The best way to tear down someone's reputation is to beat them in public, right in the thing they're supposed to be best at.
Tywin Lannister had known that for sixty years. You could have armies, castles, and more gold than the gods. But lose once in front of everyone—lose to someone who shouldn't even be in the same room—and the whole house of cards starts to shake. People start doubting. Allies start hedging. Enemies start circling.
All it takes is one clean, public loss.
He'd picked today on purpose. The opening of the Ring of Order. The whole city watching. Tywin's eyes stayed on the man in the black coat standing in the middle of everything. The corner of his mouth twitched.
He'd spent the last few weeks digging into every fight Corleone had ever been in—the mess at Harrenhal, the training yard at the tourney, the fight with the Mountain outside the Sept. The conclusion was simple: the man was good. Scary good, even. But not unbeatable.
He dodged. He looked for openings. That meant he could be hit.
All they needed was one strong enough sword in front of the entire arena. One real knight who could knock the farmer off his pedestal in front of two thousand five hundred witnesses.
And Tywin had found exactly that man.
Corleone stared across the stands at the knight who'd stood up. His face gave nothing away. He'd expected something like this today. Someone always tried to piss in the well on a big day. He just hadn't expected it this early.
He kept his voice even. "Say that again."
The knight stepped into the aisle, chest out, that cold little smirk still on his face. "I said enough with the speeches, Vito Corleone. All that shit about everyone getting a chance, about this place belonging to the people—it's all bullshit."
A low murmur ran through the crowd. Some of the smallfolk in the cheap seats were already glaring.
Corleone didn't raise his voice. "You think so."
"I know so." The knight kept walking forward. "Look at this place. The walls, the seats, the fancy sand in the middle. None of it changes what you are. You built this so the poor bastards down there would kiss your boots and cheer when you tell them to. You give them clean water and free medicine so they'll fight for you. That's not charity. That's using them."
He swept an arm toward the stands. "Wake the fuck up, you idiots! He doesn't give a shit about you. He needs bodies. He needs people stupid enough to die for his little kingdom in the gutter."
The smallfolk shifted. Some looked angry. Most just waited, eyes on Corleone.
The knight turned back to him, smiling wider now. "You hear that, Corleone? Your precious little people are waiting for you to answer. Go on. Tell them the truth. Tell them you're just another lying bastard using them."
Corleone was quiet for a second. Then he nodded once.
"Some of what you said is right."
The knight blinked, then laughed. "You admit it? You actually—"
"I'm not finished," Corleone cut in. "Yes, this place is mine. I paid for it. I built it. The rules here are my rules. And yes, I need the people who live here. I need them working. I need them watching the streets. I need them keeping this place from turning back into the shit-hole it used to be."
He looked out over the stands, at the men and women in rough clothes who'd been cheering his name a minute ago.
"But I'm not using them. I fix their gutters because that stink was in my air. I open clinics because I don't want bodies rotting in my alleys. I give them work because I need hands. That's not charity. That's a deal. I give them a better life. They give me order. Simple as that."
The knight's face twisted. "You're still lying—"
"No," Corleone said. "I don't lie. When I say this place belongs to everyone, it does. When I say anyone can fight here if they're good enough, they can. But there are rules. You don't just walk in and demand to fight the best. You earn it. You win fights. You rack up points. You prove you belong on that sand."
He pointed at the big wooden board near the pit with the rankings carved into it.
"That's how it works. You want to challenge someone with a name, you climb the ladder first. Otherwise every loudmouth with a rusty sword would be screaming my name every morning and I'd never get anything done."
The knight's jaw clenched. "You're scared. You're hiding behind rules because you know if we fought right now I'd beat you in front of all these people."
Corleone smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.
"You really want to fight me that badly?"
"Damn right I do."
"Then sign up. Register as a fighter. Work your way up. Beat everyone in your bracket and I'll meet you on that sand. I promise you that much."
The knight bared his teeth. "Stop hiding behind your fucking system—"
"I can make an exception," Corleone said, cutting him off again. "If you're already a knight with a real reputation. If you've got the record to back it up. Then I can skip the line and put you straight in."
He tilted his head. "So tell me your name, Ser. Who exactly am I talking to?"
The knight straightened up. He glanced once toward the center box—toward Tywin—then looked back at Corleone with open contempt.
"My name," he said loudly, "is Ser Lyn Corbray. First Sword of the Vale."
He drew his blade in one smooth motion. The steel caught the light and showed the rippling pattern of Valyrian steel.
"And I challenge you right now, you arrogant piece of gutter shit."