The morning mist, like a thin veil, wreathed the towering towers of the Red Keep.
Corleone slipped out from a hidden side door. He stood in the shadows of the ramparts, his back against the cold stone wall, and took a deep breath.
Behind him, the Red Keep was gradually growing rowdy.
Rapid footsteps echoed on the flagstones, the sound of clashing metal armor growing denser. Window after window lit up, like startled fireflies, suddenly illuminating the entire castle.
"The hand of the king has been attacked!"
"The assassin may still be in the keep! Seal all exits!"
"Move! Move!"
Fragmented shouts drifted on the wind, sounding jarringly sharp in the silence of the early morning.
Corleone listened for a moment, a faint curve appearing at the corner of his mouth.
He looked down at himself. The blood-stained white armor had already been swapped out in the secret passage. Now he wore plain, dark, coarse cloth clothes, covered by an inconspicuous gray cloak.
Thirty paces ahead, deep in the shadows of the wall's corner, a figure stood quietly.
That person also wore white armor, but his stance was relaxed, leaning against the wall, one foot casually bent and propped against the stone.
The morning light struck from the side, outlining the contours of the armor, but left the face immersed in shadow, making it impossible to see clearly, though the lowered right hand reflected a brilliant, golden light.
He stepped forward, his boots pressing into the damp earth, making a faint squelching sound.
Jaime heard the footsteps and turned his head.
When Corleone reached a distance of ten paces, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard raised an eyebrow, a teasing expression appearing on his handsome face.
"It seems you've caused quite a stir." Jaime's voice was somewhat hoarse; clearly, he had also not slept all night.
Corleone stopped three paces in front of him and spread his hands in a helpless gesture: "The hand of the king lost four guards. Even with you helping to lead the way, it won't be this easy next time."
These words were spoken lightly, but both of them understood the weight behind them.
The success of last night's operation was crucially dependent on Jaime.
It was he who, in his capacity as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, had temporarily adjusted the patrol routes and sentry arrangements in the early morning hours, allowing those soldiers who should have been standing guard at key positions to leave temporarily due to "receiving emergency orders," thereby opening an invisible path for Corleone.
Without this help, even wearing the white armor of the Kingsguard, it would have been an almost impossible task to sneak into the heart of the Red Keep and reach the hand of the king's bedchamber silently.
Jaime did not reply, only observing Corleone with those emerald eyes.
After a moment, he suddenly smiled. In that smile were a few parts self-mockery, a few parts relief, and a few parts something even he couldn't articulate.
"I must say."
Jaime shook his head: "As the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, helping an outsider sneak into the Red Keep, with the goal of threatening my own father, the hand of the king...
"If this got out, I might become the first Kingsguard in history to be executed for helping someone assassinate his own father."
He spoke lightly, but Corleone heard the subtext.
"Regret it?"
"No." Jaime answered quickly, so quickly it was almost without thought: "I just find fate truly interesting."
"Half a year ago in The Riverlands, you saved my life. Now in King's Landing, I help you threaten my father's life. Doesn't this count as some sort of twisted repayment?"
Corleone also smiled: "A Lannister always pays his debts, doesn't he?"
Another gust of morning wind blew by, bringing the briny scent of the Blackwater Rush.
In the distance, the market began to wake up, and King's Landing gradually became bustling and lively again. The news about the hand of the king being attacked last night had not spread.
But even if it did spread, people wouldn't show much emotion; after all, in just these short two years, two Hands of the King had already died in succession in King's Landing.
Listening to the clamor in the distance, after a moment of silence, Jaime finally asked the question that had been hanging on his lips since Corleone appeared: "How did the talk go?"
"Quite well." Corleone replied with a smile: "Tywin Lannister is a person who can place interests above all else at any time."
"Calm, rational, skilled at calculating costs and benefits. Even with a sword point pressed against his throat, he can make the judgment most in line with his own interests in the shortest possible time."
"I did the math for him. Suppressing Flea Bottom would come at a cost; the Gold Cloaks and Lannister troops would suffer casualties, and other districts in King's Landing might see a chain reaction."
"Most importantly, his image as the hand of the king would definitely be affected."
"If he wins, he might be called the 'Mad Hand,' and if he loses... hehe."
Upon hearing this, Jaime let out an ambiguous hum, unsure if it was agreement or mockery.
He knew his father too well. Tywin could endure military failure, could endure financial loss, and could even endure temporary political setbacks.
But what he absolutely could not tolerate was the collapse of his authoritative image.
Because Lannister rule was half built on gold mines and armies, and the other half built on the myth that 'Tywin Lannister is invincible.'
"So he accepted your terms?" Jaime asked.
"He accepted the more rational choice."
Corleone corrected him: "The Gold Cloaks will withdraw from Flea Bottom before sunset today. The King, or rather... the hand of the king, will issue a decree declaring Flea Bottom a'Special Autonomous Zone,' piloting a new community governance model with a three-month tax exemption period, after which taxes will be paid at thirty percent."
He paused, his tone carrying something akin to emotion: "Remember back at Harrenhal? Roose Bolton said something quite right: a harmonious land and quiet people—that is the way of rule."
"Your father is a very excellent ruler; he cannot fail to understand this principle. Instead of letting Flea Bottom continue as a weeping, festering wound, it is better to let it scab over and heal."
Hearing this answer, Jaime nodded.
His expression was very calm, without much emotional fluctuation.
In fact, Corleone knew that Jaime did not have any profound concern for Flea Bottom itself or the plight of those impoverished people.
As the eldest son of the Lord of Casterly Rock and now the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, having grown up in piles of gold and silk, even though he had suffered some hardships in The Riverlands, he simply could not understand what it was like to be so hungry one would gnaw on tree bark, nor could he understand the desperation of being willing to sell one's dignity for a single copper coin.
He helped Corleone not out of any lofty ideals, nor even out of rebellion against his father, although that was indeed a factor.
He helped Corleone simply because Corleone was his friend.
And the industries a friend cared about, the lands a friend held, the things a friend wanted to protect—Jaime would help protect them.
It was that simple.
Corleone looked at Jaime's profile.
The morning light grew brighter; now one could clearly see the new stubble on the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard's chin, and in those eyes that always carried a hint of mockery, there was currently something heavy settling.
Tyrion was awaiting trial, Cersei was growing increasingly mad due to Joffrey's death, and his father had just been threatened.
And Jaime stood here, helping the person who threatened his father escape.
The burden on this man's shoulders was much heavier than it appeared.
Suddenly, a mischievous thought popped into Corleone's mind, and he teased: "Honestly, Jaime, aren't you afraid that I might actually kill your father?"
"If I hadn't held back at that moment, and had truly used that dagger to slit his throat... then in all of King's Landing, there would no longer be anyone capable of threatening my development."
"Once the hand of the king is dead, House Lannister will fall into chaos, Cersei will become even more insane, Kevan won't be able to hold the situation together, the Tyrells will be restless, and I could take advantage of the chaos to turn Flea Bottom into a true state within a state."
He spoke very slowly, every word clear and distinct.
At the same time, his eyes were fixed on Jaime's face, observing the slightest changes in expression.
Jaime's reaction was unexpected.
He was stunned for a moment, then laughed.
The laughter echoed in the morning alley, startling a crow that had been dozing on the wall.
"If you really did that, both Cersei and Tyrion would thank you."
"Really, I promise, Cersei would grant you a title, and Tyrion would invite you to drink every drop of wine in his cellar."
These words were half joke, half bitter truth.
AI Model: gemini-3.5-flash
After all, the nobles of The Seven Kingdoms knew very well that although Tywin Lannister was iron-fisted and ruled wisely, when it came to the education of his children...
...one could only say that no man is perfect.
An overly strict father often raises a bunch of rebellious children.
Hearing Jaime's reply, Corleone smiled as well.
He knew very well that the joke itself was the sharpest irony of their father-son relationship, and the most direct expression of Jaime's complex state of mind at this moment.
The two of them smiled at each other like that, like two accomplices sharing a secret amidst the alarms of the Red Keep and the rising clamor of the waking city.
Then, Jaime's smile gradually faded.
He took a step forward, closing the distance between himself and Corleone.
Now they stood face-to-face, close enough to see their own reflections in each other's pupils.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard's expression became incredibly serious. His usual flippancy and playfulness completely vanished, replaced by a gravity that Corleone had rarely seen.
"I know you won't," Jaime said.
Corleone raised an eyebrow. "So certain?"
"Don't forget, I'm someone who will use any means to achieve my goals. You saw that back in The Riverlands."
"I've seen plenty," Jaime nodded. "I saw how you used medicine to trade for a chance to live, how you used words to persuade Vargo Hoat, how you used schemes to make the Brave Companions slaughter each other, and how you used your methods to control Flea Bottom."
Saying this, Jaime paused, his voice growing even deeper.
"But back in The Riverlands, you chose to save me."
"When you could have used my identity to trade for far greater benefits, when everyone was my enemy, you saved a kingslayer who had lost his right hand, his honor, and was even on the verge of losing himself."
Suddenly, the alley fell quiet.
Even the clamor of the distant Red Keep seemed to temporarily recede, leaving only the breathing of the two men.
Just then, heavy and hurried footsteps echoed from the shadows at the other end of the alley.
The two turned to look, only to see a figure stumbling out of the gloom. It was Bronn, Tyrion's former bodyguard.
But at this moment, the mercenary renowned for his shrewdness and greed looked in quite a wretched state.
He carried a man on his shoulders who was clearly very heavy. Sweat rolled down his forehead, soaking the collar of his dirty leather armor.
Bronn took a few more difficult steps forward. Finally unable to support himself just a few feet away from Corleone and Jaime, his knees buckled, and he dropped to one knee.
The man on his shoulder slid off with him, hitting the muddy water with a heavy thud, splashing mud onto Bronn's face.
The mercenary knight gasped for breath, his chest heaving violently. It took several seconds before he managed to raise his head, looking at Jaime with his cunning yet exhausted eyes, squeezing a sentence through his teeth: "This Dothraki... is fucking heavy."
Indeed, the man he was carrying was none other than Iggo, who had been secretly imprisoned by Tywin.
The strong Dothraki Warrior's black hair was now matted to his forehead with blood, and his bare torso was covered in crisscrossing fresh wounds.
Blood flowed down his body, spreading into dark red stains in the mud.
Jaime didn't look at Iggo immediately. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, a playful smile appearing on his face.
"Is it as heavy as the title of Lord of Castle Stokeworth?"
Hearing this, Bronn was taken aback for a moment, then grinned.
"Lord of Castle Stokeworth..."
"2"
"Providing my sister-in-law and brother-in-law die before me. That woman Falyse may be as stupid as a pig, but she's tough to kill. As for her dear husband, Ser Balman?"
Bronn spat. "Though that fellow was stripped of his post as commander of Flea Bottom, he's still in quite good health."
"Waiting for them to die of natural causes? I'd probably have to live to eighty first."
Jaime crossed his arms, leaning against the wall.
"It doesn't have to be that troublesome."
"Falyse Stokeworth is forty-six this year, and Ser Balman is forty-eight. As far as I know, they've been married for twenty years and haven't produced a single child. The maester's diagnosis is that both of them have issues."
He paused, looking into Bronn's eyes. "And you, Ser Bronn, married Lollys Stokeworth. Though that girl isn't very bright, her body is healthy."
"As long as you can get her pregnant with a child, a boy, then after Falyse and her husband die, the heir to Castle Stokeworth can only be your son."
Hearing this, Bronn rubbed his chin, his rough fingers stroking back and forth over his stubble.
"That would take a very long time."
He spoke, his voice stripped of its previous playfulness, leaving only a calculating tone. "Falyse and Balman might live another twenty or thirty years. I'd still have to wait, take care of that simpleton girl, make sure she gives birth to a son, and ensure the boy grows up healthy..."
"The deal sounds good, but the cycle is too long and there are too many variables."
"I'm a mercenary, Ser Jaime. Mercenaries believe in gold that can be held immediately, women they can sleep with tonight, and a right hand that can still hold a sword tomorrow."
"So you don't intend to claim that title?" Jaime asked.
"Heh..." Hearing this, Bronn chuckled with a hint of slyness. "I didn't say that."
"I just think... maybe there's a quicker way."
While Jaime and Bronn bickered over the succession of Castle Stokeworth, Corleone had already squatted down beside Iggo.
First, he used his fingers to feel the Dothraki's carotid artery, then checked his pupils, and then began to examine his wounds.
The knife wound in the abdomen was only half an inch away from the spleen, the fractured ribs might have punctured a lung, and the wound on his left arm was deep enough to expose bone, with damaged tendons...
Corleone's brow furrowed deeper and deeper. He pulled a small leather pouch from his chest—his makeshift medical kit—then tore away the remnants of clothing around Iggo's wounds and poured strong liquor over them to cleanse them.
The moment the strong liquor hit the wounds, the unconscious Iggo's body twitched violently, and a muffled low growl escaped his throat.
"This fellow's mouth is quite tight."
Bronn's voice came from the side.
The mercenary knight had walked over to Corleone's side, looking down at the Dothraki on the ground with his arms crossed, a trace of admiration in his tone.
"I've been a mercenary for twenty years. I've seen captured knights, assassins, and heroes who claimed they'd 'rather die than surrender'."
"But in the end, they all talk. Maybe it takes a day, maybe three, maybe breaking every bone and ripping out every fingernail, but they all talk eventually."
"Because pain breaks the will. That is human nature, and no one is an exception."
With that, the mercenary knight looked at Corleone. "As for this fellow of yours, I don't know how long he held out."
"But when I found him, that fellow named Logan was preparing to pour honey into his wounds to attract ants to eat him."
"At that stage, no one can hold out, but he still didn't say a word."
At this point, Bronn asked in confusion, "Just how many Gold Dragons are you paying him?"
Corleone didn't answer, silently performing basic hemostasis and wound debridement for Iggo.
The scars crisscrossed, some already festering and oozing pus, clearly not caused in a single day.
A few more minutes passed, and all the major wounds had been treated.
He took off his cloak, draped it over Iggo, then stood up and pulled a coin purse from his chest.
It was a heavy bag of Gold Dragons, about two hundred of them, enough for a mercenary to live comfortably for half a year, or to buy a decent small plot of land.
The coin purse arched through the air, and the mercenary knight caught it steadily.
Bronn's hand instinctively weighed it, judging the quantity and purity of the gold coins by their weight and sound.
Then, to everyone's surprise.
He looked at the coin purse in his hand, then at Iggo on the ground, and finally his gaze landed on Corleone's face, his expression looking extremely conflicted.
Then, this mercenary knight, famous for loving money as much as his own life, did something that made even Jaime's eyes widen.
With a flick of his wrist, he actually threw the coin purse back!
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