The Red Keep.
This majestic structure stands atop Aegon's High Hill, overlooking all of King's Landing.
Accompanied by Jaime, Corleone strolled through the deep corridors, observing the magnificent decorations on both sides with great interest.
The air was filled with a unique scent—a mix of ancient stone and faint incense, much like the smell of power.
"How does it feel?"
Seeing Corleone looking around, Jaime, standing beside him, couldn't help but tease, "From the muddy cesspools of the Riverlands to the most luxurious castle in the Seven Kingdoms—isn't that quite a leap?"
Hearing this, Corleone's gaze calmly swept over the Lannister guards clad in ornate armor along the way, and he took a deep breath.
"Ssss~~~~ Haaaaa~~~~!"
"It's very novel."
"The air here seems to carry a different weight. There's none of the stench from outside the castle. It makes one involuntarily straighten their back, as if their whole being has been renewed."
Hearing this unconventional answer, Jaime smiled slightly.
The Red Keep, of course, had no stench because when Aegon I Targaryen, the Conqueror, ordered its construction, he specifically chose the highest of the three hills in King's Landing.
Thus, it was called Aegon's High Hill.
Furthermore, the Red Keep is surrounded by the sea on three sides and sits exactly upwind of King's Landing. The constant sea breeze keeps all the foul odors outside the high red-brick walls, completely isolating the world of the nobility from that of the commoners.
"Then again, I thought you'd insist on wearing those 'trophies' you got from the Karstarks."
As they walked, Jaime turned back and joked.
By now, Corleone had long since changed out of his travel-worn, tattered clothes and into a well-tailored cotton robe made of sturdy material.
While not top-tier luxury, it was very clean and tidy, further highlighting his temperament.
"Clothes make the man, Jaime."
To this, Corleone simply smoothed his collar. "While I believe Lord Tywin is by no means a superficial man who judges by appearances, proper attire is the most basic sign of respect for a meeting."
"After all, I'm not here to beg."
Jaime nodded, acknowledging the answer.
The two continued forward, their boots making clear echoes on the stone floor.
After a moment of silence, he seemed to remember something, and his tone became somewhat cold and hard.
"That Sven Rothesby—how do you plan to deal with him?"
"He's a nobleman. Though only from a distant branch, he's a genuine noble. He'll certainly go through a trial process. It won't be easy to sentence him to death based on just capturing the wrong person and a bit of bribery."
"It's wartime, Jaime. Countless people die every day."
Corleone smiled, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather. "Fate is fickle. Who can guarantee that dear Captain Sven won't meet with some accident?"
"You know, the reason The Stranger is fair is because he never gives special treatment based on a person's surname or status."
These pointed words made Jaime pause slightly, and he turned to give Corleone a deep look.
His chivalry was acting up, telling him that using such methods was not noble. However, remembering his own actions at Winterfell, he felt he had no right to criticize Corleone.
After a brief silence, the two finally arrived before the heavy wooden doors of the Tower of the Hand.
Clang—
With a crisp sound, two knights in bright red armor crossed their spears, blocking their path.
The movement made Jaime snap his head up, his brow furrowing. "Step aside."
"This Ser Vito Corleone is my father's guest. My father personally ordered to see him."
"We know, Ser Jaime."
But to Jaime's surprise, one of the knights said coldly, "We are not stopping Lord Corleone."
"The Hand of the King has ordered that only Lord Corleone is permitted to enter alone. You are not allowed!"
"What!"
Jaime was stunned for a moment, then he straightened his chest defiantly. "I insist on entering with my friend. Let me speak to my father!"
For some reason, Jaime felt a deep resistance to his father meeting Corleone alone, sensing that something bad might happen.
That feeling... in the words of Corleone's past life, was like the anxiety of secretly dating someone and bringing them home for the first time, only to be sent to the kitchen to help while they were left alone with the parents.
"This is the Hand's command, Ser."
The two guards stepped forward half a pace simultaneously, flanking Jaime, showing no sign of backing down.
The atmosphere became tense for a moment. After a few seconds, one of them pleaded, "Please don't make this difficult for me, Cousin Jaime."
Hearing this, the look in Jaime's eyes began to waver.
Corleone knew him too well; the man was purely the type to respond to soft words but resist force. He reached out, gently pressing down on Jaime's tensed shoulder, and advised, "It's alright, Jaime."
He understood perfectly well that this was merely Tywin Lannister giving him a show of authority.
Perhaps it was just a habit, or perhaps it was unintentional, but Tywin always made sure to clearly imply who held absolute dominance before any conversation began.
Even his eldest son could not sway his decision.
Looking into Jaime's anxious eyes, Corleone gave a reassuring, faint smile.
"Trust me, I will gain the Lord Hand's friendship, just as I did with you."
"I've heard the relationship between you two is already strained. Please don't argue with your father again."
"It's not worth it for an outsider like me."
With that, Corleone straightened his lapels and calmly stepped past the crossed halberds, pushing open the heavy wooden door that symbolized the pinnacle of power in the Seven Kingdoms.
Watching the door slowly close, Jaime felt as if he and Corleone were being completely separated into two different worlds.
"He... even now he's thinking of me, while I was just feeling indignant about his methods against Sven Rothesby..."
"Corleone has done so much for me, yet I can't help him with anything!"
Recalling Corleone's words, a surge of regret and self-reproach rose within Jaime's heart.
"I really deserve to die!"
He clenched his fists, barely resisting the urge to slap himself!
After standing outside the Tower of the Hand for a long while, Jaime gritted his teeth, hesitated repeatedly, and finally seemed to make a firm decision.
His left hand gripped the hilt of the Valyrian steel sword named 'Oathkeeper,' his white cloak cutting a pure streak of light through the night as he turned indignantly and strode out of the Red Keep!
There were quite a few steps in the Tower of the Hand. Corleone climbed them one by one, counting them in his head.
After about two hundred steps, a half-open wooden door came into view.
Knock, knock, knock—
Three standard knocks. Only after hearing "Come in" did Corleone gently push the door open.
Quite spacious.
That was Corleone's first impression.
Tall bookshelves reached the ceiling like walls built of knowledge. Behind a massive carved desk, the Hand of the King was focused on the maps and documents spread before him, his quill moving back and forth across the paper with a scratching sound.
He was wearing a dressing gown, yet the composure and power he exuded were still constantly striking.
Corleone walked quietly to the center of the rug in the room and stopped. He did not bow, nor did he speak to interrupt; he simply stood there silently, just like every other piece of furniture in the room.
Tywin remained focused on his work without looking up. As if sharing a certain tacit understanding, the two remained in a standoff for a full five minutes.
Finally, after finishing the last annotation, Tywin set the quill aside.
He looked up, his green eyes staring straight at Corleone, the scrutiny in his gaze completely undisguised.
"You are late."
There was no comment on Corleone's attire, nor any hint of complaint or accusation. Tywin's tone was very steady, yet it naturally exuded a strong sense of pressure.
"I told Jaime I expected to see you at the Hour of the Bat."
"But now, it is already the hour of the eel."
He paused slightly. "You are lucky. Ordinarily, I would have retired by this time."
As expected of Tywin.
Hearing these words spoken as if they were a matter of course, Corleone secretly admired him.
This aura and art of speech felt completely different from his conversation with Roose Bolton at Harrenhal.
He didn't accuse or complain; on the contrary, he proactively praised Corleone's luck, yet emphasized the time discrepancy to make the other person feel guilty.
To pay such attention to detail even when dealing with a nobody—it could only be said that Tywin Lannister had completely integrated negotiation techniques into his every word and action.
Fortunately, I have a cheat.
Under this powerful pressure, Corleone silently activated [Majesty Lv2].
His back was straight as a rod, and his face showed no sign of embarrassment or guilt, nor did he try to look around to hide his unease.
Corleone simply gave an extremely elegant and standard bow, the angle just right—showing respect without appearing subservient.
"My apologies, Lord Tywin."
After saying that, he fell silent again.
This concise answer instead piqued Tywin's interest.
He had anticipated many kinds of reactions: excuses, panic, even feigned composure or exaggeration, but he hadn't expected this... honesty?
"You don't intend to explain?"
Tywin pressed, his tone unreadable.
"Explanations are merely a means people use to cover up mistakes and seek forgiveness for their incompetence."
Corleone remained sincere. "I am late; that is an established fact, and time is completely irrecoverable."
O
"Therefore, I choose to bear the consequences rather than use words to sugarcoat it. Thus, an apology is all that is needed."
"As for whether to forgive my fault, that decision lies with you, My Lord."
As his voice fell, the study instantly lapsed into silence.
Looking at the honest young man before him, a rare glint of satisfaction even flickered through Tywin's green eyes.
Though it vanished in a flash, it was indeed there, and Corleone's [Insight Lv2] keenly captured it.
This meant his judgment was correct.
Tywin Lannister was a man of supreme pragmatism. He admired efficiency, loathed verbosity, and despised shirking responsibility even more.
At least in this moment, Corleone had displayed traits that aligned with his values.
"Sit."
Finally, Tywin pointed to the chair opposite him, extending an invitation.