The prep room door slammed shut behind him. Inside, the sound of frantic rummaging echoed off the stone walls.
"Where the fuck is it… where the fuck is it…"
Sandor Clegane was on his hands and knees like a real dog, scarred face twisted in rage as he pawed through the mess. He had already torn the room apart three times. Weapon racks lay tipped against the wall. Gear scattered across the floor. He even yanked up the dusty old chamber pot in the corner, nearly gagging on the smell before dropping it.
Still nothing.
The booklet was gone.
"Impossible," he growled, kneeling there with both hands braced on the floor. His eyes were wide. "It was right here. I kicked it myself. It has to be around here somewhere."
He looked up at the door. Empty. Just a few fresh scratches on the stone from when he'd been throwing shit around.
"Fuck!"
Sandor slammed a fist into the floor. The image of Lyn Corbray kneeling in the sand kept flashing through his head. Who the hell saw that coming? That farmer bastard was supposed to be good, sure. But the way he dismantled the Vale's best knight with a plain steel sword?
If Corleone almost lost to the Mountain after Qyburn got his hands on him… then what the fuck did that make Sandor?
He started tearing through the room again, even shoving his hand into a rat hole in the wall. "Where the fuck is it, you piece of shit booklet!"
He cursed himself a thousand times. Stupid. Arrogant. Big mouth that only knew how to talk shit. Deserved to get burned for it.
"Get the fuck out here!" His voice cracked on the last word.
The door creaked open.
Sandor whipped his head around.
Sunlight spilled across the floor, casting a long shadow. Black armor. Straight back. Sword in hand.
Corleone.
Sandor froze, one arm still jammed into the rat hole, the room trashed behind him. The air went dead still for three long seconds.
"What are you looking for?" Corleone asked, calm as if he were asking about the weather.
Sandor opened his mouth. Nothing came out. How the hell was he supposed to answer? Oh hey, just hunting for that little book you gave me yesterday—the one I kicked across the floor like a badass before I realized I actually need it now that you just made Lyn Corbray look like a fucking amateur?
Too embarrassing. Even for him.
"Nothing," he managed, forcing a grin. It looked more like a snarl on his burned face. Awkward as hell.
"You smile worse than you cry," Corleone said, one eyebrow raised.
Sandor's grin died. He stood up fast, brushed dust off his knees, and leaned against the wall like he'd just been chilling there the whole time. Arms crossed. Totally casual. His eyes still kept darting around the room anyway.
"Here." Corleone tossed something. Sandor caught it on instinct.
Cold. Light. Black steel with rippling patterns. A ruby set into the pommel that caught the light like a watching eye.
Lady Forlorn.
Sandor looked up, confused.
Corleone stood in the doorway, sunlight behind him. No expression on his face. Just those dark eyes, calm and steady.
"Borrow it. Bring it back when you're done."
He turned to leave. Then paused. "Oh, and I think I saw something under that bench over there."
Footsteps faded down the hall.
Sandor spun. The bench he'd kicked over earlier lay on its back like a dead turtle. He lunged, flipped it aside.
There it was. The leather-bound booklet, sitting quiet on the stone like it had been waiting for him.
His eyes lit up like a starving man seeing food.
"My precious…" he whispered, voice rough. He scooped it up with shaking hands and clutched it to his chest. "My precious…"
He flipped it open. On the third page, a small note was tucked between the sheets.
He pulled it out. One line in clean handwriting: Read it. Then give it back.
Up in the VIP seats, Tywin Lannister listened to the roaring chant of "Ser Corleone!" shaking the arena walls. His eyes narrowed.
Lyn Corbray. The Vale's finest knight with a Valyrian steel sword in his hand. Beaten that cleanly. That fast.
Tywin's mind turned over every detail. Three days ago he'd called Lyn into the Tower of the Hand. The man had been so damn confident. Tywin had believed it too. A public challenge on opening day in front of twenty-five hundred people. If Corleone refused, his reputation took a hit. If he accepted, Lyn would cut his sword in half and drag him off the pedestal.
Either way, Tywin won.
He hadn't counted on a third outcome.
Corleone won. And he made it look effortless.
Tywin had been good with a sword in his youth. He knew skill when he saw it. What Corleone showed out there wasn't just good. It was perfect. Angles. Timing. Prediction. Every move exact. Even Arthur Dayne at his peak probably hadn't been that precise.
If Lyn Corbray with Lady Forlorn couldn't touch him, who in the Seven Kingdoms could?
Barristan Selmy? Too old. Already turned traitor.
Jaime? One hand and loyal to Corleone now. Useless.
Tywin couldn't think of a single man who could beat him in a straight fight.
Didn't matter.
Lannisters didn't need fair fights. Lann the Clever had taken Casterly Rock with nothing but clever lies and no blade at all. Everyone had a weakness. Tywin had time. He could wait. He'd outlasted Aerys. He'd outlasted Robert. He could outlast one upstart farmer knight.
"Looks like your plan failed, Father."
Cersei's voice cut in, sweet and sharp like a needle.
Tywin turned. His daughter stood there in deep green silk, golden hair loose, smiling like she'd just won something.
"lyn Corbray," she said, shaking her head with open contempt. "The best knight in the Vale."
She laughed. The sound was ugly in the quiet seats. "You know, Father, I almost laughed out loud earlier. Not at Lyn. At myself. I actually believed you had this under control."
She stepped back into the sunlight, green eyes bright with satisfaction.
"You're enjoying this?" Tywin asked quietly.
Cersei blinked. "What?"
"I asked if you're enjoying this. Watching my plan fall apart seems to please you."
His voice stayed flat. No anger. Just disappointment. That hit harder than any shout.
"Father, I—" Cersei started, but he cut her off.
"Do you know why I'd rather drag Jaime out of the Kingsguard kicking and screaming than let you inherit Casterly Rock?"
She went still.
"Because I'm a woman?" she snapped, years of old anger flaring.
Tywin shook his head. "No. Man or woman makes no difference to me. But they can't be a fool."
Cersei's face went white. "You're calling me a fool?"
"You married Robert Baratheon and let three bastards keep the Lannister name," Tywin said coldly. "You watched your idiot son take Ned Stark's head and start a war we could have avoided. You stand here laughing at my failure because it makes you feel good, not because it helps our family."
He looked her dead in the eye. "You've learned how to enjoy power. You never learned how to use it. You know how to make people fear you. You never learned how to make them loyal. You take what you want and never once thought about what the family might need to give up."
Cersei's fists clenched. She had no answer.
Tywin didn't wait for one. "From now on, talk less. If you want to prove you're not a fool, watch. Listen. See how that farmer knight took control of this place. How he makes people follow him. How he does it better than you ever could."
He turned back to the arena. "How he does it more like a Lannister than you do."