The fighting pit was empty now. Only the smell of blood and shit remained, thick as bowl-of-brown steam.
Raff hung from the rafters by his own intestines, still twitching. The "Butcher" Bod lay beside him, eyes wide, tongue nailed to the floorboards with a gold dragon. Five thousand of them, melted down and poured into the man's open mouth until his jaw cracked and the liquid gold hardened like a second tongue.
Corleone sat on Raff's old throne, legs crossed, the same faint smile he had worn when he kissed Jaime Lannister's maimed wrist and whispered, "A Lannister always pays his debts."
Iggo stood behind him, wiping Dothraki arakh on Raff's fine cloak. Rorge knelt at Corleone's feet, nose-less face pressed to the stone, trembling.
"You were right, Rorge," Corleone said softly. "That thing you promised Raff… I want it now."
Rorge's voice cracked. "Lord Corleone, I—I swear on the Stranger, it was just talk. There is no—"
Corleone raised one finger. Iggo moved.
The Dothraki's hand closed around Rorge's left ear and tore it off like wet paper. Rorge screamed, but the sound died when Corleone leaned forward and pressed a single gold dragon against the bleeding hole.
"Shh. I already know what it is. The little Valyrian steel key you kept sewn inside your cheek all these years. The one that opens the strongroom under the old Sept of the Silent Sisters. The one Janos Slynt sold you before they sent him to the Wall."
Rorge's remaining eye bulged. "How—?"
"Because I am not a knight, Rorge. I never was." Corleone's voice was gentle, almost fatherly. "I am the man who decides which debts get paid in blood and which get paid in silence. Tonight, both."
He stood. The heavy gold chain he had taken from Raff's neck clinked like funeral bells.
"Jaime will come looking for me soon. He will bring Tyrion. They will expect the charming doctor who saved a Kingslayer's life. They will expect the man who asked for a bathtub of gold with a smile."
Corleone's smile never reached his eyes.
"Instead they will find this." He gestured at the dripping ruin of Raff and Bod. "And they will understand that the price has gone up."
He placed a hand on Rorge's shaking head, almost tender.
"You broke my heart once, Rorge. In the cell. Remember? When you tried to draw attention to me like a cheap whore showing off her tits."
Corleone's thumb pressed into the fresh wound where the ear had been.
"I told you I would remember."
He nodded to Iggo.
The arakh flashed once.
Rorge's head rolled across the floor and stopped at the feet of the dead Butcher, staring up at the gold poured down the corpse's throat.
Corleone wiped his hands on a silk handkerchief—stolen from Tywin's own wardrobe two nights earlier—and looked at the carnage with something like satisfaction.
"Tell the Gold Cloaks when they arrive," he said quietly, "that Vito Corleone sends his regards. And that the next time they come for me, they should bring more than shackles."
He stepped over the bodies, boots leaving perfect red prints.
"After all… this knight just got more expensive."
Outside, the bells of the Red Keep began to toll midnight.
Somewhere in the distance, Jaime Lannister was already riding hard toward Flea Bottom, white cloak flapping like a dying swan.
He would be too late.
The Godfather of King's Landing had already collected.
And the offer he was about to make the Lannisters?
They would not be able to refuse.
Jaime Lannister reined in his horse so hard the white destrier nearly stumbled. The fighting pit gate hung off its hinges. Inside, the air was thick with copper and shit and melted gold.
Raff's corpse swung gently from the rafters like a grotesque banner, intestines looped into a noose. Bod's mouth was a frozen golden scream. Rorge's severed head stared up from the sand, one ear missing, the other still leaking.
Vito Corleone sat on the Blood Cellar throne, legs crossed, cleaning his nails with a small knife. Iggo stood behind him, arakh dripping. The Dothraki's eyes were flat, satisfied.
Jaime's sword was half-drawn before his brain caught up. "Corleone… what in the Seven Hells—"
"Language, Ser Jaime." Corleone smiled that same gentle smile he'd worn while stitching Jaime's stump in the Riverlands. "You came for your friend. Here I am."
[Insight Lv2 activated.]
Corleone saw it all in a heartbeat: the flicker of horror in Jaime's emerald eyes, the way his missing hand twitched as if still reaching for a sword, the buried guilt that he had left Corleone unprotected. And beneath it—fear. Not of the bodies. Of what this meant for the Lannister name.
"You did this," Jaime whispered.
"I collected," Corleone corrected softly. "Raff owed me five thousand. Rorge owed me loyalty. They both paid in full." He stood, gold chain clinking. "You promised me a bathtub of dragons, my friend. I decided the interest rate would be… higher."
Jaime's face twisted. "My father will—"
"Your father will understand." Corleone stepped closer. The air around him thickened, heavy as incense in a sept. [Majesty Lv2] rolled out like a silent command. "Because I am going to make him an offer he cannot refuse."
Jaime's sword arm dropped. The white cloak suddenly felt too heavy.
Two hours later, in the Tower of the Hand, Tywin Lannister stared across his desk at the man who had turned Flea Bottom into a slaughterhouse.
Corleone sat relaxed, as if he owned the chair. Iggo waited outside like a loyal hound. Jaime stood behind Corleone, silent, eyes on the floor.
Tywin's voice was ice. "You murdered three men and painted my city red to collect a gambling debt."
"Five thousand dragons," Corleone said mildly. "Plus the value of respect. In my country, respect is the most expensive thing you can buy." He leaned forward. [Insight Lv2] painted Tywin in perfect detail: the calculating mind, the iron will, the single weakness—pride in House Lannister.
"But I did not come here to quarrel, Lord Tywin. I came to offer service."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "You have no house. No title. No army."
"I have something better." Corleone tapped his temple. "I see what others miss. And I finish what I start."
He smiled. "Starting with your grandson."
The room went deathly still.
Joffrey.
Tywin did not blink. "Explain."
Corleone spread his hands. "The boy is a rabid dog. He bites the hand that feeds him, shits on the throne, and will drag your house into ruin with his cruelty. You know it. Jaime knows it. Even the Imp knows it. I can remove the dog before it bites the lion."
Tywin stared for a long time. Then, quietly: "And what do you want in return?"
Corleone's smile never wavered. "Your protection. Your gold. And when the time comes… your silence."
Tywin Lannister, the man who had sacked cities and extinguished houses, inclined his head a fraction.
"Done."
---
The weeks that followed were painted in blood and whispers.
Corleone moved through the Red Keep like smoke. He healed Cersei's "headaches" with a single draught that left her pliant and grateful. He advised Tyrion on the crown's debts with numbers that made the Imp's jaw drop. He walked with Jaime through the godswood at night and spoke of brotherhood, loyalty, family—words that bound the Kingslayer tighter than any chain.
Every night the system chimed in his mind.
[Fate Gamble cooldown: 0 days]
[Majesty Lv2 → Lv3]
[New skill unlocked: Silent Reckoning – Once per moon, force a target to accept an "offer" with no possibility of refusal.]
He saved it.
He waited.
---
The Purple Wedding arrived under a sky the color of old bruises.
Joffrey sat on the Iron Throne in his new crown, giggling as Margaery fed him pie. The hall was packed with lords, ladies, and fools. Tyrion looked miserable. Jaime stood guard, jaw tight. Tywin watched everything with hooded eyes.
Corleone moved through the crowd like a shadow in fine velvet. No one remembered inviting him. No one dared ask.
He reached the high table just as Joffrey began to choke on the pie.
The boy king clawed at his throat, face turning the color of his cloak. Wine spilled. Margaery screamed. Guards rushed forward.
Corleone stepped between them.
He placed one hand on Joffrey's shoulder, gentle as a father. With the other he drew a small vial from his sleeve—clear liquid that shimmered like starlight.
[Silent Reckoning activated.]
Joffrey's bulging eyes locked on Corleone's. The boy could not look away.
Corleone leaned in close, voice soft enough that only the dying king could hear.
"You disrespected my friend Jaime. You humiliated your mother. You are a stain on the lion's name. I am going to make you an offer you cannot refuse."
He poured the vial straight into Joffrey's open, gasping mouth.
The boy's body convulsed once—hard. His eyes rolled back. Blood and foam poured from his nose.
But it was not the poison that killed him.
[Fate Gamble triggered.]
Corleone's free hand slid a thin stiletto between Joffrey's ribs, straight into the heart. The blade was Valyrian steel—taken from Tywin's own armory that morning with a smile and a favor.
No one saw the thrust. The crowd only saw the king collapse, foaming, eyes wide in final terror.
Corleone stepped back, hands empty, expression shocked and sorrowful.
"The king! The king is dead!"
Chaos erupted. Screams. Swords drawn. Cersei's wail split the air like a dying cat.
In the pandemonium, only three men remained perfectly calm.
Tywin Lannister, watching from the dais, gave the smallest nod.
Jaime Lannister, white cloak stained with wine, met Corleone's eyes across the hall and did not look away.
And Vito Corleone, Godfather of King's Landing, adjusted his velvet sleeve and whispered to the screaming court:
"Long live the king."
The system chimed one last time.
[Quest Complete: Remove the Mad Dog.]
[Reward: Empire Foundation – Flea Bottom now answers only to you.]
[New Title Unlocked: The Lion's Shadow.]
Corleone smiled at the corpse on the floor, the boy who had once thought himself untouchable.
In the end, even kings paid their debts.
And some debts… could only be settled in blood.