Jaime's calm but unmistakable threat was the final straw that shattered Worton's composure. Until now, the captain had been puffed up with confidence, but the moment Jaime spoke, the full weight of the situation crashed down on him. As the old saying goes—only the one framing you truly understands the depth of your helplessness. And if Jaime Lannister ran crying to his powerful father in Casterly Rock and accused Worton of offending him, the consequences would be beyond imagination.
The Lannisters did not need proof. They did not need justification. If Duke Tywin wished to unleash his wrath simply because someone had upset his golden son, then that alone would be enough to doom Worton. The very thought made his face drain of color. His body shook uncontrollably, and droplets of cold sweat streamed down his temples.
He glared at Jaime, but the attempt at courage was ruined by the chattering of his teeth. His voice wavered as he tried to assert authority:
"This… this is Harrenhal. You are… challenging Lord Bolton's authority!"
He wanted to sound commanding, but the trembling in his jaw destroyed any effect. Instead of intimidating, he only looked nervous and weak, as though guilt was written across his forehead. Corleone noticed instantly. He placed a hand lightly on Jaime's thigh—an unspoken signal telling him not to push further.
The psychological blow had already landed. There was no reason to keep applying pressure; cornering a man too tightly only made him unpredictable, and Corleone knew better than to provoke chaos when control was within reach.
He stepped forward with a soft and calming tone, adopting the demeanor of a peacemaker.
"Captain Worton, we are all decent men here. There's no reason for this to escalate over some worthless fellow and a petty personal grudge."
Then Corleone added, gently but pointedly:
"Lord Bolton's authority exists to eliminate threats and maintain order—not to settle your private scores or quarrel over a prostitute within the castle walls."
Before Corleone could continue, Yigo blurted out honestly, "Wells is a male prostitute."
Corleone paused, blinking. He looked to Worton, expecting embarrassment—but Worton's face remained unchanged. Corleone simply shrugged. After all, such preferences were far from unusual in Westeros. And considering this world lacked certain toxins his last life had to worry about… well, perhaps it was safer. Probably.
He moved on without dwelling on it, focusing again on Worton's wavering resolve.
"Think carefully, Worton," Corleone said gently, stepping closer. He placed a reassuring hand on the captain's shoulder and spoke in the tone of someone offering wise counsel. "If this reaches Lord Bolton's ears, will he commend you? Or will he blame you for embarrassing him before the eldest son of Lannister?"
The words cut directly through Worton's chest. He lowered his head, swallowed hard, and looked around at the soldiers watching him. After a long breath, he straightened his spine and declared loudly:
"All I know is loyalty to Lord Bolton and serving him diligently. The rest… I have not considered!"
Corleone raised his brows slightly.
So, the boy wasn't completely foolish.
Worton understood that if he backed down too quickly, he would lose all standing in front of his men. He needed to stage a principled excuse—something that preserved dignity. Corleone respected that. The man needed an exit, a way to retreat without shame.
Very well. Corleone would pave that road—with gold.
"As I said, Captain Worton, we are all decent people."
Corleone tightened his grip on the man's shoulder, activating his [Dignity Lv2] aura to its fullest. His voice remained soft, but there was undeniable power behind it, commanding without shouting.
"How about this? I offer you a dignified solution."
He pointed to Rorger lying on the ground.
"This man—I must take him. He offended you, yes, but I will make him pay a price beyond anything you could imagine. From today on, he will fear you so deeply that he won't dare touch anything you desire."
Everyone heard the conviction in Corleone's voice. It carried weight, authority, and a strange sense of inevitability, like a statement spoken by someone whose promises always became truth.
Then Corleone gestured toward the horse under Jaime.
"As for the horse, it is a simple misunderstanding. Perhaps Lord Bolton never specified which horse was gifted. Perhaps the stable hands confused them. But arguing about ownership of an animal is beneath men of dignity."
He repeated the word "dignified" again and again, letting it sink deeper into Worton's mind.
Then, without hesitation, Corleone reached into his robe and produced a pouch of gold. The crisp metallic clink of dragons colliding echoed beautifully, drawing the hungry eyes of the Northern soldiers. In the North, the sound of wealth was rare… and irresistible.
"Here are thirty gold dragons," Corleone said, pressing the pouch firmly into Worton's arms. "Consider it payment for the horse and compensation for the unpleasantness."
He smiled warmly.
"Take your men, visit the finest tavern, feast well, and drink strong liquor."
Then he added with deliberate emphasis:
"And don't think it too little."
The moment the words left his mouth, Worton stared at the pouch, swallowed loudly, and struggled to speak. Thirty gold dragons—enough to supply a Northern stronghold for a month. Enough to buy land. Enough to change a life.
"Lord Corleone… you… I…"
He was overwhelmed. Though they had plundered wealth in the South under Roose Bolton's covert approval, most spoils went to the Earl. Holding this sum personally was intoxicating.
Corleone clapped him gently on the back.
"I know you suffered a loss, Captain, but sometimes when both sides give a little, both sides win."
Worton nodded rapidly, still stunned.
"How can I accept this… the horse only cost ten gold dragons when bought," he muttered—though his hands moved faster than his mouth, stuffing the pouch into his pocket like a starving man hiding bread.
Corleone inwardly snorted. The horse was worth maybe one or two dragons at most, but his expression stayed polite and elegant.
"I told you," he said smoothly, "we are all decent people."
Worton's demeanor transformed instantly. His smile became wide and radiant, and he looked at Corleone with overwhelming gratitude—like a man rescued from drowning.
"We ARE decent people, Lord Corleone! From today on, you are the best friend of Iron Leg Worton!"
Then, in a burst of unfiltered enthusiasm, he declared:
"Forget Rorger—if you wanted my wife, I'd wash her and put her in your bed myself!"
Corleone cleared his throat quickly.
"That won't be necessary."
"Anything you need, just ask!" Worton boomed proudly. "Everyone in Dreadfort knows Iron Leg Worton is the most loyal!"
He shook the coin pouch again, savoring the weight.
"We're drinking! All of you—move out!"
His soldiers followed eagerly, though Worton made no move to invite Corleone, the man who had just funded the celebration.
Corleone watched them disappear, then spoke calmly to Yigo:
"Take the men. We leave immediately. Roose Bolton is not a man who keeps promises. We must go before he changes his mind."
Jaime nodded fiercely in agreement. Glancing at Rorger slumped over Yigo's shoulder, he leaned toward Corleone and whispered:
"You made a loss on that deal, Vito. That man isn't worth thirty gold dragons."
Corleone smiled knowingly.
"Is that so?"
His eyes gleamed with a confidence that carried history, calculation, and certainty.
"Lannisters aren't the only ones who und
erstand business, Jaime."
He turned, cloak shifting in the wind.
"Watch closely. Vito Corleone never makes a losing deal."