Jaime Lannister found himself momentarily speechless.
Throughout their journey, he had personally witnessed Corleone's calculating nature—how every decision he made seemed meticulously weighed against profit and the glitter of gold dragons. For a mere hundred gold dragons, Corleone had gone so far as to set an elaborate trap, one that led Stao and his men to their demise with chilling efficiency.
To Jaime, Corleone had always appeared as a man guided solely by self-interest, someone whose mind was clear, sharp, and unclouded by emotion. In many ways, Jaime even saw in Corleone a reflection of his own father—a man who placed logic and benefit above sentiment, whose world was ruled by cold practicality.
Yet now, standing at the Lion Gate with a thousand gold dragons easily within his reach, Corleone displayed something entirely unexpected.
Instead of securing the reward, instead of demanding immediate payment, instead of ensuring that profit came first—he advised Jaime to return home, to embrace long-lost family warmth, to breathe in the comfort he had been deprived of for far too long.
Such a gesture, small in appearance yet monumental in its intent, shook Jaime to the core.
What kind of man turned away from an effortless fortune?
What kind of vision was this?
What manner of magnanimity?
Looking into Corleone's calm and sincere eyes, Jaime felt a ripple of emotion he couldn't describe. The image of Corleone within his thoughts shifted, becoming layered, complex, and elevated far beyond the simple label of a "profit-seeker."
Yes—Corleone was a master of calculation.
But there was something more within him—something Tywin Lannister, for all his authority and dominion, had never possessed.
It was something faint… yet powerful.
A human warmth.
A memory flickered within Jaime's mind, unbidden—the moment in Harrenhal when Corleone chose to redeem Brienne rather than take a sizable bounty. At the time, Jaime had not fully understood it. Now, the realization struck deeper, resonating in places he rarely allowed himself to feel.
A warmth rose within his chest, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting.
To be understood.
To be seen.
To be cared for not as a pawn, a weapon, or a disgrace—but as a human being.
Such moments had been painfully scarce in Jaime's life, a life shaped by scorn, whispers, betrayal, and the heavy chains of reputation. It reminded him—just faintly—of another towering figure, the one who had once laid a sword upon his shoulder and named him knight.
"Corleone…"
But when Jaime finally blinked and returned to himself, Corleone was already gone—vanished into the bustling tide flowing through the Lion Gate, swallowed by the noise and movement of King's Landing.
Only his parting words lingered, cutting through the air with clarity:
"Don't worry, Ser. Later tonight, I will personally visit Lord Tywin."
A faint pause.
"I hope by then, you will have my reward ready."
---
Flea Bottom
The smell here was enough to make even seasoned soldiers gag.
If King's Landing was a giant cesspit, then Flea Bottom was the thick sludge at its depths—fermented for years, crawling with filth, rot, and unseen horrors.
Beneath the crooked alleyways and sagging rooftops sat the most notorious underground fighting den in the capital—the Blood Cellar.
Inside, the air was a suffocating blend of sweat, blood, rotting refuse, and stale urine. Flames flickered through the haze, casting warped shadows that danced across faces twisted with excitement, hunger, and depravity. Beggars pressed shoulder to shoulder with thieves, mercenaries, dockworkers, and even nobles who hid behind hooded cloaks—yet here, titles meant nothing.
Everyone wore the same expression.
A feverish thirst.
In a shadowed corner, Corleone observed the arena below, his expression unreadable. His Insight—now at Level 2—caught every twitch, every tremor, every hunger-driven gleam.
The gamblers' shaking hands.
The smug grins of bookmakers.
Roars of men who had won.
The hollow despair of those who had lost.
Humanity stripped bare—raw, primitive, unfiltered.
After eliminating Stao and his group, Corleone had collected just over a hundred gold dragons—enough to upgrade his Insight skill. He clicked his tongue even now at the memory.
The northern savages truly were poor. Twenty-plus men, and together they barely carried a purse worth mentioning.
In the pit below, a brutal display unfolded—a thin, exhausted man with no training fought desperately against three starving wild dogs. He swung his arms weakly, more instinct than skill, his attempts at defense hopeless against fangs sharpened by hunger.
One dog lunged, tearing into his calf and dragging him down. The other two followed, ripping flesh with savage delight.
The man screamed—high, shrill, desperate.
But the crowd roared louder, drowning him out, celebrating as the dogs feasted.
Corleone's verdict was quiet, almost bored.
"Crude."
Yes—crude.
Because he understood something the crowd did not.
Beasts devouring a man was merely the appetizer.
What truly stirred the blood—what made men spend coin they could not spare—were battles where humans fought humans, or where humans faced beasts with real skill, real risk, and real suspense.
Corleone, in his previous life, had briefly studied psychology. He knew the science behind such spectacles. Violent combat triggered adrenaline, excitement, and primal thrill. And when hundreds watched together, the energy multiplied—stress melted, joy surged, and the illusion of power washed over them.
The power to witness life and death.
The power to affect fate.
It was intoxicating.
And profitable.
Very profitable.
If he were to manage such a place… the profits could multiply a hundred-fold. A thousand-fold.
As the bloody performance ended, attendants chased the dogs away, dragged the mutilated corpse aside, and scattered sand over the blood—efficient, practiced, as though clearing a dining hall rather than a killing floor.
Corleone shifted his gaze toward a squat, thick-bodied man beside him—Rorger.
"This place is well-run," Corleone remarked lightly. "Looks like you're doing better than I expected in King's Landing."
The words were part compliment, part test.
Rorger's expression twisted into an awkward grin.
"What are you saying, Boss Corleone? If I were doing well, I wouldn't have been arrested and sentenced to die."
It was true. He had awakened during the journey and immediately knelt before Corleone. Corleone had not been surprised. Men like Rorger—born in the gutters—understood one rule:
The strongest fist rules.
The cruelest hand leads.
And loyalty shifts like the tide.
Otherwise, he would not have so eagerly volunteered to take the black when condemned.
"I don't care for empty flattery," Corleone said coolly. "A thousand flattering words are worth less than one useful action."
Rorger stiffened, then nodded quickly.
"I understand, Boss Corleone."
Without hesitation, he pushed through the crowd toward the man who sat above the pit—hunched over a scroll, scribbling numbers and ledgers—surrounded by three muscular guards.
The bookmaker.
Before him stretched a line of gamblers waiting to place bets.
But lines meant nothing to someone like Rorger.
He shoved bodies aside, ignoring curses and fists, and planted himself directly before the bookmaker. He puffed out his chest and shouted:
"Next round!"
Then, loud enough to silence half the arena:
"I bet a thousand gold dragons!"
The room froze.
Heads snapped toward him.
Gamblers gasped.
Bookmakers faltered.
A thousand gold dragons was not a wager.
It was a declaration.
A challenge.
A disruption.
And above, watching from the shadows, Corleone allowed himself the faintest of smiles.
The first stone had been thrown.
And the ripples were only beginning.