"Want to make some extra coin, Clegane?"
Corleone kept his voice flat, like he was asking if the Hound wanted breakfast. His eyes stayed on the Hound's scarred face.
The Hound narrowed his good eye. He didn't jump at the offer. Instead a flicker of caution crossed his face, the way a wolf sniffs the air near a trap. He'd learned enough about Corleone from the Kingsroad and the mess with Lorch. The man's gold and favors never came cheap.
"Another two-hundred-dragon job?" the Hound rasped, jerking his chin at the unconscious Oberyn on the table. "If you want me guarding that one, I charge by the day. And I want the coin up front."
Corleone waved the idea away. "No. Prince Oberyn's safe enough here in the Hall of Order. He doesn't need you watching him."
He looked the Hound up and down—taller than Oberyn by half a head, broader shoulders, thicker arms. Built for raw power, not the Viper's quick, dirty style. With the right push, the Hound could handle what came next.
"I'm offering you the fight instead," Corleone said. "You take Oberyn's place against the Mountain."
The room went dead quiet.
Rolje's mouth fell open, eyes wide. The Hound's reaction was louder.
"What?" he roared. The sound bounced off the walls and rattled the bottles on the shelves. "You want me to fight him?"
Corleone didn't flinch. If anything, his smile grew a little wider, almost encouraging.
"Don't you want payback for that scar on your face?"
The Hound's whole body went rigid. His right hand curled into a fist so tight the knuckles went white. The burned side of his face twitched, scars pulling tight as he clenched his jaw. That night when he was seven was carved into him deeper than any blade could reach—the fire, the pain, the cold that never quite left.
"I can give you the chance," Corleone went on, voice smooth. "Revenge and a fat payday. Picture it—every lord and lady who ever laughed at you or called you a monster watching while you put your brother on his back. Use your sword, your fists, every ounce of rage you've swallowed for years. Then walk away with the winner's gold, the glory, and maybe a little peace."
The Hound stared at him, breathing hard. His chest rose and fell like he'd just run a mile.
"He's still my brother," he said at last. The words sounded like they cost him. "Everybody knows he's not easy to put down."
It wasn't a flat no. Corleone heard the difference. If the Hound really meant to walk away, he would've said so and left. This was him bargaining—looking for a reason to say yes.
"Two hundred dragons is too fucking low," the Hound growled, lifting his chin. "Gotta add money."
Corleone almost laughed. That was usually his line. He shook his head, then got serious.
"Half a percent."
"Half a percent of what?"
"Total betting pool on the opening match at the fighting pit. You get half a percent of everything that comes in."
The Hound snorted. "That's still chicken shit. How much we talking?"
Corleone glanced at Rolje. "Tell him the current total on the central book."
Rolje blinked, then fumbled for the little ledger he always carried. He licked his thumb, flipped pages, and read out the number.
"As of this morning… the total on the 'Red Viper's Revenge' match is two hundred forty-seven thousand eight hundred fifty-two gold dragons."
The Hound went still. His good eye blinked once. The burned side of his face twitched like the number had physically hit him.
"Two… hundred… forty-seven thousand?"
"Two hundred forty-seven thousand eight hundred fifty-two," Rolje repeated, puffing up a little. "I counted it myself."
The Hound looked like someone had slapped him. Back when Robert was still king, the Hound had won the biggest tourney of his life and walked away with forty thousand dragons. That had been the richest prize anyone could remember. Now Corleone had pulled in almost a quarter of a million in bets on a single fight in just two days.
"Motherfucker," the Hound muttered. "You're not joking."
Corleone's smile stayed small and calm. The pot was still growing. Every hour more gold flowed in from lords, merchants, even the Faith through their "charity" front. Oberyn couldn't fight anymore, but Corleone knew how to spin a story. A brother-against-brother grudge match could still pack the stands and keep the betting frenzy alive.
"I don't joke about business," Corleone said once the Hound had mostly processed the number. "But there's one condition."
"What?"
"You have to win." Corleone met his eyes without blinking. "If you lose, you don't just walk away empty-handed. The Mountain will kill you in the pit. Your body gets dumped in the potter's field. Your name gets forgotten. And that revenge you want? It dies with you."
He let the words land.
"This isn't a game, Clegane. It's a bet. Your life against enough gold to live the rest of your days and a real shot at settling the score."
"Or," Corleone added, spreading his hands, "you can take the safe job. Head of security here at the Hall of Order. Fifty dragons a month. Quiet life. No risk."
"Or," he finished, "you can roll the dice with me."
The silence stretched. The Hound looked away, jaw working. Then he grinned—ugly, lopsided, burned skin pulling tight.
"You read people right," he said, voice rough but sure. "I'm in, Vito Corleone. Just make sure the coin's ready when it's over. If I don't see it, I'll burn this whole fucking place down."
He gave Oberyn one last look, then turned and walked out. The door closed behind him with a solid thud.
The hallway outside was darker and quieter. The Hound's boots echoed on the stone. Rolje followed a few steps behind, light on his feet for a big man.
Neither spoke.
At the corner, Rolje moved.
He lunged fast, no warning, grabbing the Hound by the shoulders and slamming him back against the wall.
Thud.
The Hound's back hit stone. Rolje's noseless face was inches away, breath hot.
"You show some fucking respect when you talk to Ser Corleone," Rolje snarled. "He's not one of your Westlands drinking buddies or some jumped-up hedge knight. That's Ser Corleone."
The Hound didn't panic. He could feel Rolje's strength—plenty for an ordinary man—but it wasn't enough. Not even close.
He smiled.
"Let go," he said quietly.
"I said show some respect!" Rolje squeezed harder.
The Hound's left hand came up, slow and almost lazy. He caught Rolje's right wrist, twisted once—sharp and clean.
Crack.
Before Rolje could react, the Hound's other hand was around his throat, fingers like iron. He lifted just enough that Rolje's feet scraped the floor.
"Listen close, you noseless bastard," the Hound rasped, face right up against Rolje's. "This is how I talk. Been talking this way for decades—to kings, to knights, to my cunt of a brother, to everybody."
Rolje clawed at the hand on his throat, face turning red, eyes bulging. The Hound eased the pressure just enough for him to suck in air.
"I don't like knights. I don't like nobles. I don't like any of that honor-and-glory bullshit. But your Ser Corleone?" The Hound's burned mouth twisted. "I don't disrespect him."
He let go.
Rolje dropped, coughing and gasping, one hand braced on the wall. Purple fingerprints were already rising on his neck. His right wrist throbbed where it had been twisted.
A couple of gray-uniformed wardens came running at the noise, short clubs ready. The Hound raised both hands in a mocking "no harm meant" gesture and kept walking toward the stairs. The wardens hesitated, then stepped aside—orders were to treat the big burned man as a guest.
Rolje stayed where he was, breathing hard.
His wrist hurt. His throat hurt worse. He'd been handled like a child. The Hound hadn't even broken a sweat.
Too weak.
These last weeks he'd been buried in ledgers and opening-day numbers, moving thousands of dragons around. The old street-fighting edge had dulled. He hated that feeling.
He pushed off the wall and started down the corridor, mind already turning.
He needed training. Real training. Not the sloppy brawling he'd grown up with in Flea Bottom. He wanted the best—sword, fist, knife, staff, anything that could kill a man fast and quiet.
He wanted to be strong enough that the next time someone spoke sideways about Corleone, he could shut them up for good instead of getting pinned to a wall like a fucking kid.
Maybe…
An idea hit him. One very good candidate for a teacher.