This "arithmetic lesson" did not last very long.
The old Earl was not as devout as he had imagined; by the time the third fingernail was pulled out, he had confessed everything clearly.
And he also made the Earl understand three things:
First, pain can be precise down to the nerve endings.
Second, fear can be tangibly quantified into every heartbeat.
Third, some secrets cannot be heard even by the Seven Gods.
When Corleone returned to the Place of Order, the horizon was just beginning to turn the color of a fish's belly.
Without disturbing anyone, he went straight to his room on the second floor and changed out of the dark clothing that smelled of cellar mold and a faint hint of wine.
Perhaps due to eight years of medical school and countless dissection experiments, Corleone felt not the slightest psychological burden regarding the act of killing from the very beginning.
Furthermore, Earl Gales's death appeared very peaceful and not at all bloody; it looked no different from a natural death, and an ordinary Maester would never find anything wrong.
That old fox Pycelle might be able to, but given his incredibly cautious nature and his absolute obedience to Tywin, he would never be so stupid as to go looking for trouble.
Corleone called a servant to bring hot water for him to wash up, and afterward, he even managed to catch a wonderful morning nap.
It wasn't until the sun was high in the sky that he got up to enjoy lunch.
"Bang!"
"blood of my blood!"
Just as Corleone was focused on chewing his grilled steak, Yigo suddenly pushed the door open and appeared.
The Dothraki Warrior had dark circles under his eyes, but his spirit was strangely excited, and a very lecherous smile played across his bronze face.
Scratching his messy hair, he complained in heavily accented Common Tongue, "How did you... come back by yourself?"
"I woke up at the 'Hummingbird,' and that red-haired woman said you left in the afternoon. I searched two whole streets for you!"
Hearing this, Corleone's movement cutting the bacon paused slightly. He swallowed the meat in his mouth, lifted his eyelids to glance at Yigo, but said nothing.
What was there to say?
Should he say that he had forgotten his "blood of my blood" at the brothel?
"I thought you needed sufficient rest."
After a pause, Corleone finally spoke, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.
"Rest?"
Yigo grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth, and slapped his chest loudly. "A Dothraki Warrior doesn't need rest!"
"You don't know, that red-haired woman, her waist was as powerful as a mare on the grasslands. Later, we even tried..."
""
"Shut up and eat."
Corleone interrupted him, pushing a plate of pork pies toward him.
At this, Yigo just chuckled twice and obediently lowered his head to start eating voraciously.
Watching him devour the food, Corleone couldn't help but marvel; this kid's stamina was truly good, still full of energy after a day and night of carousing.
He had originally intended to bring Yigo along for last night's "business," but after thinking about it, with the bonus from Insight Lv3, he felt more confident going alone. Moreover, Gales's body required professional handling.
As it turned out, the lax defenses of Rosby were full of holes under his Insight Lv3; it took almost no effort at all.
But then again, he still had too few capable people under his command.
In terms of martial prowess, Yigo could only be considered top-tier second-rate, though his movements were more flexible than those of a knight.
As for Rorger... that guy was good at bullying people and handling civil construction, but in a fight, even Brienne would leave him in the dust.
If he could build an organization like the Faceless Men, things would be much simpler in the future.
Corleone pondered while he ate.
Just then, a black shadow leaped silently onto the dining table.
Yigo was startled and nearly drew his sword, but upon closer inspection, he found it was actually a pitch-black...
Cat?
This black cat had long fur and a large frame, except for a small piece missing from its left ear, leaving a jagged notch. Its amber eyes stared intently at the remaining half-slice of bacon in Yigo's hand.
"That's for people to eat. You eat this."
Corleone's voice sounded as he picked up a piece of raw meat from his side and handed it over.
"This cat..."
""
"I brought it out from The Red Keep."
Hearing Yigo's question, Corleone gave a simple reply.
Yesterday afternoon, when he left The Tower of the Hand, the cat was lying on a ledge of the tower's outer wall, sunning itself.
It had tilted its head, its vertical pupils following him without blinking until he walked out of the courtyard.
This feeling of being watched was very strange, and Corleone sensed it immediately.
On a whim, just as he was about to leave, Corleone stopped and made a soft clicking sound with his tongue.
He hadn't harbled much hope, but surprisingly, the black cat followed him, trailing him all the way back to Flea Bottom.
Now, it was even brazenly sharing lunch with him.
Looking at the raw meat offered, the black cat lowered its head to sniff it, then began to tear and bite into it unhurriedly.
Its eating manner was very elegant, even possessing a sort of aristocratic composure.
Yigo found it amusing and reached out to pet the cat's back, but the black cat immediately hissed and bristled, scratching his arm with a claw and drawing blood.
"Tsk, quite a temper."
Yigo pulled his hand back in pain but wasn't angry.
As a warrior of the grasslands, he wouldn't get upset with a pet, especially... Corleone's pet.
After finishing the raw meat, the black cat licked its paws and then rubbed its head against Corleone's wrist, letting out a low purr from its throat.
This behavior was completely different from how it treated Yigo.
Corleone put down his knife, reached out his hand, and scooped it into his arms with his palm facing up.
Its fur was softer and smoother than it looked. As his fingers stroked from the top of the cat's head down its spine, the black cat squinted its eyes comfortably, its purring growing louder.
He sat there at the table, stroking the black cat on his lap, as the sunlight streamed in through the window, creating a peculiar play of light and shadow.
On a strange impulse, Corleone seemed to think of something and softly called out, "Balerion?"
"Meow~~~"
Just then, hurried footsteps came from the stairs.
"Boss! I found out..."
""
Then, Rorger's loud voice stopped abruptly at the door.
The noseless fellow froze at the entrance, his eyes wide as copper bells, staring fixedly at the black cat purring contentedly on Corleone's lap.
His expression instantly became extremely strange—first shock, then panic, then a forced attempt at composure, but his eyes frequently darted toward the two henchmen behind him, making rapid hand gestures.
Fortunately, the henchmen were clever enough; they quietly stepped back and disappeared around the corner of the stairs, each seemingly carrying two cloth-covered... cages?
"Ahem..."
""
After confirming they had left, Rorger cleared his throat and squeezed out a smile. "Boss, you're feeding the cat."
Corleone lifted his eyelids and looked at him calmly.
That gaze seemed to pierce through Rorger's forced composure, causing a layer of fine sweat to break out on his forehead.
"How many times have I told you? Address me as Your Excellency."
"Yes! Excellency Corleone!"
"Come in and close the door."
Seeing him straighten his back and respond loudly, Corleone finally relented, his fingers continuing to groom the black cat's fur. "Speak of the business."
Rorger felt as if he had been granted a great pardon and quickly slipped inside, carefully closing the door.
However, he didn't dare sit down like Yigo; he stood by the table, still unable to resist glancing at the black cat.
"As per your instructions this morning."
He began his report. "We kept an eye on that old Septon preaching at the Fishmarket Square. Time was tight, so we only found out some surface-level information, but it's still quite a harvest."
"Tell me about it." Corleone nodded for him to continue.
Rorger stepped a few paces closer and lowered his voice. "You are indeed well-informed, Excellency. That old guy has already stretched his hands into our Flea Bottom!"
"I was just planning to send someone to check it out this morning when I heard that hundreds of people are flocking there every day. I quickly found three people to ask around."
As he spoke, Rorger pulled a roll of dirty notes from his breast. "Old Hal the shoemaker, Mora the vegetable-selling widow, and the son of a dockworker."
"They all grew up in our Flea Bottom. I specifically questioned them separately, but their stories were all about the same."
"Since last month, every morning those people have been spreading the teachings of the Seven at the Fishmarket Square."
"No matter who you are, as long as you go and wait in line, you can receive a piece of brown bread and half a bowl of thin porridge. It's not much, but for starving people, it's enough to keep them clinging to life."
1
"Then they follow along with the prayers."
"You can't leave after getting food; you have to stay with everyone else and follow that old Septon in praising the Seven."
"At first, no one cared if you recited incorrectly or with a quiet voice, but if you went for several days and still couldn't do it well, the bread you received would get smaller, and even the porridge would be gone."
Hearing this, Yigo frowned from the side. "No food if your voice isn't loud enough? What kind of rule is that?"
"I don't know either."
Rorger swallowed and continued, "Supposedly, Widow Mora has a clear voice and recited the most vigorously, so on the third day, she was given a whole large loaf of bread."
"Old Hal the shoemaker has a slur. He went for a week and still got small pieces. His wife was so anxious that she started shouting randomly to help him, but she was kicked out. Later, she begged for a long time before being let back in."
"Quite a scheme." Hearing this, Corleone's fingers tapped gently on Balerion's back. "Continue."
"Yes, Excellency."
Rorger turned a page. "After the morning meeting ends, the Septon gives them some medicinal soup. It's dark in color and smells a bit strange."
"According to Old Hal, his wife was coughing severely, but after drinking a bowl of that soup, she immediately stopped coughing much. She also seemed much more energetic, except..."
"In his wife's own words: 'Things look a bit floaty, and my heart feels light. I feel like whatever that old Septon says is right, as if the Seven really descended before my eyes.'"
At those words, Corleone's half-closed eyes suddenly snapped open.
The air in the room stagnated. Even Yigo sensed the change and put down the bread in his hand.
"Where is the medicine?"
Corleone's voice changed. It was no longer his usual gentle tone; it became very cold and hard, even carrying a hint of killing intent.
Rorger was so intimidated by this aura that he shivered and quickly said, "The Septon won't allow them to take it away. They must drink it all on the spot, and even the bowls are collected immediately. They say it's a blessing from the gods and cannot be kept privately."
"But fortunately... the shoemaker's wife was clever. While drinking, she picked out the dregs and hid them in her sleeve, wanting to save them to lick later if she felt unwell at night. I bought them for a Silver Stag."
As he spoke, he carefully placed a small oil-paper packet on the table.
Corleone reached out to open it, activating Insight Lv3 to its fullest. First, he looked at the color: deep brown, almost black, uneven, with obvious traces of sediment layering.
Then he used his fingernail to gently scrape off a bit of the dried residue and rubbed it between his fingertips.
The texture was coarse, with a slight graininess, mixed with plant fibers that hadn't been completely ground.
Finally, he brought his fingertips to his nose to sniff, then placed that bit of residue on his tongue, only to spit it out instantly.
Bang!
Without any warning, he slammed a fist onto the table, startling Rorger.
Since knowing Corleone, he had always seen him composed, even killing with a nearly artistic elegance. He had never seen him this angry.
However, at this moment, Corleone was completely immersed in his rage and had no time to pay him any mind.
Because in that powder, he had first tasted amygdalin—a component in fruit pits that can stop a cough in trace amounts but is lethal in excess.
Then there was lead.
This wasn't medicine.
This was poison!
It was a poison carefully formulated for the poor, attacking both spirit and body. It was intended to use immediate "curative effects" in exchange for long-term dependence and destruction, a poison using the false "Glory of the Seven" to mask its hideous purpose!
"Ex... Excellency... what's wrong?"
Watching Corleone standing there, his chest heaving slightly, Rorger saw something extremely complex churning in those eyes that were always deep and calm—something he couldn't understand.
Anger.
No, it wasn't just anger.
It was a loathing and rejection coming from the depths of his soul!
"Go buy grain."
Corleone did not answer but slowly withdrew his hand and spoke in a low voice.
Rorger was stunned. "Wh... what?"
Corleone looked up, his pitch-black eyes staring straight at Rorger. "I said, go buy grain."
"Now, immediately. Use all the channels and connections we can. I want enough grain to feed at least ten thousand people for over a month."
"Brown bread, oats, beans, salted meat, dried fish—as long as it can fill a belly, I want it!"
Hearing this, Rorger's mouth fell open. His brain calculated rapidly, and his face grew paler and paler.
"But... Excellency, how many Gold Dragons will that cost!"
"The war has been going on for so long, the Riverlands are still suffering from famine, and the Vale is closed off. The price of grain in King's Landing is more than ten times the usual."
"These past few days, we've already spent a lot of money building the fighting pits and supporting the cleaning crews. Even if we count all the income from Flea Bottom right now, we can't produce that many Gold Dragons!"
However, Corleone's expression didn't change in the slightest. He said coldly and with certainty, "The money will be here soon."
"You just need to do it."
As he spoke, he walked around the table to stand before Rorger, looking into his eyes and commanding word by word, "Before sunset today, I want to see the first batch of grain moved into the warehouse."
"Within three days, rations for ten thousand people must be in place. Prices can be negotiated, channels can be found, and if any grain merchants try to price gouge... you know what to do."
The intense pressure made Rorger nod vigorously several times, cold sweat soaking his back. "Understood! I..."
I'll get right on it!"
"And one more thing."
Rorger, who had already turned to leave, looked back.
"Spread the word."
Corleone walked to the window, looking down at Flea Bottom, which seemed to be getting better and better.
The morning light shone from behind him, seemingly plating him with a sharp golden edge.
"I, Vito Corleone, starting today, am establishing soup kitchens and clinics in Flea Bottom."
"Free food, free medical care. No need for prayers, no need for scripture."
"As long as you come, there is food; as long as you are sick, there is medicine."
"I am going to... declare
war on those so-called Seven Gods!"