Corleone walked down the central aisle of the Great Sept like he owned the place.
Not like he was entering the holiest sanctuary in the Seven Kingdoms, but like he was strolling through Flea Bottom—his own domain.
Gold Cloaks lining the aisle instinctively gripped their sword hilts, yet none moved to stop him. Their eyes flicked between Corleone and Tywin, then they chose silence.
He stopped beside Sansa, gave her a small nod, then turned to the high platform.
Tywin sat in the center chair, face blank, but those sharp green eyes locked onto Corleone like a hawk.
Corleone's mouth curved in the faintest smile.
He placed his right hand over his heart and bowed.
"Lord Tywin," he said, voice carrying clearly through the silent sept. "I can confirm that Lady Sansa Stark has been in Flea Bottom the entire time."
He straightened, meeting Tywin's gaze without flinching. "Seven days ago, three leagues southeast of Blackwater Bay, my merchant fleet intercepted a single-masted ship trying to slip out of port under cover of darkness. I'd banned all smuggling, so my men boarded her."
"On board were two sailors, a sellsword from the Vale, and a young woman locked inside a wooden crate in the hold—Lady Sansa Stark."
"The sailors confessed quickly. They picked up the crate at a sewer dock in King's Landing. Someone paid them ten gold dragons upfront to deliver it to Driftmark, with another fifty waiting on arrival. They didn't ask what was inside the box. Smugglers don't ask questions."
Tywin's fingers tapped once on the armrest. After a moment he asked, "And Ser Dontos Hollard? Lady Sansa said he abducted her during the chaos at the wedding feast."
"I don't know, my lord," Corleone answered calmly. "My men searched the ship thoroughly and questioned everyone. No sign of Dontos. The vessel had only those three people from pickup to departure."
Tywin frowned and turned to Sansa. "During the abduction, did Ser Dontos give any reason for his actions, Lady Sansa?"
Sansa's face showed genuine confusion. She bit her lip. "I… I don't know, my lord. When the king fell, everyone panicked. Ser Dontos grabbed my arm and whispered, 'Come with me or you'll die.' I was terrified. I went with him."
"He took me through a side door, down stairs, into a carriage. Someone else was waiting inside—face covered. They pressed a cloth soaked in something over my mouth and nose. When I woke, I was inside the crate and could hear waves."
"So you still don't understand why he wanted to harm you," Tywin said.
"I don't," Sansa answered, voice tinged with bitterness. "I truly don't."
Many nobles exchanged doubtful glances. The story didn't quite add up.
Everyone knew Dontos Hollard's history—the last of House Hollard, once loyal to House Darklyn. After the Defiance of Duskendale, both houses lost their lands and titles. Most were executed. Young Dontos was spared only because Ser Barristan Selmy begged for his life.
He had lived in King's Landing as a squire until Robert Baratheon, in a drunken whim, knighted him—landless, penniless, a knight in name only.
"At the tourney for King Joffrey's thirteenth nameday," Sansa continued softly, "Ser Dontos entered the lists. The night before he drank himself senseless, then stumbled half-naked into the arena the next day, ranting and raving. The king saw it as a direct insult to the crown."
Her face paled under the weight of every eye. "Joffrey wanted to execute him. I begged for his life. I was still the king's betrothed then."
"The king spared his life out of respect for our betrothal, but stripped him of his knighthood and forced him to become a fool."
Tears welled in Sansa's eyes. She whispered, almost to herself, "I saved him… and this is how he repays me. Why? Why?"
A wave of sympathy rippled through the gallery.
Corleone spoke up, voice clear. "Maybe because you saved him."
Sansa turned to him, blue eyes wide with confusion.
Corleone looked around the sept. "Imagine a proud knight stripped of his armor and sword in front of everyone, forced to wear a fool's motley and be laughed at. Then, in his lowest moment of shame, the person who saves him is a fourteen-year-old girl—even if she is the king's betrothed and future queen."
He paused. "Maybe that felt like an unbearable humiliation."
The sept went still. Many nobles nodded slowly. They understood that kind of pride.
In the knightly culture of the Seven Kingdoms, honor was everything. Dying in battle or being captured was acceptable. Being publicly rescued by a woman? That could wound a man's soul.
"So you're suggesting," Tywin said slowly, "that Ser Dontos abducted Lady Sansa not as part of some grand conspiracy, but purely out of revenge?"
"Perhaps," Corleone replied, noncommittal. "We have no direct proof either way. It's only a guess. Maybe someone put him up to it. Or maybe Dontos Hollard simply wanted to prove he wasn't a pathetic creature who needed a girl to save him—even if it meant committing a crime."
The explanation was simple, human, and immediately felt right to most of the room.
Tywin stayed silent, eyes moving between Corleone and Sansa.
The story had holes. Of course it did.
But right now Tywin had no interest in poking at them.
Joffrey had been dead for a week. The truth didn't matter to him anymore. What mattered was this:
If Corleone was telling the truth—if Sansa had been kidnapped right after Joffrey's death and hidden in Flea Bottom all this time—then what did that mean?
It meant that during the days when Tywin had ordered the Gold Cloaks into Flea Bottom and the riot had broken out, Sansa Stark herself had been at the center of that chaos.
Yet the Hand of the King, the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, had known nothing about it.
Ser Adam Marbrand had never reported it. Varys had never mentioned it. Even Tywin's own spies inside Flea Bottom had stayed silent.
Either Corleone's control was terrifyingly complete… or someone very close to Tywin had betrayed him.
And only days earlier, Corleone had somehow assassinated Paxter Redwyne while supposedly still at sea—then hidden Sansa Stark right under Tywin's nose.
Now, the very day after the Gold Cloaks finally withdrew from Flea Bottom, Corleone was here instead of consolidating his power in his new territory.
He was standing in the Great Sept, at Tyrion's trial, publicly vouching for a northern girl who meant nothing to him.
Why?
Tywin's gaze sharpened on Corleone's calm face. Every move this man made had layers.
A few nights ago, in the Hand's Tower, Tywin had driven a sword straight at Corleone's throat with all his strength—and the blade had simply stopped.
That impossible moment still made his skin crawl.
Because the man standing before him now possessed power Tywin could not understand.
And that man was calmly testifying for Sansa Stark in Tywin's own court.
What game was he playing?
Saving Tyrion because of Jaime? Possible.
But was that all?
Tywin's eyes shifted back to the girl.
Sansa Stark—living heir to Winterfell.
Control her and you planted a dagger in the North. A bargaining chip against Roose Bolton or the remaining Starks. Priceless.
Corleone had saved her, hidden her, and now vouched for her publicly. Was he claiming that debt for himself?
Had this farmer knight already started planning for the North?
Tywin's fingers tightened on the armrest.
Sansa's sudden reappearance had briefly rekindled an old ambition.
Robb Stark was dead. Bran and Rickon were rumored dead. Arya missing. By law, Sansa was the rightful heir of Winterfell.
That was why Tywin had forced her marriage to Tyrion—to plant Lannister blood in the North.
But that plan only worked if Sansa remained under Lannister control.
Now…
Tywin's gaze moved between Corleone and Sansa.
If Sansa was under Corleone's control, every calculation changed.
Corleone was not Roose Bolton. The Leech Lord was cruel and cunning, but he still played the noble game—power, land, marriage, betrayal. Tywin understood those rules.
Corleone was an unknown.
A man who had risen from farmer to knight, built an underworld empire in Flea Bottom using his own "Black Hand" code, and now could not be harmed by steel.
He didn't play by the rules. Tywin had seen that the night Corleone threatened him one-on-one.
For sixty years Tywin had reduced the world to a set of rules he could understand and control.
Power came from force and gold. Loyalty could be bought. Fear worked better than love.
Corleone broke every one of those rules.
The sept stayed silent far too long. Nobles began shifting, whispers growing louder.
Finally Tywin spoke, voice perfectly even.
"Since Ser Corleone has vouched for you," he said, eyes moving from Corleone to Sansa, "you may continue your testimony, Lady Sansa."
Sansa let out a quiet breath of relief. She glanced at Corleone with clear gratitude, then straightened and faced the platform again.
"Yes, my lord."
Her voice was stronger now. She looked directly at the pale-faced prostitutes in the gallery.
"Regarding the accusations made by these ladies—that my husband Tyrion Lannister is a lecherous, violent monster who takes pleasure in abusing women—these claims are completely false."
"Tyrion Lannister is not a depraved monster."
A ripple of shock ran through the gallery. The prostitutes went even paler.
They all knew they had lied. But they had taken Cersei's gold and faced power they couldn't refuse.
The heavy-set whore started to rise, but Ser Balman Byrch's hand clamped down on her shoulder.
"Don't move, whore," he growled. "Your time to speak is over. Interrupt the trial again and I'll make sure you have a hundred customers tonight."
The woman shrank back, terrified.
Tywin said nothing. He simply watched.
Cersei shot to her feet in the front row, red gown swirling, golden hair blazing in the light.
Her beautiful face was twisted with rage, green eyes burning with naked hatred.
"He is a monster!" she shrieked, voice shrill enough to cut glass. She pointed a trembling finger at Tyrion. "That filthy dwarf was born in sin! He tore his way out of my mother's body and killed her with his grotesque head!"
"My mother died the day this abomination was born!"
Her voice rose higher, cracking with fury and grief. "Look at his eyes—those ugly, mismatched eyes that stare at every woman's chest like he wants to devour them!"
"Ask any servant in the Red Keep how many barrels of wine that dwarf drinks every month! Every person who ever served him has been insulted or beaten!"
Cersei stepped down from the gallery toward the trial area, gold cloaks hesitating to stop the Queen Regent in her madness.
Even Ser Balman lowered his head. He knew exactly how dangerous a woman driven by hate and madness could be—his own wife was proof.
"He's a monster!" Cersei screamed, gripping the railing. "Twisted in body and soul! The gods stuffed every evil into that ugly head when they made him, so he envies everything good and whole!"
"That's why he poisoned my son! Because he envies Joffrey for becoming king, envies the golden Lannister looks he inherited from me and his father, envies that Lannister blood would sit the Iron Throne!"
"And him—a dwarf, a monster—can only hide in the shadows and plot with his twisted mind to destroy everything beautiful!"
The venom was effective.
The mood in the sept shifted. Nobles began nodding and murmuring.
"The queen is right… dwarves are born under a curse…"
"Born killing his own mother—that's sin…"
"I heard he burned his own men with wildfire during the Blackwater…"
The whispers swelled into a tide.
Tyrion lowered his head. The chains rattled, but he said nothing.
To the world, a dwarf was born guilty. His existence itself was the crime. His wit was cunning, his humor crude, his love of wine depraved.
No one wanted to believe that even a dwarf had never forced a woman.
And the story of an ugly dwarf poisoning a handsome young king felt so perfectly right.
The tide had turned against Tyrion again.
Sansa watched it all.
Cersei's madness and the nobles' eager agreement reminded her of every time she had stood in this exact position.
Her fists clenched at her sides.
Then she stepped forward.
"Perhaps in your eyes Tyrion Lannister is a dwarf, a monster, a twisted creature born in sin," she said, her clear voice cutting through the whispers.
Her blue eyes swept the hall. Then she raised her chin and spoke the words that stunned the entire sept.
"But in my eyes… he is a man of honor. A true knight who respects women."
The explosion of noise was deafening.
"What?!"
"A knight? Him?!"
"Has she actually fallen for the dwarf?"
"The Stark girl's gone mad—she'll take anything!"
Laughter and disbelief rippled everywhere. No one could connect Tyrion with the word knight.
Even Tywin raised an eyebrow.
Cersei laughed, shaking her head. "Hiding for months has clearly addled your brain. That dwarf respects women? He spends enough gold in brothels to feed an army! His idea of respect is making those women kneel and lick his—"
"Does he have evidence?" Sansa cut her off coldly.
Cersei froze.
Sansa turned to face the entire hall, back straight, neck long and proud like a swan. Sunlight through the stained glass gave her a faint golden glow.
"You accuse Tyrion Lannister of being lecherous, violent, and cruel to women. Then show real evidence. Not the word of prostitutes everyone knows can be bought with a few coins. I want actual proof."
She looked up at Kevan. "Lord Kevan, as Master of Laws, you know that under the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, guilt requires solid evidence."
"So tell me—aside from these easily bribed whores, aside from the Queen Regent's personal hatred and prejudice—is there any real evidence that Tyrion Lannister has ever abused a woman?"
The sept fell silent.
Cersei opened her mouth, then clenched her teeth. She had nothing.
Tyrion spent lavishly in brothels—that was true. He drank too much. He had a sharp tongue. But abuse? Beatings? Imprisonment? Torture for pleasure?
There was no evidence because it had never happened. The women who had actually served him spoke highly of him—especially since no one paid better.
The earlier testimony from the whores had already fallen apart under scrutiny. Sansa had just laid every flaw bare.
A small, knowing smile touched Sansa's lips—the smile of someone who had survived betrayal, imprisonment, and despair and risen from the ashes.
"You have no evidence," she said.
"But I do."
She looked around the hall, meeting every eye.
Then she lifted her chin, sunlight catching the elegant line of her profile.
"I have proof that Tyrion Lannister is a man who respects women."
She paused, voice ringing clear and steady through the silent sept.
"Because right now…"
"I am still a virgin!"