Vito Corleone walked through the arena like he owned the place.
Black velvet coat, clean lines, no flash. Just power. The black-hand sigil on his cloak caught the torchlight every time the wind moved it. He carried his sword at his hip like it belonged there, the tip tapping the stone in a steady rhythm that somehow made the whole crowd quiet down.
People stepped aside without being asked. Nobles, merchants, smallfolk — they all moved. Like the sea parting for a ship.
A middle-aged man in rough clothes shoved forward, eyes wet. "Ser Corleone! You remember me? My boy got run over by a cart. Gold Cloaks wouldn't help. You set his leg in that back-alley shed. Wouldn't take a single copper. Now he's running again. He carried a whole barrel of salt fish yesterday!"
Corleone slowed just enough to answer. "Tommy. Left tibia, slight displacement. I told you six weeks no weight. You had him hauling cargo in four."
The man's face went red. "I… I'm sorry, Ser."
"Tell it to your son," Corleone said, already moving again. "At least he's walking."
More voices rose. Bakers, tanners, mothers, dockworkers. They shouted how he'd fixed their ovens, cleaned their gutters, saved their kids from fever. Every name he answered back like he kept a ledger in his head.
The cheers rolled through the stands like thunder.
In the royal box, Tommen sat small between his mother and grandfather. When Corleone reached him he dropped to one knee without hesitation.
"Your Grace," he said, voice clear. "Forgive me for not greeting you sooner. Today belongs to the people of Flea Bottom. I was busy making sure their day went right."
Tommen blinked, then stood up on his chair so he could be seen. He grabbed Corleone's arm and lifted it high.
"This man," the boy king shouted, voice cracking but loud, "is a true knight of the Seven Kingdoms!"
The arena exploded. Two thousand five hundred voices roared Corleone's name until the stone walls shook. Even the nobles in the good seats were on their feet.
Tywin Lannister sat very still, fingers tight around his cup.
Cersei's face had gone white.
When the noise finally died, Corleone rose. He turned to the two women still glaring at each other in the aisle — Cersei and Falyse Stokeworth — and the men standing with them.
"We are all supposed to be civilized people," he said, voice carrying without shouting. "A queen. A lady of an ancient house. Knights. Yet here you are, screaming like fishwives in front of the entire city."
He looked straight at Cersei first. "Your Grace, I know you were insulted. But the crown doesn't win arguments by shrieking louder."
Then to Falyse. "My lady, you defended your sister and your husband. That was right. The way you did it was not."
He pulled two small wooden tokens from his coat — black hands inlaid with gold and tiny rubies.
"These are lifetime passes to the Ring of Order. Highest tier. One for you, Your Grace, and one for Princess Myrcella. I'll see it reaches her in Dorne with a message that her mother still thinks of her."
Cersei took the token without looking at him. Her fingers closed around it hard.
Corleone stepped back and let his voice drop into something colder.
"Today was supposed to be about order. About what we built here. If I ever see any of you tearing it down again — in this arena, in these stands, on these streets — I will hold every single person present responsible."
He looked at Cersei. At Falyse. At Balman. At Bronn. At Tywin.
At everyone.
The silence that followed was absolute.