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Game of Thrones Prince of the Rhoyne
Game of Thrones: Knights Life
CaveLeather
Bronn's Adam's apple bobbed against the edge of the blade. Cold sweat ran down his forehead and dripped onto the Hound's hand.
"Uh… Ser Barristan…" His voice came out shaky and thin. "I've got a simple wife waiting for me back home…"
Barristan didn't even look at him.
The old knight's gaze moved past the offered dagger and settled on Corleone, who still hadn't risen from his chair. After a moment, Barristan reached out—not to take the blade, but to gently push the Hound's hand back.
The motion was small, but the strength behind it was enough that even the Hound couldn't resist it.
The Hound's eyes narrowed. His fingers tightened reflexively around the back of Bronn's neck. Bronn let out a strangled sound, eyes bulging.
"My apologies, Lord Corleone," Barristan said calmly, ignoring the choking man in front of him. "I cannot grant that request."
"Oh?" Corleone didn't move. He simply tilted his head slightly, a trace of interest flickering in his dark eyes.
Barristan straightened. Beneath the plain gray cloak, his body—still hard and powerful despite his age—seemed to grow taller. It was the quiet, unshakable presence of the greatest knight the Seven Kingdoms had ever known.
"I followed Her Grace from Pentos to Slaver's Bay," he said, voice steady and clear. "I crossed the entire width of the Nine Free Cities with her."
"I watched her stand before the Thirteen of Qarth without flinching. I saw her argue with the slave masters of Yunkai. I watched her ride a dragon into the fighting pits of Meereen to free those who had been made into playthings."
"Everything she has done has been for the sake of the lowest, the most helpless, the most hopeless people."
"And in doing so, she has never once sacrificed an innocent life."
Barristan paused. A spark of something bright and fierce lit his blue eyes.
"From Pentos to Slaver's Bay, it has always been this way."
"She could have burned every man who opposed her with dragonfire. She could have ruled through fear, like the masters she overthrew. But she did not."
"She chose the harder path. She chose justice. She chose hope. Things that cannot be seen or touched, yet are stronger than any sword."
His voice rose slightly, but remained controlled.
"Therefore, Lord Corleone, forgive me, but I cannot make a decision that goes against my honor."
"Her Grace would never agree to buy an ally with the blood of an innocent man."
"If she knew what you asked of me, she would say: if a man can only become my ally through such means, then he was never truly an ally to begin with."
He finished speaking and turned his gaze to Bronn. There was no pity in his eyes.
Bronn opened his mouth, but only a strangled noise came out. His brain had short-circuited.
Barristan looked back at Corleone. Then he slowly raised his right hand and placed it over his heart, offering a slight bow.
"Lord Corleone, I know your position here in King's Landing is complicated."
"You are cautious. You calculate. That is only natural. In this city, blind trust is death. I have seen it happen too many times. Lord Eddard Stark. Lord Jon Arlyn. Both learned that lesson too late."
"But you do not need to test me in this manner."
A small, knowing smile appeared on his weathered face.
"If you wish to test my sword arm, we can find a yard and fight properly—just you and I."
"If you wish to test my loyalty, then know this: my loyalty belongs to Daenerys Targaryen alone. That will never change."
"But if you wish to insult my honor…"
He paused. Pride flashed in those clear blue eyes.
"Then you already have your answer."
Barristan straightened and spoke clearly.
"As for the matter of treason you mentioned earlier…"
"If you believe your dog here can defeat me, and you wish to hand me over to the Gold Cloaks for a reward…"
He reached down and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. His expression was calm, proud, and utterly confident.
"Then by all means, Lord Vito Corleone. I, Barristan Selmy, am ready."
The office fell into complete silence.
Bronn's eyes were wide. He was equal parts shocked and impressed.
Holy shit.
That's one way to say "fuck you."
But the old man had earned the right to be arrogant.
Because he was Barristan fucking Selmy.
And now, past sixty years old, he stood in the middle of Corleone's office, facing the Godfather of Flea Bottom, the Hound, and who knew how many hidden men, and didn't even blink.
That was Barristan the Bold.
The Hound still had one hand locked around Bronn's neck, but he hadn't moved. His eyes were locked on Barristan, fingers tight around the dagger.
He was waiting for Corleone's order.
One word, and he would slit Bronn's throat and attack.
Even if the target was Barristan Selmy.
But Corleone said nothing. He remained seated, dark eyes studying Barristan without any visible reaction.
Barristan didn't wait. He turned and walked toward the door without another word. The gray cloak swayed behind him. Sunlight caught on the copper fittings of his sword sheath.
As he passed the Hound, Barristan stopped for a brief moment. The two men stood less than two paces apart.
The Hound was taller and broader, but in that moment he felt like he was facing a wall. For a second, he was reminded of the times Barristan had unhorsed him during tourneys years ago.
Barristan looked up at him. He didn't speak. He simply gave a small, knowing smile, then walked past and pushed the door open.
His footsteps faded down the corridor and disappeared down the stairs.
The office was quiet again.
The Hound still stood by the door, hand loosely around Bronn's neck now. Bronn's feet were back on the floor, but he didn't dare move while the blade was still at his throat.
Bronn's eyes darted between the door, Corleone, and the Hound.
After several seconds of silence, he suddenly spoke up.
"Alright, alright! Let go already!"
The Hound blinked.
He looked down at Bronn, who had gone from terrified to suddenly cocky in the span of a few seconds.
Bronn rolled his eyes.
"What are you staring at? Never seen a lord with this much talent for acting?"
He gave a half-hearted struggle. The Hound's hand finally loosened.
Bronn landed on his feet, straightened his torn coat with exaggerated care, and even brushed imaginary dust off his sleeves. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and calmly wiped the sweat from his forehead.
The sweat was real.
Having a knife pressed to your throat tended to do that.
But his hands didn't shake once.
He folded the handkerchief neatly, tucked it away, then turned to Corleone with a wide grin.
"So? How was my performance, Lord Corleone?"
Corleone leaned back in his chair, dark eyes watching him with quiet amusement.
"How did you know?"
Bronn dropped back into his chair, threw one leg over the other, and laced his fingers behind his head like he owned the place.
"You really need to ask?"
He smirked. "I clawed my way up from the bottom of the Riverlands for twenty years. If you actually wanted me dead, you wouldn't have asked that old man to do it himself."
He spread his hands as if the answer was obvious.
The Hound, leaning against the window with his arms crossed, gave a small huff of amusement.
Bronn noticed and jerked his chin at him.
"Don't look so surprised, Hound. I was running jobs in the Riverlands while you were still playing guard dog for that evil little shit Joffrey."
The Hound's eyes narrowed. His hand drifted toward his sword.
Bronn immediately raised both hands.
"Alright, alright! I'll stop!"
Corleone allowed himself a small smile. He had expected nothing less from Bronn.
"Lord Bronn," he said calmly. "You're sharper than I gave you credit for."
Bronn waved a hand. "Don't flatter me. People get cocky when they're praised. Then they make mistakes and lose their heads."
"I've seen plenty of friends back in the Riverlands die that way."
This man really did understand how the world worked.
Corleone nodded and moved on.
He reached over and pulled the bell cord on the wall.
A moment later, Rolje entered.
"My lord?"
"Go gather some men," Corleone ordered. "Take tools and materials and head to Stokeworth. Help Lord Bronn repair his castle."
Rolje blinked. "Repair… the castle?"
"That's right."
Corleone continued. "Stokeworth took heavy damage in the fire. Find the best stonemasons, carpenters, and masons. Use the best materials."
Bronn, who had been lounging with his leg crossed, slowly lowered his foot to the floor.
"You're fixing my castle for me?"
"I am."
"And you're paying for it?"
"I am."
Bronn was quiet for two seconds. Then he nodded once.
"Alright."
Just one word. No dramatic thanks. No tears. Not even a "much obliged."
The Hound gave him a sideways look from the window.
Bronn noticed and shrugged.
"What? Lord Corleone offered to fix my castle. I'd be stupid to say no. You want me to cry about it or something?"
"I spent twenty years surviving in the Riverlands. I've seen bigger storms than this."
"Someone offers to pay, you take it. The whole gratitude-and-loyalty speech can wait until I'm dead."
He said it lightly, but his eyes were sharp. He understood exactly what this meant.
Corleone was satisfied.
"Also," he continued, "withdraw a thousand gold dragons from the accounts. Interest-free loan to Lord Bronn. He can repay it whenever he's able."
Rolje's brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't argue. He simply nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
Bronn reacted more this time.
He tilted his head, studying Corleone, then grinned.
"Lord Corleone… you're trying to tie me to your ship for good, aren't you?"
Corleone met his gaze steadily.
"You can refuse."
Bronn's grin froze for half a second, then widened.
"Refuse? Why the hell would I refuse?"
"Only an idiot turns down free money in this world."
He stood up and slapped nonexistent dust off his pants.
"So. What do you want from me?"
"Murder? Arson? Want me to go to Silk Street and drag a couple of girls back for you?"
His tone was flippant, but his eyes were serious.
Corleone didn't smile. His voice was calm and direct.
"Lord Bronn, you should know by now that I, Vito Corleone, am never stingy with my friendship."
Bronn's grin faded. He nodded.
"I know."
"If I hadn't wanted you to inherit Stokeworth and become a lord, I had a hundred ways to stop it."
Corleone's dark eyes never left him.
"Believe me when I say I could have done it."
"I never doubted that, my lord," Bronn said quietly.
"Good." Corleone's mouth curved slightly.
"Then take my friendship with you when you leave this room."
He paused.
"And make sure the right people hear about it at the right time."
Bronn looked at him for a moment, then broke into a wide, knowing grin.
"Understood."
He tapped his chest. "Don't worry. Spreading rumors is one of the few things I'm actually good at."
"By tomorrow morning, the whole of King's Landing will know that Stokeworth is being rebuilt with Lord Vito Corleone's gold. And that includes…"
He didn't finish the sentence. Corleone simply nodded.
"Go."
Bronn turned and walked out without another word. The door closed behind him.
The office fell quiet again.
"Will he really come back?" the Hound asked after a moment.
Corleone leaned back in his chair and looked out the window at the blue sky.
"He will."
"Why?"
"Because he has no other choice."
Corleone's voice was quiet.
"King's Landing isn't Slaver's Bay. No one here is going to risk everything for a queen who's thousands of leagues away."
"Barristan needs an ally in this city. And I'm the best option he has."
"He'll realize that."
The Hound was silent for a few seconds. "You seem very sure about him."
"I wouldn't say I understand him completely," Corleone said with a small smile. "But I understand people."
"Barrisstan Selmy is a knight first. An envoy second."
"And what do knights value most?"
The Hound thought about it. "Honor?"
"No." Corleone shook his head.
"Promises."
"He swore to Daenerys Targaryen that he would come here and secure an alliance. Until he fulfills that promise, he won't leave King's Landing."
"No matter how angry he is with me right now… he'll come back."
"Because…"
Corleone's dark eyes gleamed.
"He made a vow."