Corleone the Shameless

At the sudden voice, everyone froze and turned toward the sound.

Corleone had somehow appeared a short distance away, his arms folded across his chest. He shook his head slightly, wearing an expression of heartbreaking regret, as though he had lost hundreds of millions.

"What did you say was a shame?"

This displeased the household guard, who immediately frowned and snapped, "This mad dog killed so many of our men. His falling into our hands was a gift from the Old Gods!"

"Remember your place, doctor. Don't think saving Hogg gives you the right to raise your voice at me!"

"Keep going!"

With that, he waved his hand, signaling his men to continue.

Yet Corleone apparently had no intention of stopping there. Instead, he kept his arms folded and continued making a drawn-out tutting noise.

"For fuck's sake!"

Utterly fed up, the guard turned toward Corleone and drew his sword, threatening, "You'd better fucking explain yourself. If your answer doesn't satisfy me, I swear you'll go to hell before this stray dog does!"

Corleone merely shrugged at that, offering no comment.

He did not even glance at the guard, but slowly strolled forward, stopping only a few steps from the Hound.

"I've heard of this fellow. Sandor Clegane, Duke Tywin Lannister's hound."

"They say he killed his first man at twelve, even served in King Joffrey Baratheon's Kingsguard for a time, and did a great deal in the Battle of the Blackwater Rush."

"He was later stripped of his position in the Kingsguard for publicly insulting the king and deserting."

"I'm no deserter!"

Hearing Corleone recite his past in such detail, the Hound spat angrily. "At the Blackwater Rush, I killed more enemies than anyone else. I was just sick of risking my neck for those so-called 'great men'!"

"I gave up that white cloak myself! It was filthier than dog shit!"

The Hound's roar rang throughout the woods, but the Soldiers of the North merely watched him coldly.

After all, they too had lost their lord and their comrades, and not a single person present was softhearted.

"We haven't got time for your fucking sob story, traitor!"

The guard spat on the Hound, then turned to hurry Corleone along. "Get on with it, boy. Don't let me hear even one more useless word out of you. My patience is limited!"

This time, his urging seemed to work, and Corleone stopped keeping them in suspense.

"I said, what a shame."

He repeated himself with added emphasis, looking around at the Soldiers of the North. "Haven't you heard? Not long ago, the late King Robert held a tournament to welcome Duke Eddard Stark."

"And this very Ser Sandor Clegane... was the champion!"

Corleone paused after speaking, quietly observing everyone's reactions.

Seeing the soldiers' bewildered faces, he could not help thinking, These northerners are stubborn fools to a man. Can't they grasp something this simple?

Since that was the case, Corleone had no choice but to spell it out.

"If I remember correctly."

"The champion's prize for the joust... was a full forty thousand Gold Dragons!"

An uproar erupted!

"How fucking much?"

"Forty thousand Gold Dragons? How many trips to the Red Mill would it take to spend all that?"

"I heard that old bastard Tywin Mudister even has a gold chamber pot. If I had that much money, I'd get myself a solid gold saddle!"

"Bullshit! What I heard was that Tywin shits gold!"

Corleone's words immediately caused an enormous stir among the Soldiers of the North.

After all, forty thousand Gold Dragons was a sum beyond anything any of them could imagine.

If the quality of the soldiers was no concern, that was enough money to raise an army ten thousand strong, or even buy all of Karhold with some left over!

Men died for wealth as birds died for food.

In an instant, greed gleamed in every pair of eyes.

Every soldier, the guard included, began breathing heavily, staring straight at Sandor as though they meant to devour him alive.

"Hand over the money, Hound!"

As he roared, he roughly searched the Hound, pulling open his battered leather armor and rifling through every pocket that might hold money. Naturally, he found nothing.

Apart from blood and mud, there was not so much as a single copper on the Hound.

"Rhaegel, you idiot!"

"Do you have any idea how much forty thousand Gold Dragons is? Who could carry that much money on them?"

"Then this fellow spent it all?"

"Dog shit!" another soldier shouted. "How long has it been since the tournament? Not even a year!"

"Forty thousand Gold Dragons! He couldn't spend it all even if he bathed in it every day!"

"That's right!"

Hearing this, the guard named Rhaegel slapped his forehead. "The bastard must have hidden the gold! Somewhere only he knows about!"

For a moment, everyone agreed with this utterly correct conclusion.

Fists, feet, scabbards, and even sticks picked up off the ground began raining down on the Hound.

"Talk! Where's the gold hidden?"

"Tell us, or I'll skin you alive!"

"Beat him! Keep beating him until he talks!"

Faced with this wholly unsophisticated interrogation, the Hound clenched his teeth, choosing not to speak even if they beat him to death.

He had indeed won, and he had indeed possessed an enormous fortune, but that son of a bitch Beric Dondarrion, who deserved the Seven Hells, had robbed him of it all!

All his valuables had been confiscated, leaving him only his horse, armor, and weapons. As a result, the Hound had gone hungry for two days straight. That was the real reason his fighting strength had been so diminished today and these scum had captured him alive.

But could he tell them?

Admit to these northern bastards that he, the dreaded "Hound," had not only been robbed but had been left too hungry to beat them, and had finally been strung up like a stray dog for interrogation?

That was worse than killing him!

As for his having beaten Dondarrion in their duel?

Please, who would believe that?

Once the Hound made up his mind, there was probably no one else as stubborn as he was, apart from a certain fellow who had lost a hand.

He let them beat him without opening his mouth.

The fire in those ugly eyes did not die out. Instead, his stubbornness and pride made it burn all the fiercer.

The beating continued, and the soldiers grew increasingly agitated as they failed to get an answer.

Seeing that the Hound might truly be beaten to death at this rate, Arya Stark, who had been bound and tossed aside all this time, could no longer bear it.

"His life is mine alone to take!"

She gritted her teeth, giving herself an excuse to speak up and help him. Yet just as Arya was about to make a sound, that hateful doctor's voice rang out again.

"Stop! Stop hitting him!"

"If you keep this up, you won't get a penny even if you beat him to death."

His call brought the men, who had been gradually descending into madness, somewhat to their senses. They paused and looked at him in confusion.

"Haven't you figured it out yet?"

Corleone slowly stepped forward, pointing his finger steadily at Arya Stark, who lay curled on the ground. He spoke as though it were obvious. "Why would the Lannisters' faithful hound be traveling with the King in the North's sister?"

"Clearly, this girl is very important to him!"

As he spoke, a cold smile appeared on Corleone's face. "We don't need to waste any more strength torturing this stubborn Hound. All we need to do is..."

"Take good 'care' of this Lady Stark, right in front of her!"