Corleone stepped into the warehouse first, and the sight that greeted him made his pupils shrink.
Nahor Demitris lay on the floor, throat slit wide open. Blood still poured from the wound, and his eyes were wide, staring straight at the door like he was trying to curse the whole world even in death.
Corleone's boots stopped for half a second.
In that moment, he could almost read the raw, unfair complaint in those empty eyes. Like the man was trying to write "this is bullshit" in his own blood.
Then his gaze moved past the corpse to the four women standing over the blood.
"Take them," he said, no hesitation in his voice.
Irgo charged first, roaring like he'd been waiting weeks for a real fight. The big Dothraki warrior closed the distance fast, blade aimed straight at the tallest one—Obara Sand.
Obara yanked a short spear from somewhere and met the strike head-on. Steel rang. Irgo felt the shock travel up his arm. The woman was stronger than she looked.
He liked that.
But then Tyene came in from his blind side, poisoned blade flashing toward his ribs. Irgo twisted, but the angle was bad. The Hound's greatsword slammed in and stopped her cold.
"Little Dornish bitch," the Hound growled, burned face twisting into something ugly. "I've had a few of you on Silk Street. You're all the same."
Tyene didn't waste breath answering. She pulled back and tried again, but the Hound's blade was everywhere. Every time she moved, steel met steel and forced her another step back.
On the other side, Irgo and Obara traded blows. Irgo was fast and brutal, but Obara's spear kept him at bay. Neither could land a clean hit.
Corleone watched without moving. Rolje stayed back too, smart enough to know he'd only get in the way. He crouched beside Nahor's body, checked the neck wound, and shook his head.
"Dead, my lord. Poisoned blade. No saving him."
Corleone gave a single nod. His eyes stayed on the four women.
The fight shifted fast once the Hound joined Irgo. Obara got knocked back hard, blood running down her arm. Tyene took a brutal strike to the ribs and hit the wall, coughing blood.
"Tyene!" Sarella cried out, but Nymeria grabbed her arm and held her back.
"Don't," Nymeria said quietly, eyes never leaving Corleone.
While everyone watched the main fight, Nymeria had already circled behind Corleone, poisoned dagger ready. She moved like a shadow, silent, deadly, aiming for the back of his neck.
The blade never landed.
A thin scalpel pressed against her throat instead, cold steel kissing skin.
"Pretty face," Corleone said, voice low and calm. "Shame about the work."
Nymeria froze. The dagger in her hand trembled an inch from his neck.
Corleone didn't even turn around fully. He just stood there, scalpel steady.
"You killed the wrong man," he said.
The fighting stopped. Everyone stared.
Obara wiped blood from her mouth, breathing hard. "He shouted for you. We heard it."
Corleone finally turned, scalpel still at Nymeria's throat. "His name was Nahor Demitris. Senior steward of the Iron Bank. He came to collect a debt the Iron Throne owes them. We talked. We didn't agree. He left angry. Then you took him."
He looked at the body on the floor.
"You cut his throat because you thought he worked for me."
Silence.
Tyene coughed blood and pushed herself up on one elbow. "He… he was in your territory. We thought—"
"You thought wrong," Corleone said. His voice stayed even, but the weight behind it filled the room. "You came into my city, onto my ground, and killed a man who had nothing to do with any of you. You disrespected me."
Obara's jaw clenched. "We're here for our father. Oberyn Martell. You took him."
Corleone's expression didn't change. "Your father was stabbed on the Street of Silk. My people carried him to the Hall of Order. I operated on him myself. He's alive because of me. And you repay that by murdering an Iron Bank man in my warehouse?"
The four Sand Snakes looked at each other. The certainty they'd worn like armor was cracking.
Sarella's voice was small. "We… we got the wrong man?"
Corleone let the question hang. Then he spoke again, quieter but heavier.
"I don't remember meeting any of you. I don't remember giving you a reason to come at me like this. So tell me—why the disrespect? Why walk into my city and kill like you own it?"
He looked at each of them in turn.
"Start from the beginning. All of it. Now."
Obara met his eyes, breathing still rough. "We came for our father. We thought that Braavosi worked for you. We thought we were sending a message."
Corleone nodded once, like he was confirming something he already knew.
"Take them," he told Rolje. "Back to the Hall of Order. All four."
Rolje waved men forward. The Sand Snakes didn't fight this time. They looked at Nahor's body, then at Corleone, and the fight had gone out of them.
As the guards led them out, Corleone looked down at Nahor one last time.
"Clean this up," he said to Rolje. "Then find every man Nahor brought with him. The ones staying near the docks. Make sure none of them leave the city alive."
Rolje nodded. "Yes, my lord."
Corleone turned and walked out into the night without another word. The warehouse door swung shut behind him.