"Good evening, my dear lord."
Corleone finally spoke.
His voice was low, almost gentle—like a doctor asking about symptoms right before the first cut.
"Normally I don't drink before surgery," he said, lifting his left hand. "Alcohol affects hand stability."
Only then did Lord Gyles notice the delicate glass in Corleone's fingers, filled with deep-crimson wine.
A few feet away, the spigot on one of his own oak barrels dripped slowly. Twenty-year-old sweet red from the Reach. Highgarden's best vintage, best grapes.
"But tonight's an exception." Corleone raised the glass to the torchlight, watching the wine cling to the sides with the easy grace of a man who had done this a thousand times. "After all, I don't have to worry about the patient surviving."
"Mmmph—mmph!!!"
Gyles thrashed wildly. The chair legs scraped across the stone floor like fingernails on a chalkboard. The gag was perfect—nothing but muffled, pathetic whimpers escaped.
Corleone didn't even glance at him. He took a slow sip, savored it, and nodded.
"Excellent vintage," he murmured. "Still got that fruit, a touch of oak… and something almost like a young girl's breast?" He smiled faintly. "You really know how to pick wine, my lord."
He set the glass down, took two measured steps forward, and stopped just an arm's length away.
Torchlight poured over his shoulders, stretching his shadow until it swallowed the old count whole.
"Crude kidnappers just cut out the tongue," Corleone continued conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather. "But that's messy. The tongue root is full of arteries—blood sprays everywhere."
He leaned in until their faces were inches apart, eyes locked on Gyles's wide, terrified ones.
"And even without a tongue they can still scream. That wet, whistling sound…" He gave a small shrug. "Honestly? It's ugly."
His tone never rose above calm lecture. That was what made it so much worse.
Gyles's whole body shook.
Corleone raised one finger, almost playful. "So I use a better method."
He traced a line in the air. "A strip of wet linen, slid all the way along the tongue until it presses perfectly against the vocal cords—like covering the holes on a flute."
He demonstrated on his own throat, finger pressing lightly.
"No vibration. No sound. Clean. Efficient."
Gyles had stopped struggling. He stared at the man in front of him, finally understanding this wasn't some street thug or hired blade. This was something far worse.
Corleone smiled like a proud teacher. "Good. You're listening."
He pulled a rolled parchment from his coat, unrolled it slowly in the firelight.
The handwriting was neat, formal, in perfect Common Tongue.
"By the grace of the Seven, I, Gyles Rosby, Lord of Rosby, do hereby declare my final will and testament…"
A will.
Gyles's eyes bulged so wide they looked ready to pop.
Corleone pressed one finger to his own lips. "Shhh…"
"Patience, my lord. Read it all."
The old man's chest heaved. He forced himself to keep reading.
"I have reflected on my long life and realize that wealth and power are but tests from the Seven… My distant kinsman Swyn Rosby's crimes have kept me awake at night… Therefore I bequeath Rosby Castle and all its lands to my loyal cousin and kin by marriage, Lady Tanda Stokeworth…"
Gyles's breath hitched.
"…and half the gold in my vaults—some fourteen thousand dragons—to the Black Hand Poor Relief Foundation of Flea Bottom, as penance for my failure to restrain my kin…"
The old lord began thrashing again, chair slamming against stone.
Rosby going to the Stokeworths?
Fourteen thousand dragons to some "Black Hand" charity that didn't even exist yet?
Corleone watched the panic with calm amusement. "It'll be founded tomorrow morning," he said lightly. "I asked Rorge. Funny how the same Gyles Rosby who spent his youth gambling, whoring, and exercising the first-night right suddenly became the most pious man in the Seven Kingdoms after Swyn died."
He smiled, almost fondly. "I wrote it myself. Beautiful, isn't it? Now… copy it in your own hand, sign it, date it yesterday, and we can both go home."
"MMMPH—MMMPH!!!"
Gyles screamed through the gag, eyes burning with pure hatred.
Corleone reached down and calmly pulled the linen out of his mouth.
"RICKARD!!"
"HERBERT!!!"
"GUARDS—WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!"
The scream echoed through the cellar like a dying animal. "ASSASSIN! SEVEN CURSE YOU!"
Corleone simply stepped back and let him scream.
Two full minutes. Nothing. No footsteps. No shouts. Just the old man's raw throat cracking in the stone room.
Finally Gyles sagged, chest heaving, voice hoarse. He still glared murder at Corleone.
"Beautiful cellar," Corleone said conversationally, looking around. "Three-foot-thick stone walls. Perfect soundproofing. Perfect temperature and humidity for wine. Airflow's a little poor, though—carbon dioxide builds up, oxygen drops. Stay down here long enough and you get dizzy, weak… eventually pass out."
He smiled. "But don't worry. I left the door cracked for ventilation."
"So scream all you want, my lord. No one's coming until morning."
Gyles's face twisted with rage and terror. "What do you want?" he rasped. "I have gold—mountains of it. Titles. Lands. Name your price—"
"You still don't understand." Corleone leaned in close again, half his face lit, half lost in shadow. "We have all night, my lord."
Gyles's lips trembled. He tried to scream again but his ruined throat only produced a painful croak.
"You'll burn in the seventh hell," he hissed, every word dripping venom. "The Mother will never forgive you. The Father will judge you. You will suffer for ten thousand years—"
Corleone tilted his head, genuinely curious. "Interesting."
He studied the old man for a long moment. "I looked into you, Lord Gyles. Before the war you visited the sept three times a year at most. Donations? Zero. You had at least seventeen mistresses and more bastards than I can count. You haggled with tax collectors like a fishwife."
He took one step closer. The Presence skill unfolded around him like black wings.
"So tell me… what changed? Was it Swyn's death that scared you straight? Or did someone else get to you first?"
Gyles just kept ranting, eyes wild. "Your soul will roast in the seven hells forever! You will never know redemption!"
Corleone sighed softly.
He set the parchment aside, rolled up his sleeves with elegant precision, and crouched until they were eye-level.
"You know," he said conversationally, pulling a pair of surgical pliers from his kit, "how many nerve clusters in the human body create unbearable agony without killing you?"
He let the question hang in the air.
The pliers hovered an inch above Gyles's left little finger.
"Never mind. I'll teach you."
Corleone's dark eyes gleamed in the torchlight.
"Tell me, Lord Gyles…"
"1000 minus 3… equals how many?"