This world was just too surreal.
When Jaime Lannister saw the scene inside the cell clearly, he felt the understanding he had built over his nearly thirty years of life crumbling inch by inch.
He had envisioned countless possibilities... for example, Corleone being tortured into a bloody mess, on the brink of death; Jaime had even prepared himself for the worst possible outcome.
But the scene before him completely exceeded his imagination.
Although the cell was simple, it was fairly clean, but that wasn't important. What was important was that in the center of the cell stood a wooden table brought in from who-knows-where.
Vito Corleone, whom he had been so worried about, was currently sitting leisurely behind the table. A tablecloth was spread out, and on it sat a plate of sizzling, juicy roasted steak.
To his right, there was even a glass of wine shimmering with a deep red luster!
And Corleone was using a small knife to unhurriedly bring the steak to his mouth, his movements elegant and composed.
Even more shocking, two guards clad in Gold Cloaks were standing by like attentive servants, bowing with smiles plastered on their faces, holding a plate filled with fresh berries!
"Excellency, is the wine to your liking?"
"This is Dornish Summer Wine that I've been hiding away!"
Corleone unhurriedly wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin and gave a slight nod. "Not bad. Good work, Moss."
In another corner of the cell, a young nobleman who looked somewhat familiar to Jaime was huddled. Cold meat and wine were scattered on the floor in front of him, and he was staring at them with a pale face and longing eyes.
Seeing this, Jaime couldn't help but look back and glare at Humphrey, as if to say: "You fucking told me this was a prisoner!"
If one didn't know better, they would think this was the office of the Commander of the Gold Cloaks!
Humphrey could only give an awkward smile in response; after all, he couldn't explain the current situation either.
Just then, Corleone seemed to notice the movement at the door.
He looked up, his gaze landing directly on Jaime. There wasn't the slightest hint of surprise in his eyes; instead, he raised his wine glass toward him from afar and offered an elegant smile.
It was as if he had expected his arrival all along.
"Yo~ Ser Jaime."
Corleone's voice was as calm as ever, even carrying a hint of teasing. "It seems you've made it in time for dinner. Care to join me for some?"
"The environment here is a bit simple, but the steak is cooked just right. They specially caught... found a cook to sear it for me in the Gold Cloaks' kitchen."
Looking at this man who could turn oppression into enjoyment and guards into servants even in the deepest dungeon, Jaime for a moment didn't know what kind of expression to make.
All his anxiety, anger, and worry vanished, replaced only by a sense of utter absurdity.
"I'm so foolish, truly..." Jaime's lip twitched incessantly. He took a deep breath and stepped into the cell.
"What the hell is going on here? Do you have any idea how worried I was!"
After hesitating for a moment, he couldn't help but swear after all.
"Huh?"
Hearing this, Corleone raised an eyebrow.
Seeing Jaime's huffy appearance, he unhurriedly set down his knife and fork.
"Allow me to introduce: this is Old Moss. He is about to win back the money he lost at the casino."
"And this is Polko, a young man troubled by love. With my encouragement, he will confess to his beloved girl tomorrow. When the time comes, you and I will have to attend their wedding as witnesses."
"Oh, right..."
As he spoke, Corleone didn't forget to point to the poor sucker in the corner.
"That's Herbert Lake. I think you might know him. He... owes me a favor."
Seeing Corleone introduce everyone as if counting his treasures and even making an appointment for him to attend a wedding, Jaime found it increasingly hard to know whether to laugh or cry.
However, he had a rough idea of what had happened here.
"Corleone..." Recalling their experiences on the way back to King's Landing from the Riverlands, Jaime sighed with a complex tone. "You really never mistreat yourself, no matter where you go."
Looking at the both angry and amused Jaime, Corleone simply shrugged indifferently.
He picked up the bottle of deep red wine on the table, filled another glass at hand, and handed it to Jaime.
That's right; he had Old Moss prepare two wine glasses in advance, as if he had known for a long time that Jaime would surely come.
"Old Moss says this is Dornish Summer Wine." Corleone's tone was flat, like he was commenting on the weather. "I don't know much about wines, but I imagine that as a Lannister and Lord Tywin's eldest son, you should be much more familiar with it than I am."
The deep red liquid was pushed in front of him, and Jaime rolled his eyes in annoyance.
Almost out of spite, he snatched the wine glass and downed the contents in one gulp, his movements as crude as if he were drinking cheap ale.
After all, he was indeed a bit thirsty from the journey. Moreover, this delicate flavor, which would be incredibly expensive to others, was to Jaime nothing more than a common everyday drink.
This crude way of drinking made Old Moss's eyes twitch twice; he felt a bit pained for the wine.
"Oh~~~~ By The Seven, Jaime, you ran... too fast..."
Just then, a panting voice came from the door. "Don't you know to... take care of these two... ha... precious but limited-length legs of mine?"
Tyrion Lannister leaned against the doorframe, gasping for air. Finally catching his breath, he looked into the cell, and his eyes instantly widened.
His brother was standing in a filthy cell drinking with a prisoner, while Gold Cloaks stood by bowing like servants?
Wait... wasn't the plan to rescue someone?
This is it?
"What the hell... is going on here?"
But before Tyrion could speak, Ser Adam, who was following close behind, arrived and immediately asked what was on Tyrion's mind.
His gaze swept over the fawning Old Moss and his companion, then to the conspicuous steak and red wine, and finally landed on Corleone.
"I think I need an explanation, Jaime."
Hearing this, Jaime awkwardly set down his wine glass. "This... this is another long story, Adam."
Seeing his old friend's expression was a bit off, he quickly cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Allow me to introduce: that is my brother Tyrion, and beside him is Ser Adam Marbrand. He is the Commander of the City Watch."
As he spoke, he gestured toward Corleone. "And this is..."
"Vito Corleone."
Corleone raised his glass toward Adam and Tyrion from afar. "Pleased to meet you, Ser Adam. I must say, your subordinates are very polite."
"The City Watch must surely achieve great things under the leadership of such an excellent knight as yourself."
He spoke with such naturalness, as if he were the host here welcoming visiting guests, and incidentally praising the efficiency of the other's servants.
That posture, that tone—he didn't seem like a prisoner at all; he was clearly a superior officer here to inspect the work!
Ser Adam's cheek muscles twitched as he exchanged a look with Tyrion. For a moment, neither knew how to speak.
The bizarre scene before them filled their minds with questions, yet they didn't know where to begin.
"The catching up can come to a temporary halt, Corleone."
Seeing this, Jaime took a deep breath and forced the conversation back on track, his expression becoming serious again. "While I know you may have received unjust treatment, we'll deal with the matters here another day."
"Because my father wants to see you. Now."
Hearing that the Hand of the King wanted to see him, Corleone's face showed no hint of surprise, as if it were simply time for a scheduled appointment.
Under everyone's gaze, he stood up leisurely, his movements neither hurried nor slow.
However, Corleone did not leave directly. Instead, he turned to the young man in the corner who looked confused and shocked.
"Lord Lake."
Corleone's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a convincing weight. "Please remember, you owe me a favor."
"Perhaps one day, I will ask you to repay this kindness. Of course, that day may never come, but until it does, please keep it in your heart."
His words were very polite, even showing considerable respect, yet the sense of undeniable control in his tone made the shocked Lake nod involuntarily.
Then, Corleone turned to Old Moss, his expression softening slightly. "Oh~~~ Moss, remember the method I taught you and win back your money."
"Of course, if you want to have some fun in the future, you can come to Flea Bottom, to my casino. I promise you, in my territory, fairness is the only rule."
"Everyone can gamble with peace of mind, without worrying about a cheater sitting across the table."
His attitude toward these low-level guards was no different from how he treated Lake and the others—it was even a bit more easygoing and sincere.
In Corleone's eyes, there seemed to be no absolute distinction between high and low status, only the difference between "potentially useful" and "useful later."
Therefore, he placed great value on every favor that might seem insignificant to powerful figures.
Perhaps a seed planted unintentionally now would grow into a towering tree in the future.
However, at this moment, Old Moss was completely stunned. He gaped and stammered in surprise, "Co... Lord Corleone, you actually really know the Lannisters, and you're even going to see the Hand of the King!"
Faced with his shock, Corleone didn't answer but simply offered a smile, as if to say: "I told you so."
As Corleone stepped forward and was about to cross the threshold of the cell, Old Moss finally snapped out of it and hurriedly asked, "Lord Corleone, where... where is your casino?"
Corleone's footsteps paused at the door. Without looking back, he simply uttered two words: "Blood Cellar."
"Blood Cellar?" Old Moss almost thought he had misheard. "But that's Ralf's territory!"
Hearing this, Corleone finally slowly turned his head.
The flickering firelight in the dungeon corridor reflected on his profile, casting half of his face into shadow.
There wasn't a single ripple in his pitch-black eyes; they were filled entirely with the certainty of victory.
"Tomorrow."
"It won't be."