.
He followed Oberyn's exact sequence. And like the prince before him, Corleone never once looked down at his own hand.
His black eyes stayed locked on Oberyn's face the entire time.
Oberyn's smirk faded. This wasn't a novice's performance.
"Although," Corleone said conversationally while the blade danced, "this is the first time I've ever played this game."
His voice matched the rhythm of the strikes perfectly—just as Oberyn had done.
"But as I told you—I'm a physician."
The dagger sped up, matching Oberyn's pace from the second half of the first round.
"Knife or scalpel, they're the same tool to me. Extensions of will. Instruments for solving problems."
Faster now. The steel wove between his fingers like silver thread.
"When you operate, you can't always have perfect instruments. You use whatever's at hand—a dagger, a broken sword, a shard of glass."
The blade flashed faster still. Corleone leaned forward slightly, eyes never leaving Oberyn's.
"You understand human anatomy very well. I respect that. It shows learning and a healthy fear of danger."
Thud!
Final strike of the first round—clean.
Oberyn reached for the dagger, but Corleone didn't stop.
He began the second round.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud!
"But," Corleone continued, voice still perfectly calm while the dagger became a blur, "you missed one thing."
"You use the blade to terrorize your opponent, to break their will. You never accounted for the body's own involuntary reflexes the instant steel kisses skin."
The speed doubled. Then tripled. Oberyn's eyes widened—his own limit had already been passed.
"When pain signals hit the spine and brain, the body triggers defensive spasms. Even half a millimeter off and you lose a finger forever."
Corleone's voice never wavered. The dagger was now a silver storm.
"As a physician, I deal with those reflexes every single day."
The blade moved so fast it left afterimages.
"My steadiness doesn't come only from wrist strength or finger dexterity. It comes from knowing exactly when and how the pain will arrive—and how the muscles will answer."
THUD!!!
The final strike of the fourth round slammed home. The dagger stood quivering in the wood, humming like a struck tuning fork.
Absolute silence.
Only then did Corleone raise his left hand.
Five fingers spread wide.
Not a single cut. Not even the faintest red line.
"Behold, Prince Oberyn."
He smiled straight into the Red Viper's stunned eyes.
"This is the hand of the finest physician in the Seven Kingdoms."
"And it is completely unscathed."