The dungeons beneath the Gold Cloaks' headquarters were forever steeped in darkness and stench.
Moist air clung to the stone walls like a living thing, carrying with it the sour odor of sweat, mildew, and human waste. Dozens of prisoners who had yet to be formally tried were crammed together into narrow iron cells, forced to eat, sleep, and relieve themselves in the same miserable space. The filth accumulated rapidly, and the rot soaked into both flesh and spirit until even breathing felt like punishment.
The air down here was no different from Flea Bottom itself—thick, choking, and tainted with despair.
Yet Corleone's cell was an exception.
Whether it was due to the reputation he had displayed earlier, or simply because Captain Sven Rothesby did not wish to provoke further trouble, the cell assigned to him was noticeably cleaner. It still smelled damp, but not foul. There were no puddles of waste, no fleas crawling in corners, no rats boldly scurrying across bare feet.
And more unexpectedly—he was not alone.
Across the dimly lit cell sat a young man who looked no older than his early twenties. His hair, though disheveled from confinement, had been neatly groomed once, and his slim fingers were clean, unchained, and uncalloused. His clothes were rumpled, but made of fine fabric and expert stitching.
This was not a common criminal.
This was a noble.
But even that distinction failed to explain the surreal scene before Corleone's eyes.
The young noble was seated behind a solid wooden table, dining as though he were in a private chamber rather than a prison.
Upon the table sat a steaming slab of roasted steak glistening with grease. Beside it rested polished silverware and a heavy jug of deep-red wine. A loaf of crusty white bread lay sliced neatly at the plate's edge.
The man sliced each bite with careful leisure, lifting his fork without hurry, savoring each mouthful with closed eyes.
It was as if the dungeon did not exist.
It was as if the world beyond iron bars and rot had no meaning.
The aroma of cooked meat drifted through the stone corridors and into the other cells like cruel magic. Instantly, it awakened every starving man imprisoned below.
"Damn you, Gold Cloaks! Where's our food?!"
"He gets meat? MEAT?! We don't even get black bread!"
"We're prisoners too! Why does he eat like a lord while we rot?!"
"Food! Give us food!"
Iron bars rattled violently as fists, feet, and bodies slammed into them.
The dungeon filled with shouting, growling hunger, and rising fury.
The guards arrived within moments.
Clubs cracked against flesh without warning.
Men screamed.
Bones groaned.
And when the shrieking laughter of steel ceased, the prisoners retreated into huddled silence, clutching bruised ribs and bloodied mouths. The guards spat curses and walked away as though they had crushed rats instead of men.
Through it all, the noble never looked up.
He cut his steak in small bites, dipped crust into wine, and chewed with aristocratic calm.
Corleone studied him quietly.
After a moment, the noble sensed it.
He glanced up, irritation flashing in his dark eyes.
"What are you staring at, peasant?" he sneered.
He deliberately raised a slice of meat and shook it twice in the air.
"In a place like this, even if you're carrying a sack of gold dragons, you won't get a bite. Understand?"
Then he smirked and shoved the meat into his mouth.
"But me… I am the son of Count Lake. The city of Duskendale belongs to my father. Even the commander of this dung pile must give us respect."
He wiped grease from his lips.
"By tomorrow morning, I'll be drinking wine in my family hall again."
"And you?"
He leaned forward, eyes glinting.
"You lowborn trash will rot here until the gallows greet you."
Corleone smiled faintly.
How interesting.
He had not planned to provoke anything tonight. In fact, he felt no concern about his imprisonment at all.
With Insight Lv2, he already knew Sven Rothesby for what he was—a coward hiding beneath greed. A man who barked loudly only when protected by numbers.
Even Rorger—the mountain of rage who wanted him dead—had been granted trial rights.
At worst?
Trial by combat.
And with Fate's Gamble, Corleone feared no duel.
Death did not frighten him.
Boredom did.
Thus, he stood and approached the young lord slowly.
"I'm hungry," Corleone said simply.
Lake blinked.
Then scoffed.
"You?"
Corleone smiled calmly.
"Let's make a bet."
The noble raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow.
"A bet? You?"
He laughed.
"You don't even look like you've touched a gold dragon in your life."
Corleone slipped his hand into his pocket.
And let a single coin fall upon the table.
Clink.
A golden dragon.
Lake's eyes widened for a fraction of a second.
Then he masked it with laughter.
"You think that buys something?" he scoffed.
Corleone smiled.
"You claimed no amount of gold buys bread here."
"Then let's test it."
"I wager I'll receive food equal to yours—or better."
"If I succeed…"
He leaned in closer.
"You'll owe me a favor."
The noble froze.
Then threw his head back laughing.
"A favor to a peasant?"
"You're mad."
"But very well."
"I'll take that bet."
"Consider this my evening's entertainment."
Corleone turned toward the bars.
"I'd like a meal," he announced.
"The same as his."
The guard blinked.
Then laughed openly.
"Yes, milord," he sneered.
"One premium steak and Arbor Gold wine, right?"
"Would you also like a whore from Silk Street?"
Laughter erupted again.
Corleone responded calmly.
"No."
"But perhaps my friend here would."
The guard spat.
"Who do you think you are?" he barked.
"A Lannister?"
Corleone looked straight at him.
"No."
"But I know one."
The guard burst out laughing.
"I've whored with the king!"
Another explosion of laughter.
Corleone waited.
When silence finally returned, he said quietly:
"Only fools laugh without listening first."
The guard exploded in rage.
"You little—"
He drew his club.
Stepped forward.
And Corleone leaned closer.
"Old Moss…"
Whispering.
"So much money…"
"So much gambling debt…"
"Don't you want to know…"
"…how to win it back?"
The club froze in midair.
Moss's face drained of color.
And in that instant—
The dungeon fell silent.