Lyn Corbray's name hit the Ring of Order like a slap. Whispers rolled through the stands in waves.
Down in the cheap seats, smallfolk in rough wool turned to each other. One scratched his head and muttered, "Corbray? Who the hell's that? He any good?"
The man next to him just shrugged. To them it was just another highborn name—some lord who lived in a castle they'd never see.
Up in the VIP boxes, the reaction was different. An old knight shot to his feet, eyes wide. Lord Lake dropped his wine cup; it smashed on the stone and spilled gold across the floor. He didn't even look down.
"Lyn Corbray," he whispered. "Fuck me. That's really him?"
Herbert blinked. "You know him, Father?"
Lord Lake didn't answer. He just stared at the man in the aisle, face tight with old respect and fresh caution.
Lyn Corbray saw it all and smiled. This was what he wanted. He wasn't some nameless hedge knight. He was Lyn Corbray—the best sword in the Vale.
On the main platform, Corleone's black eyes narrowed. He knew the name. He'd read it late at night in the Hall of Order, flipping through the thick book of noble houses and old wars. Lyn Corbray. Vale knight. Second son of his house. Famous for one thing above all: his blade.
And the blade was in his hand right now.
Black steel. Rippling patterns that caught the sun like living water. Valyrian steel. Lady Forlorn. The sword that had killed a Prince of the Kingsguard at the Trident. The sword every lord in the Vale wanted and no one would sell.
Corleone felt his mouth curve. He couldn't help it.
Lyn Corbray noticed the look and thought it was fear. His smile turned sharp.
"Recognize me now?" he called out, lifting the sword so the light ran down the black blade. "This is Lady Forlorn. My family's Valyrian steel. It's drunk the blood of princes and rebels both. Today it drinks yours."
The crowd went quiet. Two thousand five hundred people waited to see what Corleone would do.
He didn't back down. He just studied the sword a moment longer, then spoke like he was asking about the weather.
"Nice blade. You want to sell it?"
The laughter that followed was loud and ugly. Lyn Corbray's face went from red to purple in seconds.
"You arrogant little shit," he snarled. "I'll fucking kill you right now."
Corleone raised one hand, calm as ever.
"You keep saying that. You sound real sure of yourself. So let's make it simple. You win, you keep your name, your fame, and your pretty sword. You lose…" He pointed at the blade. "You leave it here. Everything. You dare?"
Lyn Corbray's knuckles went white on the hilt. The whole arena held its breath.
Corleone smiled, small and cold.
"Well? You dare?"