The sudden sharp sound cut through the forest air like a blade, startling every soldier present. Helmets turned, hands tightened around spear shafts, and wary eyes searched for the source.
There, standing as if he had always been there, was Corleone.
No one had seen him arrive, yet he leaned casually against a tree with his arms crossed, his head gently shaking from side to side. His expression resembled a man mourning over a lost fortune—deep regret, pained disbelief, and the sigh of someone who had just watched hundreds of millions vanish into smoke.
"What do you mean, 'what a pity'?" someone demanded.
His words immediately irritated the personal guard commander, who stepped forward with a scowl. "This mad dog killed many of our brothers. Capturing him alive is a gift bestowed by the Old Gods! Why dare you complain?"
The guard's face twisted with contempt. "Mind your place, doctor. Don't think that because you saved Hogg you can speak freely in my presence."
He waved dismissively to his men. "Continue."
But Corleone didn't back down. Instead, he remained in the same relaxed posture, issuing a series of soft, repetitive clicks with his tongue.
"Tsk… tsk… tsk…"
The sound grated like sand between teeth.
The guard's irritation boiled over. He spun around, yanked his sword halfway from its scabbard, and pointed the gleaming edge at Corleone.
"You'd better explain yourself," he growled. "If your answer doesn't satisfy me, I swear you'll be in the Seven Hells before this stray mutt!"
Corleone only shrugged. The threat rolled off him like mist. He didn't even bother to look at the guard. Instead, he strolled forward with deliberate slowness until he stopped just a few steps away from the bound and bloodied man kneeling in the dirt—the infamous Hound.
"I've heard stories of this fellow," Corleone said casually. "Sandor Clegane—called The Hound. The loyal butcher of Duke Tywin Lannister."
The soldiers stiffened, listening despite themselves.
"It's said he killed a man at twelve. Served as a sworn Kingsguard to King Joffrey Baratheon. They say he carved down foes like wheat in the Battle of the Blackwater."
Corleone paused for effect.
"And later, he was relieved of duty for publicly insulting the king… and deserting."
"I am not a deserter!" The Hound roared.
His voice thundered through the trees, startling nearby crows into flight.
"At the Blackwater River, I killed more enemies than any of them! I was sick of spilling blood for pampered lords who sit on silk cushions and call it bravery!"
His chest heaved with fury, eyes wild with humiliation and rage.
"I threw away that white cloak myself—it was filthier than dog shit!"
The Northern soldiers remained unmoved. They watched with cold, indifferent expressions. Many had lost fathers, brothers, and lords. A deserter—true or not—earned no sympathy among them.
"We don't have time for your pathetic little sob story, traitor!" the personal guard snapped, spitting at The Hound's feet. Then he swung toward Corleone again.
"Hurry up, boy. One more useless word and I'll cut out your tongue myself. My patience wears thin."
This time, Corleone nodded as though finally convinced to speak plainly.
"I said… it's a pity."
His tone dropped lower, weighted and deliberate, his gaze sweeping over the gathered soldiers.
"You all heard, did you not? Not long ago, the late King Robert held a grand tourney to welcome Duke Eddard Stark to King's Landing."
He pointed to The Hound.
"This Lord Sandor Clegane… was the champion."
The forest went strangely still.
Corleone waited, expecting the realization to bloom. But the soldiers looked blank, brows furrowed, eyes dull.
He exhaled slowly—disappointed.
Seven hells… Northerners truly are stubborn mules. How do they not grasp something so obvious?
Seeing no way around their thick skulls, he spoke again, spelling it out word by word.
"If I recall correctly—"
"The champion of the joust received a prize of… forty thousand gold dragons."
WHOOSH.
It was as though a wind had blown through their minds, sweeping away reason.
"How much?"
"Forty thousand! Forty thousand gold dragons!"
"How many times could you visit the Moulin Rouge with that!?"
"I heard old Tywin Lannister even has golden toilets!"
"Bah, I heard even his shit is gold!"
Voices erupted from every direction. The number was unimaginable.
Forty thousand gold dragons—enough to recruit ten thousand soldiers, enough to purchase the entire city of Caho and still have coins left to gorge on ale and roasted boar for years.
And suddenly—every pair of eyes changed.
Breathing quickened.
Greed ignited like a spark in dry hay.
Even the personal guard swallowed hard, staring at The Hound with a hunger that bordered on feral.
"Hand over the money, you mangy cur!"
He lunged, ripping apart The Hound's worn leather armor, searching every strap, fold, and inner lining. Soldiers joined in, shoving, grabbing, pawing like dogs digging for buried bones.
They found nothing.
Not a purse. Not a pouch. Not even a copper penny.
Only mud… and blood.
"Reg, you idiot!" a soldier barked. "Forty thousand gold dragons! Who could carry that much on their person?"
"So he spent it?" another cried.
"Spent it!?" someone else bellowed. "The tourney was less than a year ago!"
"He couldn't spend that even if he bathed naked in gold coins every day!"
"Exactly!"
The guard—Reg—slapped his own forehead so loudly it echoed.
"He hid it! The bastard hid the gold somewhere only he knows!"
The conclusion spread instantly—wild, intoxicating, irresistible.
Boots, fists, scabbards, cudgels, even uprooted branches began striking The Hound with savage fury.
"Tell us where the gold is!"
"Speak, or I'll flay you alive!"
"Beat him! Beat him until he talks!"
The Hound clenched his jaw, refusing to cry out.
He had won the fortune.
He had possessed wealth beyond imagination.
And it had been stolen—by Beric Dondarrion and his damned Brotherhood.
They had taken everything—coins, jewels, spoils, every last treasure. They had left him only his horse, his armor, and his weapons. Two days of hunger had drained him so badly that he fell in today's battle, captured like a stray mutt.
But could he confess that?
Could he admit, before these gloating Northerners, that The Hound had been robbed blind and starved like a beggar?
He would rather die.
His pride was iron. His silence unbreakable.
The beating intensified. Soldiers grew angrier with each unanswered question.
Arya Stark, bound and thrown aside like luggage, watched in rising panic. Her fists clenched. Her eyes burned.
If he dies here…
No. His life belongs to me.
Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Corleone's voice cut through the chaos again.
"Enough! Stop! Don't hit him again!"
The soldiers hesitated. Their arms froze mid-strike. Rage wavered, replaced by confusion.
Corleone stepped forward, expression calm, voice clear.
"If you kill him, you'll never find a single copper. Haven't you figured it out yet?"
He extended a slow, deliberate finger toward Arya Stark, curled on the ground like a wounded cub.
"Why would the loyal hound of House Lannister be traveling with the sister of the King in the North?"
Silence fell.
"It's obvious this girl is important to him."
A cold, sinister smile curled across Corleone's
lips.
"We don't need to waste strength on this thick-skulled mutt. All we need to do is…"
His words dropped like ice water.
"…'take good care' of Miss Stark. Right in front of him."