I bet there are no bullets in your gun

"Let's make a bet, Walton..."

As those words left Corleone's mouth calmly, Walton instinctively felt that his world seemed to be becoming very different.

Time seemed to freeze at that moment. His sword hung in midair, as though trapped in thick amber, unable to fall.

Everything around them-the swaying woods, the cold moonlight, Gods Eye, even the tense Hound and Arya behind him-began rapidly losing color, blurring, and vanishing altogether.

It was as though they had been peeled away from this world.

Only he and Corleone remained.

"What... what is this..."

Walton struggled to speak, his heart pounding with an unprecedented dread, as though he stood before some indescribable, mighty being!

"Let's make a bet, Walton."

Corleone spoke again, his voice echoing through the void.

There was clearly no source of light, yet the Gold Dragon in his hand shone, making it impossible for Walton to look away.

"I know you're the Dreadfort's finest warrior."

"Your sword has drunk the blood of countless people and cut off who knows how many heads. You have unparalleled confidence in your own sword."

"But..."

Corleone changed tack, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "Just now, before you swung, I already cut your sword in two."

"In other words, what you're gripping now is nothing but a pitiful broken sword."

At those words, Walton instinctively looked at his hand. The blade of fine steel gleamed coldly, plainly undamaged!

"What the fuck... are you babbling about!"

He forced himself to calm down and roared, but his bluster betrayed a hint of inward weakness.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

Corleone grinned, his smile looking deeply mysterious in the Gold Dragon's light.

"Then let's make a bet. This Gold Dragon is the stake."

As he spoke, he flicked his finger, tossing the dazzling Gold Dragon into the air, where it spun.

"I bet your blade... cannot cut off my head!"

The instant those words fell, Walton seemed to see the Gold Dragon's light flicker violently!

Then he felt as though he had pressed his handprint onto some document of supreme laws.

"What a joke..." Walton drew a deep breath, trying to dispel this absurd feeling.

His pride as the Dreadfort's strongest warrior burned in his chest. He roared to bolster his courage with his own voice. "Don't think you can frighten me with these supernatural tricks!"

"My blade will never miss!"

"Aaargh!!!"

With all his strength, he broke free of that invisible stasis and slashed fiercely at Corleone's neck!

He poured all his conviction, strength, and a lifetime's understanding of swordsmanship into that strike!

I can... I can definitely win!!

Yet faced with that blow, Corleone neither dodged nor retreated. He did not even attempt to block!

He simply stood quietly where he was, that unsettling, mysterious smile still on his lips.

Then-

Clang!

Walton could only watch as the fine-steel thrusting sword he trusted so completely touched the skin of Corleone's neck.

...And snapped!!!

The front half of the blade traced an arc and fell lightly to the ground. In his hand, only a ridiculous half of a broken sword remained.

Broken...

It really... broke!!!

"No!!!!"

Walton's entire view of the world came crashing down at that moment.

It was not just the blade that had broken. The instant the sword snapped, he seemed to feel something within him, something that had sustained him his entire life, break along with it!

It was... his confidence and dignity!

He was no longer the feared Walton "Steelshanks," but merely a... utterly defeated, lowly wretch.

Thud!!!

His knees gave way. Unable to hold himself up any longer, Walton dropped heavily to his knees.

The light left his eyes, leaving only boundless fear and bewilderment, as though an invisible hand had drained every bit of strength from his body.

Only then did Corleone slowly step forward, reach out, and gently seize Walton's hair, lifting his head to expose his vulnerable neck completely.

"Mer... mercy..."

Under the pull of the rules, Walton had completely lost the will and courage to resist.

Like a lost lamb, he stared blankly at Corleone and used the last of his strength to murmur a plea. "Please... spare me."

"Lord Corleone... please give me another chance..."

Listening to his abject pleas, Corleone's gaze remained solemn, even carrying a trace of pity.

"As I've always said, Walton."

But in the end, he still spoke coldly, passing final judgment on Walton. "In this world, women and children are entitled to make mistakes. Men alone are not."

"You made your choice, and that choice was betrayal."

"Then it is only right that you bear the consequences of that choice."

Then Corleone raised his longsword.

"I, Vito Corleone."

He murmured softly, whispering on in the darkness, "In view of your crime of betrayal... in the name of the Corleone family."

"Sentence you to death!"

As the whisper ended, Corleone's face seemed to blur in Walton's vision, undergoing some sort of change.

It had no eyes, yet seemed to see everything; it had no mouth, yet had pronounced his final fate.

That face slowly merged with the face carved into the Heart Tree in his memory, like the Old Gods that all northerners had worshipped since ancient times.

"So... that's it..."

Walton murmured to himself, regret beginning to rise in his heart. Yet it was all too late.

Shhk~~~

The blade pierced the side of his neck with absolute precision, then was swiftly withdrawn, clean and decisive.

Walton's body swayed. The last glimmer in his eyes went out completely, and he fell forward.

Having done all this, Corleone stood straight by the lake and lightly twirled his sword.

Swish!

With a flick of his wrist, he shook every warm drop of blood from the blade onto the grass, his movement as graceful as brushing away dust.

He turned his head and looked a short distance away.

At some point, the Hound, Sandor Clegane, had slumped weakly to the ground, barely keeping from collapsing with Arya's support.

Both were staring fixedly at him with utter shock in their eyes.

"What the fuck are you..."

The Hound was somewhat incoherent, but abruptly remembered his earlier experience with the Brotherhood Without Banners and changed tack. "You and Dondarrion's lot..."

"I have nothing to do with them."

Corleone cut him off directly, but did not answer immediately. Instead, he walked to his warhorse, untied something from it, and tossed it to Arya.

"Needle!"

She caught it dazedly. Once she saw what was in her arms, Arya cried out excitedly, then looked at Corleone with gratitude.

"I said you both owed me a favor. Now it seems you'll remember it forever."

Watching the little girl's delight, Corleone's lips curved slightly. Then he gave a slight bow, like an artist who had just completed a perfect performance onstage.

"Allow me to introduce myself, you two."

His voice returned to its usual calm as he spoke evenly:

"My name."

"Is Vito Corleone."