"I'm going to use this… to make you kneel and apologize!"
Corleone's voice echoed across the front of the Hall of Order. The tip of his sword stayed perfectly steady, aimed at the Mountain's chest.
Night wind caught the black hand sigil on his gray-white cloak, making it snap loudly.
The Mountain looked down at the sword, then at Corleone's face.
Then he laughed.
"HAHAHA!!" The Mountain's booming laugh filled the entire square. Everyone heard it clearly.
"Kneel?" The Mountain repeated the word in his deep, rumbling voice, as if he'd just heard the funniest joke in the Seven Kingdoms.
He slowly raised his left hand, fingers spread wide, then clenched it into a fist.
"The last time I knelt was the day Lord Tywin made me a knight. My knees haven't bent since!"
As he spoke, those deep-set eyes stayed locked on Corleone. The look wasn't one you gave a man. It was the look you gave a piece of wood you planned to split—or a corpse you planned to tear apart.
To Ser Gregor Clegane, no one in the world mattered except Lord Tywin Lannister.
Five steps away, Oberyn Martell had already backed up against a pillar. He still held both poisoned daggers, but he didn't advance. He just stared at Corleone's back, eyes full of complicated emotion.
He was curious.
How exactly was this farmer who claimed he could bring order going to make that rapist bastard kneel?
Inside the hall, almost every guest had crowded toward the doors. Nobles, merchants, knights, servants—most of them craned their necks, waiting for the show.
Human curiosity about violence didn't care about rank.
But at the main round table, two people hadn't moved.
Tywin Lannister lifted his cup and took a slow sip. His eyes stayed on the deep red wine, as if studying the way it clung to the glass. He acted like he couldn't hear a thing happening outside.
"Your little friend is about to die, my lord," Olenna Redwyne said from across the table.
She hadn't moved either. She didn't even turn her head. She just watched Tywin with those sharp, deceptively cloudy eyes.
A servant stepped forward nervously to refill her cup.
Olenna suddenly grabbed the servant's wrist—fast, far too fast for an old woman. "Stop, boy."
She squinted at the trembling fingers. "Can't you hear they're about to start killing each other out there? If you spill wine on my dress because your hands are shaking, what then?"
"Get out of here. Useless."
The servant turned white and backed away quickly.
Olenna let go, pulled a gold-embroidered rose handkerchief from her sleeve, and wiped her fingers like she'd touched something filthy. Only then did she speak, sounding almost casual.
"That big one is yours. Aren't you going to stop him from causing trouble on your watch?"
Tywin set his cup down. His voice was perfectly flat. "He's a knight. He serves the realm."
"A knight?" Olenna gave a short, mocking laugh. "Yes, a knight. The cruel Maegor was a knight. The Mad King Aerys was a knight. Titles are easy to hand out."
"Oh, I seem to recall the Mad King's knighthood was something you personally granted, wasn't it?"
She leaned back in her chair, voice dripping with false sweetness. "But titles don't change what's underneath, Lord Tywin. A dog is still a dog, even if you put a crown on it. It just bites harder."
The words were poisonous.
Tywin's face didn't change at all. He didn't even look at her. His eyes stayed on the doorway, as if he could see straight through the crowd to Corleone holding his sword and the Mountain's massive shape.
"Dogs have their uses," Tywin said slowly. "They're loyal. Obedient. They don't ask why. You tell them who to bite, they bite. You tell them to stop, they stop. As long as the leash is held by steady hands with enough strength."
Olenna stared at him for a moment, then smiled. "But you can never be sure the dog won't suddenly go mad and bite the hand that feeds it. When I was a girl on the Arbor I saw it once. A hunting hound, gentle as could be, suddenly turned on the trainer who'd raised it for ten years. Almost tore the man's throat out."
Tywin finally turned his head and looked at her. For the first time, something besides ice appeared in those cold green eyes—part scrutiny, part warning.
"What exactly are you implying, Lady Olenna?"
"If you believe Ser Gregor's behavior is in any way improper, then say so plainly. As Hand of the King, I will give your suggestion full consideration."
"Oh ho ho~~~ I'm just a forgetful old woman. I'm not implying anything." Olenna took a small sip of wine and smacked her lips. "I'm only talking about dogs. How you choose to understand it is your business, Lord Hand."
As she spoke, her eyes flicked toward the doorway. The sound of steel scraping stone was already drifting in—clearly the Mountain's greatsword dragging across the flagstones.
"Still," Olenna said, as if she'd just remembered something, "those two out there are both knights you personally knighted, aren't they?"
She gave Tywin a sly look. "Now one of your knights is about to use his sword to make another of your knights kneel. Wouldn't you call that… the left hand fighting the right?"
The question was almost nakedly provocative.
If Tywin admitted the Mountain represented him, then Corleone fighting the Mountain was defying Lannister authority.
If Tywin said the Mountain didn't represent him, he was admitting his most "loyal" knight had gone out of control.
Either way, he lost.
But Tywin Lannister had never fallen into a verbal trap in his life.
"They are both maintaining order," Tywin said calmly, full of the confidence that came from decades in power. "Ser Gregor is a soldier. He speaks with his sword. Ser Corleone is the builder of order. He needs to prove with action that the rules he creates cannot be broken. As for who is right or wrong…"
"I believe," Tywin's green eyes turned toward the doorway, still refusing to give a direct answer, "that Ser Corleone has the ability to handle this."
Olenna's pupils shrank.
She understood perfectly.
Tywin's words sounded like trust, but they were really a public test. The "order" he had granted Corleone wasn't free.
The Mountain was the first test. If Corleone couldn't even control the violence at his own door—if he was crushed like an insect—Tywin would withdraw all support without hesitation and find the next "hand in the dark."
Olenna spoke softly, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Throw two men you personally raised into the fighting pit, then sit in the best seat and watch the show. How very wise of you, Lord Tywin Lannister."
At the doorway, the crowd could no longer hold back. A ripple of shocked whispers broke out as people stared at the impossible size difference between the two men.
"By the gods, has Ser Corleone lost his mind?"
Ser Balman Byrch cried out. "That's the Mountain! His strength isn't even human!"
"I saw him knock me off my horse with one lance at the tourney. We have to stop him before he does something stupid!"
"Shh! Keep your voice down!" His wife, Lady Falyse, grabbed his arm, eyes wide with fear as she glanced toward Tywin. "The Hand hasn't moved. What makes you think it's your place to interfere?"
She tightened her grip on Balman's arm and hissed, "We came here tonight to attend a feast. We are not getting dragged into this mess. Do you understand?"
Balman looked annoyed, but after decades of making enemies, he knew better than to push it. He clenched his fist and shook his head.
Like the Byrches, almost everyone—nobles, merchants, even the underground figures who had seen Corleone's methods before—shared the same thought.
This was impossible to win.
"The size difference is ridiculous," an old knight muttered to the man beside him. "The Mountain's sword is longer than most men are tall. The strength gap is enormous. I remember last year's tourney—he took a warhorse's head clean off with one swing. The blood sprayed all over him."
"Ser Corleone is a brave knight, but… it's a shame."
He sighed and didn't finish the sentence. Everyone knew what he meant.
Hearing the bloody description, several noble ladies half-covered their faces with their hands while staring eagerly through their fingers, terrified of missing anything.
A little closer to the front, Cersei Lannister toyed with a strand of her golden hair. The corner of her mouth curved into a satisfied, barely contained smile. Her green eyes glittered with anticipation.
Fight. Please fight.
She thought gleefully. Let the Mountain teach that arrogant upstart Corleone a lesson.
She was already writing the ending in her head. The moment Corleone was about to be killed or humiliated beyond repair, she would step in as savior and order the Mountain to stop.
Then Corleone's life would belong to her. He would have no choice but to kneel, swear loyalty, and obey her every command.
The image of Corleone forced to his knees before her made Cersei almost laugh out loud.
In fact, she did laugh out loud.
Margaery Tyrell heard the sound and clenched her skirt so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Corleone's earlier words about "growing strong" had shown her a kind of wisdom and vision far beyond ordinary nobles. She had a feeling this man might matter a great deal to House Tyrell's future.
Seeing the fight become inevitable, she parted her lips to speak.
But a false, oily voice cut in before she could.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Please, remain calm! This is clearly a misunderstanding!"
Petyr Baelish—supposedly slinking away in disgrace—had somehow slipped back into the crowd and pushed his way to the front.
He wore his most sincere smile, hands spread wide like a peacemaker. He kept a very safe distance, though, and bowed slightly toward the Mountain, voice dripping with false concern.
"Ser Corleone! Ser Gregor! You are both noble knights of the realm. Why ruin such a fine evening over a small disagreement?"
He glanced quickly toward Tywin as he spoke, clearly hoping to play the role of the reasonable man one last time—and maybe plant one final thorn in Corleone's side.
His words sounded like mediation, but they were really shoving Corleone closer to the edge of a cliff.
Publicly apologize to the Mountain?
Then every bit of "order" Corleone had built would become a joke overnight.
"You… want me to apologize to this man?"
"Of course!" Petyr turned back to Corleone, still smiling. "Ser Gregor may have injured your man, but the fellow was only a lowborn commoner. As a noble knight, you really shouldn't let such a small matter—"
Petyr's words died in his throat.
Because he had just noticed Corleone's cold, pitch-black eyes staring straight at him.
Just that one look.
Petyr's smile froze solid, as if a winter wind from the North had blown straight into his bones.
He felt an invisible hand close around his throat. Every clever word he'd prepared stuck in his windpipe.
What kind of eyes were those?
Calm. Black. Bottomless. No killing intent. Just pure, icy superiority—like he was looking at a noisy little insect at his feet that meant nothing at all.
—[Presence Lv3]!
Corleone had grown so practiced with the skill that he could now focus its full weight on a single target.
The pressure hit Petyr so hard he took an involuntary half-step back. His face went white. He couldn't speak another word. He just stood there, trapped and humiliated.
At that moment the Mountain's wild laughter rang out again.
He hadn't cared what Petyr said. His attention was locked on Corleone.
He raised his greatsword with one hand and pointed the tip at the black hand sigil on Corleone's cloak.
"HAHAHA!! Black Hand? What a ridiculous sigil!"
"Tell you what, Vito Corleone. If you cut off your own right hand right now, I'll forgive you. How about it?"
His voice was full of eager anticipation, as if he were already imagining Corleone screaming in pain.
To the Mountain, the sound of other people's agony was the sweetest music in the world.
Faced with this naked humiliation and threat, Corleone finally looked the Mountain straight in the eye.
His expression remained perfectly calm. The corner of his mouth even curved into a faint smile.
"Kneel, Ser Gregor. While you still have the chance."
Corleone paused, his gaze sweeping over the Mountain's enormous frame and thick plate armor. He shook his head like he was appraising cheap goods. "Only wild dogs bark and snarl to prove how strong they are. Everyone knows it's just fear talking."
The words finally pushed the already violent Mountain over the edge.
"I'm going to crush every bone in your body, one inch at a time, then chew them up and swallow them!!"
The Mountain's eyes went blood-red. Veins bulged on his forehead like writhing worms.
Without warning, his massive body lunged forward. The greatsword—too heavy for most men to swing with two hands—was lifted again with one. He brought it down in a simple, brutal, full-power vertical chop aimed straight at Corleone's head.
The speed was terrifying for his size, like he meant to split the earth itself.
"Stop, Mountain!"
Jaime had just rushed down from upstairs and witnessed the horrifying sight. His heart nearly stopped.
He knew exactly how strong the Mountain was. Even in his prime, with his right hand, Jaime would never have dared take that blow head-on.
In his eyes, Corleone's relatively slender frame was about to be sliced in two.
"Ah!!!"
Several noble ladies screamed and covered their faces, but their fingers stayed wide apart. They didn't blink.
Just as everyone believed the outcome was decided and tragedy was unavoidable—
Corleone moved.
Instead of leaping safely out of range, he stepped forward at the very last instant. His ordinary knight's longsword came up in a sharp, rising diagonal parry.
The angle was perfect. The moment the blade met the descending greatsword, his wrist twisted slightly.
CLANG!!!
A sharp, ringing crash of steel on steel exploded through the air.
The expected scene—sword shattering, blood spraying—never happened.
In stunned silence, the Mountain's massive greatsword was suddenly wrenched sideways by an impossibly strong lateral force.
BOOM!!!
The greatsword slammed into the flagstones less than half a foot from Corleone's side, gouging a shallow crater and sending stone chips flying. The sheer power of the blow was obvious.
But even more shocking was what happened next. The force didn't just deflect the sword—it dragged the Mountain's enormous body forward with its own momentum. He stumbled several heavy steps before he managed to plant the greatsword in the ground and regain his balance.
When he looked up, Corleone was still standing exactly where he had been. He hadn't taken a single step back. He simply spun his sword in a smooth flourish, as if he had just casually brushed away a falling leaf.
Night wind stirred his gray-white cloak. The black hand sigil flew high.
Those pitch-black eyes watched the Mountain calmly, full of disbelief.
The entire square fell deathly silent.
Only the street lamps lit Corleone's untroubled face as he spoke quietly.
"It's a pity you made that choice, Ser Gregor Clegane. This is now between the two of us. No business involved. And you will pay for it."
"In the name of the Black Hand."