The coin pouch traced a perfect arc through the morning air.
"Not enough?" Corleone caught it, brow slightly furrowed.
Bronn's throat worked hard. His eyes locked on the pouch in Corleone's hand, pure greed and regret flashing across his face.
Every instinct screamed at him: Take it back, you idiot—that's two hundred gold dragons!
But something deeper pulled the other way.
"No," Bronn rasped, swallowing hard. "That much coin would buy me ten Dothraki. But…"
He stopped. Jaw clenched, teeth grinding like he was fighting his own soul in a silent, bloody war.
Jaime stood nearby, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the show.
Finally Bronn tore his gaze away from the gold like it physically hurt and stared down the alley toward the rising sun. The motion looked like he was about to carve out a piece of his own flesh.
"I want to make a deal," he said, voice rough. "Not for this bag of dragons. For something else."
"Such as?"
Bronn's eyes flicked to the unconscious Iggo on the ground, then back to Corleone. "I saved your Dothraki warrior. Now I need you to do something for me—or rather, for my former employer."
"The dwarf's ugly, mouthy, and has the worst temper in the Seven Kingdoms… but he pays on time and never asks questions."
Corleone heard the weight behind the words. In King's Landing, sellswords like Bronn were tools, dogs, or disposable pawns. Tyrion Lannister had given him something rarer: actual respect.
"So you want me to save him," Corleone said.
"Trial starts in three days." Bronn's voice tightened. "I know the Hand doesn't love his dwarf son, and I've seen how these noble trials work. In the Eyrie they didn't listen to a single word of defense. It's just theater so they can kill you legally. No one's going to let Tyrion speak."
"He's going to be found guilty."
Jaime's face darkened. He knew the game too well.
Corleone studied Bronn, genuinely puzzled. The sellsword shifted under that look like he'd been caught doing something noble.
"Fuck," Bronn spat, wiping his face hard. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not suddenly a good man. I'm helping the dwarf because he's the only employer I've ever had in this shithole city who pays clean, pays extra, and doesn't treat me like dirt."
"Men like that are rarer than dragon eggs in the Seven Kingdoms!"
He kept talking, voice gaining steam, almost convincing himself. "If he dies I have to start over—bargaining with arrogant lords who look down their noses and might stiff me on the bill. So I'm not saving Tyrion Lannister. I'm protecting a long-term investment. A reliable income stream. Call it… business sense."
The logic was airtight. Almost believable.
Corleone and Jaime exchanged a glance. Both saw straight through it.
"Anyway," Bronn growled, voice rising to cover the crack in his armor, "don't get the wrong idea. I just don't want to watch a good payer get hanged. That's reasonable, right?"
The alley went quiet for a few heartbeats.
Then Corleone nodded, calm. "Perfectly reasonable."
The look in his eyes still said bullshit, and Bronn hated it.
Morning light brightened. Corleone could see the tiny cuts on Iggo's face and the dried blood on Bronn's armor. He tucked the pouch away and crouched to check the Dothraki's pulse again—stronger now, but still weak.
"If you want to save Tyrion," Corleone said without looking up, "the way is simple."
Both Bronn and Jaime leaned in at once. "What way?"
"Let him demand trial by combat," Corleone answered. "By law any highborn accused of a serious crime can prove his innocence with a sword in the sight of the gods. Tyrion's a Lannister and former Master of Coin. They can't refuse him."
Jaime nodded slowly. "If he finds a strong champion and that champion wins, the gods declare him innocent."
"Exactly," Corleone continued. "And you're a proper knight now, Bronn. The Mountain's out of commission for months. In King's Landing right now, not many men can beat you. Most so-called knights are just pretty armor and fancy titles. You've been fighting for twenty years. You've killed more men than most of them have ever seen. Your odds are at least seventy percent."
Bronn's face shifted from excitement to something heavier. He stayed silent a long time, lips pressed thin. Fear flickered in those calculating eyes.
"The Mountain…"
Jaime frowned. "Gregor's face was split open, tongue cut out, dozens of sword wounds. He won't be out of bed for three months."
Bronn shook his head. "When I snuck into the Red Keep to get Iggo, I passed an old storage room deep under the Maidenvault. I heard the Queen Regent talking to some old man."
"Cersei?" Jaime asked sharply.
Bronn nodded. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but what they said was… fucked up. I didn't understand most of it, but I heard enough. The Mountain's healed. Stronger than before."
Jaime went rigid. "Impossible. Absolutely impossible."
Bronn licked dry lips and kept going. "The old bastard said the surgery was done. Said the Mountain doesn't feel pain anymore, doesn't need sleep, and his strength is twice what it used to be."
Dead silence.
Jaime's face turned gray.
Corleone closed his eyes for a second, then spoke the name like a curse. "Qyburn."
Both men turned to him.
"Qyburn," Corleone repeated, eyes sharp. "Former maester of the Citadel. Expelled for conducting live human experiments. Later joined the Brave Companions under Vargo Hoat. Obsessed with the human body. When I left Harrenhal, I heard Roose Bolton executed the rest of the company. Guess the news was wrong. Qyburn escaped and ran straight to Cersei."
Jaime looked sick. "You're saying Cersei used a disgraced, mad maester who experiments on living people to treat the Mountain?"
"Not just treat," Corleone said coldly. "She's remaking him. Maybe more than that."
Bronn swallowed hard. "So trial by combat is off the table. If the Mountain's really like they say… even ten of me wouldn't stand a chance against that monster."
Jaime's fists clenched until the knuckles went white.
"Three days later, the Great Sept of Baelor was packed."
Every noble in King's Landing who could still walk had come. Silk, velvet, house sigils, low whispers, and the occasional suppressed laugh. A public trial tearing into the Lannister family wasn't something you saw every day.
On the high platform beneath the statues of the Seven sat three high-backed chairs.
Tywin Lannister sat in the center, deep crimson robes embroidered with golden lions, the Hand's badge gleaming on his chest. His hair and beard were perfect. From a distance he looked every inch the unshakeable ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.
Up close, the faint shadows under his eyes told a different story.
For three days the Hand had thrown every resource he had at uncovering the secret behind Vito Corleone's impossible, unbreakable skin. Maesters from the Citadel, shadowbinders from Asshai, blood mages from Qarth—nothing explained it.
A sword driven with full strength that simply could not pierce human flesh.
It terrified Tywin more than dragons. Dragons had weaknesses. This did not.
On Tywin's left sat Kevan Lannister. On his right sat Mace Tyrell, dressed like a peacock in emerald velvet and gold roses, a fresh rose pinned to his chest.
Mace didn't want to be here. But his daughter Margaery had shared the poisoned cup with Joffrey. Someone had to pay.
The High Septon finished his trembling opening prayer.
Heavy iron chains dragged across stone.
Every head turned.
Tyrion Lannister was marched in by four Gold Cloaks. The chains on his ankles made him shuffle like a grotesque toy. Four armed men guarding a dwarf barely five feet tall—it looked ridiculous and insulting at the same time.
Some nobles couldn't hold back their laughter.
Tyrion walked slowly, head high, mismatched eyes sweeping every face in the gallery. He saw the contempt, the glee, the open hatred from people who had once eaten at his table and kissed his ass.
He saw Cersei in the front row, red gown, green eyes burning with madness and hate.
He did not see Jaime.
Tyrion sighed, lowered his head, and stopped before the judgment platform.
"Defendant, Tyrion Lannister," the High Septon quavered. "You stand accused of poisoning King Joffrey Baratheon the First at his own wedding feast. How do you plead?"
Tyrion looked straight at his father.
Tywin looked back.
"I plead guilty," Tyrion said clearly, "to being born a dwarf. Guilty of having a sister who wants me dead. Guilty of having a father who sees me as a disgrace. Guilty of living in a world where a dwarf's very breath is considered a sin."
He paused, a bitter smile twisting his mouth. "But I do not plead guilty to murdering Joffrey. Because I didn't do it."
A low ripple of shock ran through the sept.
Tywin's face showed nothing. He had expected denial. The dwarf had always been stubborn and eloquent.
Kevan signaled. "Call the witnesses."
The first was a young whore, barefoot because the septons considered her unclean. She trembled as she spoke.
"My lords… I work on Silk Street. About a month ago the dwarf—Lord Tyrion—came to me. He drank a lot. Then he said… he said the king was a bastard and that one day he'd strangle the golden-haired little shit with his own hands."
Her voice shrank to almost nothing under Cersei's icy stare.
Tyrion closed his eyes. He didn't remember saying it. It didn't matter.
The second witness was an older, heavy-set whore—the kind Robert Baratheon had liked.
"He likes special games," she announced in a voice like a man's. "The dwarf ties us up, whips us, makes us call him 'Your Grace.' He says one day he'll sit the Iron Throne and make everyone who looked down on him lick his boots."
Laughter rippled through the gallery. Noble ladies covered their mouths, shoulders shaking.
Tyrion's fists clenched. All lies. All arranged by Cersei and Tywin. They didn't need truth. They needed a story.
More witnesses followed—whores, bartenders, minor nobles, even a fool. Each added another brushstroke to the portrait of a bitter, drunken, violent dwarf who had always hated the royal family.
When lies are repeated enough times, they start to feel true.
The mood in the sept shifted. Eyes that had been merely curious now looked at Tyrion with open disgust and hatred.
"I didn't do it!" Tyrion finally exploded, chains rattling as he stepped forward. "I didn't poison anyone! I never said those things! I don't know these women! This is all lies—arranged by Cersei because she wants me dead!"
He pointed straight at his sister in the front row. "She's hated me since the day our mother died giving birth to me!"
Then he pointed at the high platform. "And you, Father! You've always treated me like a bargaining chip, a piece of merchandise. You married me to Sansa Stark for the North, not for me. Now that Sansa's gone I'm useless, so you're happy to let me die, aren't you?!"
Dead silence.
What had started as a tidy family execution had turned into a raw, public airing of Lannister dirty laundry.
Tywin rose slowly, crimson robes flowing like fresh blood in the colored light.
"Tyrion Lannister. You accuse the Queen Regent and the Hand of fabricating evidence. Then prove it. Show us evidence that you were not present when King Joffrey was poisoned, or that someone else had both motive and means. Otherwise, with multiple witnesses in agreement, the court is entitled to find you guilty under the law."
Tyrion froze.
Evidence? He had none. Hundreds had been at the wedding, but who would risk angering the Hand and the Queen Regent to speak for a dwarf?
He looked around at the smirking, hateful faces and felt the old, familiar bitterness. In King's Landing he was still alone.
Except…
A voice from two nights ago echoed in his mind.
"I know you're rich, Tyrion Lannister. The second son of Casterly Rock, living in comfort with guards and Bronn to protect you. You don't need a friend like me."
Tyrion closed his eyes. The cold, damp smell of the black cells returned.
And the man—the simple farmer knight with the gentle smile and bottomless eyes.
"But now you come to me saying, 'Lord Corleone, please uphold justice for me.' Yet you showed me no respect. You don't even call me ser."
He remembered dropping to one knee in the filthy cell, kissing the back of that callused hand.
"Forgive my earlier ignorance, Ser Corleone. My brother says that right now, across the entire Seven Kingdoms, only you can give me justice."
"I can pay more."
He remembered Corleone's smile as he pulled a single gold dragon from his pocket and held it up in the dim light.
"You've shown your respect, my friend. Even a stranger cannot take your soul while it's in my hands. Because I will offer a price no one can refuse."
That promise was the only thing keeping Tyrion from drowning.
He opened his eyes and looked at Tywin, at Cersei, at every noble waiting for him to die.
Corleone had promised.
But where the hell was he?
The trial had reached the point where Tywin demanded counter-evidence. If Corleone had a plan, why wasn't he here?
Was it all just talk?
How could a hedge knight from the mud possibly save a convicted dwarf from the web Tywin and Cersei had woven?
Tyrion's lips began to tremble—not with fear, but with rage at himself for believing.
"I have no evidence," he said, voice shaking. "But I demand… trial by—"
The great oak doors of the sept slammed open with a thunderous crash that shook the entire building.
Everyone jumped and turned.
Blinding sunlight poured in.
A slender silhouette stood framed in the doorway.
Gold Cloaks moved to block the entrance. "This is a holy place—who are you—"
"Step aside."
The voice was young, clear, and carried the cold northern accent.
The guards froze.
The figure walked forward into the light.
She wore a deep blue velvet gown embroidered with the direwolf of House Stark in silver thread. Her long red hair fell loose over her shoulders, held back only by a simple silver circlet. Her skin was pale and flawless, lips red, blue eyes calm and steady—eyes that could have been cut from sapphires.
She stood tall, chin lifted, every inch the lady walking into her own great hall.
Nobles stared, mouths open, unable to speak.
Gold Cloaks' hands hovered over sword hilts, unsure whether to stop her.
Even Tyrion gaped.
Because walking straight down the aisle like she owned the place was the woman everyone had assumed was dead—or at least gone forever.
His wife in name only.
Sansa Stark.