The words were spoken so casually that at first they did not even seem dangerous.
"Let's make a wager, Worton…"
Yet the moment Corleone uttered them, Worton felt the world shift beneath his feet.
His sword, raised halfway, refused to descend. His muscles would not respond. Time itself had thickened, like he was pushing against honey. The wind through the trees halted mid-sway, the moonlight froze in place, and even the rippling surface of Gods Eye Lake became a perfect mirror. The Hound, breathing hard, and Arya, tense and ready to leap, faded like watercolor left in the rain.
One blink—
and the world was gone.
Only he and Corleone remained in a vast, lightless void.
"What… what is this…" Worton forced the words out, but his throat felt constricted, as though he stood before something ancient and enormous. His heart hammered with a terror he couldn't understand.
"Let's make a wager, Worton," Corleone repeated, his voice echoing as if the darkness itself were speaking.
There was no sun, no torch, no flame—but the single gold Dragon coin in Corleone's hand glowed with a mesmerizing light. Worton could not tear his eyes from it.
"I know you," Corleone said calmly. "You are the finest warrior in the Dreadfort."
The words dug into Worton like hooks—not praise, but certainty.
"Your sword has drunk more blood than most men spill in a lifetime. You have severed heads, ended families, and earned fear wherever you walk. Your reputation is unquestioned. Your confidence in your blade is absolute."
Worton swallowed hard, breath shallow.
"But…" Corleone continued, voice softening, "before you swung that sword—before you even finished lifting it—I had already broken it."
Worton's pupils contracted.
Corleone smiled faintly. "Which means that what you are gripping right now… is only a pitiful, broken remnant."
Worton looked down sharply. His blade shimmered in full steel perfection. Not even a nick.
"What are you talking about!?" he barked, forcing volume into his voice—yet even to his own ears, it sounded hollow.
"You don't believe me." Corleone grinned, and under the gold Dragon's glow, the smile seemed impossibly deep. "Then let us wager properly. The stake is this coin."
He flicked it into the air. The spinning gold Dragon illuminated the void like a miniature sun.
"I wager," Corleone said, every syllable heavy, "that your sword cannot cut off my head."
The moment the words landed, the coin flashed—so brilliantly that Worton flinched.
And then—
he felt it.
As if he had placed his palm against a sacred decree, binding and irreversible.
"This is madness…" Worton hissed, shaking his head violently to clear it. The fear, the surreal haze, the impossible stillness—he tried to shove it all away.
He was the strongest warrior of the Dreadfort.
He was Iron Leg Worton.
His pride surged, burning away doubt.
"Don't think you can frighten me with parlor tricks!" he roared. "My blade—Worton's blade—NEVER misses!"
With a full-throated cry, he tore himself free from the invisible resistance, muscles exploding with force, and swung with all the strength he had built through war, torment, and survival.
This strike held everything he was:
His belief.
His fury.
His lifelong mastery.
He WOULD win—
he MUST win—
Yet Corleone did not move.
He did not dodge.
He did not raise an arm.
He did not even blink.
He simply stood there, serene, a faint smile lingering at the corners of his lips.
And then—
CLANG.
The moment the steel touched Corleone's neck, Worton felt the impact jolt through his arm.
His sword snapped clean in half.
The front portion spun away like a leaf in the wind and clattered onto the unseen ground.
Worton stared at the broken stump in his hand.
It broke.
It truly broke.
It had shattered like brittle pottery.
"No…" he whispered, voice cracking. "No, no, NO!!!"
But it was not just the steel that fractured.
He felt something inside him—something he had built his life upon—splinter and collapse.
His confidence.
His identity.
His worth.
The Dreadfort's feared executioner was gone. What remained was a hollow man with shaking hands and an empty gaze.
His knees buckled.
THUD.
He crashed down, unable to support even his own trembling body. The terror draining through him stole every breath and every thought. His eyes became glassy, lifeless.
Only then did Corleone step forward.
He reached down, gently taking Worton by the hair, lifting his head to bare his neck—the gesture effortless, inevitable.
"M-Mercy…"
Worton no longer resisted. The wager, the rule, the unseen force—whatever it was, it had devoured his will. He was no wolf, no warrior—just a lamb awaiting slaughter.
His voice was a broken whimper.
"Please… spare me… Lord Corleone… give me another chance…"
Corleone looked down at him, gaze steady, containing both judgment and an echo of pity.
"As I have always said, Worton," he murmured.
Then his tone hardened, cold as winter stone.
"In this world, women and children are allowed mistakes. Men are not."
"You made your choice. That choice was betrayal. And consequences," he said softly, "are the price of betrayal."
He raised his longsword.
"I, Vito Corleone," he whispered, voice like a ritual spoken before the gods themselves.
"In light of your treason, and in the name of House Corleone—"
"I sentence you to death."
As the words faded, Worton saw Corleone's features shifting—blurring—transforming.
Eyes vanished, yet the face saw everything.
The mouth disappeared, yet it pronounced fate.
The visage merged with memory—
with carved weirwood eyes bleeding sap,
with the Old Gods worshipped since the dawn of the North.
"So… that's how it is…" Worton breathed, regret flooding him too late.
Ssst—
The blade slid into the side of his neck—precise, swift, merciful in its perfection.
His final spark went dark.
His body fell forward, lifeless.
Corleone stood tall, performing a graceful flourish, letting the blood flick from the blade like droplets of rain shaken from a leaf.
He turned.
The world returned.
The trees resumed their sway.
The lake rippled once more.
The moonlight continued its silver descent.
The Hound sat slumped on the ground, Arya bracing him so he wouldn't fall. Both stared at Corleone, pupils wide in disbelief.
"What… what in seven hells are you…" the Hound muttered, voice stumbling, memories clawing up from the past. He suddenly recalled the Brotherhood Without Banners, Beric Dondarrion, the resurrections, the unnatural flame.
"You—are you with Dondarrion's men?"
"I have nothing to do with them," Corleone interrupted calmly.
He walked to his warhorse, loosened a wrapped item, and tossed it lightly toward Arya.
She caught it, blinked, then gasped.
"Needle!"
Her voice cracked with pure relief and joy. She clutched the little sword to her chest and looked up at Corleone with gratitude that left her speechless.
"I told you both that you owed me a favor," Corleone said. "Now, I suspect you'll remember that debt for the rest of your lives."
Seeing her joy, Corleone allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Then he bowed slightly—like a performer conclu
ding a masterpiece before an awestruck audience.
"Allow me to introduce myself, properly."
His voice softened, returning to its ordinary calmness.
"My name," he said.
"Is Vito Corleone."