An afternoon in Flea Bottom.
Sunlight filtered through the tangled clotheslines crisscrossing above the streets, casting dappled shadows upon the cobblestones.
Smoke curled up from the low chimneys, blending with the scent of simmering food and cheap spices, drifting slowly through the air.
Children chased and played in the alleys; their laughter was so vibrant, feeling like a world apart from the violent and angry Flea Bottom of days past.
Tyrion Lannister stood at the entrance, looking up at the newly hung wooden sign above the lintel.
The sign was neatly painted in black: The Hall of Order — Administrative Center of the Flea Bottom Special Autonomous Region.
Under the jurisdiction of Sir Corleone.
The handwriting was not elegant, but it was neat, and the paint, not yet fully dry, glistened with a moist sheen in the afternoon sun.
Tyrion stared for a long time, then let out a soft breath.
In the quiet foyer, two young "community coordinators" in gray uniforms with batons at their waists stood straight, eyes fixed ahead, expressions filled with pride.
Tyrion walked inside.
The interior of the main hall had changed since his last visit for a banquet; new wainscoting had been installed on the walls, the dark wood polished to a smooth finish that reflected the sunlight streaming in from the high windows.
The floor was paved with new flagstones, the level of smoothness astonishing, and it was even wider than the throne room.
A gentle fire burned in the fireplace at the end of the hall, the firewood crackling and dispelling the chill of late autumn.
People came and went in the hall, yet it was orderly.
A row of wooden tables was placed against the wall on the left, each with a clerk-like person sitting behind it, ledgers or documents spread out before them.
Before the tables, queues formed with incredible neatness—men, women, the elderly, and children, all dressed in new, clean clothes.
They waited quietly, occasionally chatting in low voices, but no one cut in line, and there was no sound of arguing or shoving.
Tyrion saw an old woman walk up to a table and hand over a few copper coins.
The clerk behind the table smiled as he took the money, recorded it in the ledger, and handed the old woman a small wooden plaque.
The old woman took the plaque, carefully tucked it into her bosom, a look of relief on her face, and turned to leave.
"That is a resident identity card,"
a voice came from behind Tyrion.
He turned around.
Vito Corleone stood there, wearing a simple dark robe, no sword at his waist, holding a thick booklet in his hand, looking as if he had just emerged from a room.
"Everyone living in Flea Bottom must register and receive a plaque."
Corleone walked to Tyrion's side, his gaze also falling on the people queuing in the hall, and explained, "The plaques come in different colors; green is for permanent residents, blue for temporary."
"With the plaque, one can buy affordable grain at our grain store, receive medical care at the clinic, and children can attend the literacy classes we run."
His tone was flat, as if stating something entirely mundane.
But Tyrion heard the deeper meaning within.
Registration, plaque issuance, hierarchical management. Controlling food, controlling medical care, controlling education.
This was not simple charity or maintaining order; this was a complete social system!
And all of this had taken a mere three months.
"You have created a state within a state, performing even better than all the lords of The Seven Kingdoms!"
Tyrion exclaimed, his tone filled with undisguised admiration, even mixed with a trace of imperceptible apprehension.
However, Corleone merely glanced at him and said indifferently, "I have merely created a place where people can live normally."
Then he turned, "Follow me."
Tyrion followed; they crossed the main hall and went up the stairs. The second floor was clearly an office area, much quieter, with the occasional sound of discussion coming from a few rooms.
They continued up to the third floor.
Corleone walked to the end of the corridor and pushed open a heavy oak door.
This was his office.
The room was large, with bookshelves covering three walls, stuffed with books and scrolls.
A row of windows was open, and the afternoon sun and breeze flooded in together.
Outside the window, one could see the roofs of Flea Bottom; those low shacks were being gradually renovated, some already replaced with new tiles, others being reinforced.
In the center of the room stood a massive oak table, on which there was nothing but a few documents, an inkwell, and a quill.
There was a high-backed chair on each side of the table; Corleone walked to the main seat and sat down, gesturing for Tyrion to sit opposite him.
But he did not sit down immediately; instead, he moved a stool to the window, stepped onto it, and looked outside.
From this height, one could see the entirety of Flea Bottom: clean streets, chimneys puffing smoke, gray-uniformed coordinators patrolling, and the newly built market in the distance, with stalls neatly arranged and crowds moving about.
The rising and falling sounds of hawking filled the air; the entire Flea Bottom displayed an aura of orderly, bustling life.
"Do you know,"
Tyrion began, not turning back, "I grew up in Casterly Rock, a castle built on a gold mine, with marble-paved corridors, silk-hung walls, and the best wine in The Seven Kingdoms stored in the cellars."
"My father often said that was what power looked like, but after this imprisonment, compared to those cold things, I find I prefer it here."
As he spoke, he turned, jumped off the stool, and climbed onto the high-backed chair. It was too high for him; his feet couldn't reach the floor and dangled in the air.
He adjusted his sitting posture and then looked at Corleone.
"Regardless,"
"Thank you, thank you for keeping your promise and allowing me to regain my freedom."
Hearing this, Corleone leaned back against the chair, and a gray-black long-haired cat jumped onto his lap.
As he stroked its fur, Balerion narrowed its eyes, emitting a "purr" sound in its throat, then lifted its head to look with Corleone at the dwarf before them.
"No need to thank me."
"This is a business deal. You pay, I act. Now you are temporarily free, I have received the money, and the transaction is complete."
"Temporarily free?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"Tywin has not completely dropped the charges." Corleone tapped the table, "Although the testimony of Dontos Hollard pointed to someone else, the one-sided word of a fallen knight is not enough to make the tribunal fully believe in your innocence."
"They need more evidence. Furthermore, the nature of this assassination... never mind."
Corleone waved his hand. He had intended to say that this assassination was actually orchestrated by that old woman, Olenna Redwyne.
But upon reflection, it was better for fewer people to know about this matter, to avoid complications.
"Therefore, I have secured an opportunity for you with the Hand of the King to avoid staying in the black cells, but until the trial ends, you cannot leave King's Landing. You must report to the City Watch once a day to ensure you do not flee."
"I call this method 'release on bail'."
Hearing this, Tyrion first frowned.
After all, when Jaime brought Dontos Hollard up, his father, the Hand, had urgently halted the trial. He had absolutely no idea what had happened afterward.
It was as if an invisible pair of hands was pushing everything to happen.
However, Corleone didn't say, and he tactfully didn't ask, only a mocking smile appearing at the corner of his mouth: "It's better than the gallows."
"Indeed."
The room fell silent for a moment.
Tyrion's gaze fell on Corleone's face, observing this man carefully once again.
That face was plain and unremarkable, nothing special, save for eyes that were deep and calm.
Who could have guessed that this man was merely a Farmer just a few months ago, yet now he was able to control certain situations in King's Landing, and even sway the Hand's judgment.
He remembered the day of the trial, the way Corleone walked into the Great Sept of Baelor—composed, calm, as if he were not walking into the most sacred temple of The Seven Kingdoms, but his own backyard.
This man had saved him.
Yet he stated plainly that it was merely out of a fair transaction.
But it was precisely this cold rationality that inexplicably gave Tyrion a sense of security.
"Speaking of money," Tyrion began, breaking the silence, "That ten thousand gold dragons, I have already had Bronn send it to your vault. It should have been received, right?"
Corleone nodded, "Your mercenary pays on time."
"That's good."
Upon hearing this, Tyrion calmly teased, "I have to thank you for your previous threat; it left a very deep impression on me."
"It made me realize that money isn't everything, but you can't do anything without money, especially when you need it to save your life."
As he spoke, his short legs swung gently in the air, looking quite at ease.
"So, when I was still serving as master of coin, I kept an ace up my sleeve, skimming a little bit from every expenditure from time to time; it accumulated into quite a significant sum."
"Thinking about it now, it's actually quite pathetic that a Lannister would need to squirrel away money in secret."
"Speaking of which, that guy Petyr Baelish has been master of coin for so many years; I don't even dare to imagine how much money he has embezzled."
Facing Tyrion's rambling narrative, Corleone just listened quietly, his face devoid of any expression.
Another silence followed.
Seeing that Corleone really had no reaction, Tyrion stopped probing and spoke directly: "Well, our transaction is complete. Can I go now, or do you have other... services to sell?"
At this moment, Corleone said slowly: "The transaction is complete, but there is one more thing."
"What thing?"
"Someone wants to see you."
Tyrion was stunned for a moment.
Without waiting for him to ask further, Corleone had already walked to the door and pulled it open.
Sansa Stark walked in.
She had changed out of the dark blue velvet gown she wore at the Great Sept of Baelor, and was now wearing a simple grey wool dress with a dark shawl draped over it.
Her long red hair was braided into a thick plait that hung over her chest. There was no makeup on her face, making her look a bit more mature than her actual age, but also more resolute.
She was not alone; following behind her was a middle-aged man wearing a dark red robe with a seven-pointed star badge hanging on his chest.
The man was thin with a stern face, holding a thick copy of the seven-pointed star and a roll of parchment.
Tyrion recognized the attire.
A cardinal.
A cleric of the Faith of the Seven, ranking just below the High Septon.
Seeing this, Tyrion's eyes narrowed, his gaze shifting back and forth between Sansa and the bishop.
"Sansa, this is..."
"Lord Tyrion Lannister." Sansa interrupted him, introducing him in a very calm tone: "This is Bishop Raynard, from the Great Sept of Baelor."
"He is here today to officiate an important ceremony."
Her tone was too formal, too cold, making Tyrion feel an inexplicable sense of panic, and he couldn't help but turn to look at Corleone.
But Corleone just stood quietly by the door, arms crossed, like a bystander.
"What ceremony?" Tyrion asked.
Sansa did not answer, but instead took a roll of parchment from inside her shawl, unrolled it, and placed it on the table.
The paper was new, but the ink had long since dried, clearly not drafted at the last minute.
Tyrion looked down. He only read the first few lines, and his head buzzed.
To the Faith of the Seven and His Holiness the High Septon: I, Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, hereby formally request the annulment of my marriage to Tyrion Lannister...
Tyrion jerked his head up, looking at Sansa.
The girl's face was devoid of expression, cold as the snows of the North, completely and utterly businesslike.
"You want a divorce?" Tyrion asked in disbelief, his voice trembling.
"Yes." Sansa's answer was brief and affirmative.
It was no wonder Tyrion reacted so strongly; after all, everyone knew that in the history of The Seven Kingdoms, divorce was an extremely rare occurrence.
But it was not without precedent.
Queen Naerys, wife of Aegon IV Targaryen, had once proposed a divorce on the grounds that her health was too poor to endure her husband's constant demands.
Although it was not successful at the time, it was generally believed that with the approval of the Church and mutual agreement between both parties, a marriage could be declared invalid.
Looking at Sansa's cold face, Tyrion opened his mouth to say something, but his throat felt as if it were blocked.
After a long while, he took a deep breath and clenched his fists: "If you divorce, you will be in great danger."
"King's Landing is full of people who want to use you. The North is now in the hands of the Boltons. Without the protection of the Lannister name, you..."
"The Lannister name?" Sansa interrupted him, her voice rising sharply, and she sneered: "Lord Tyrion, please look at yourself."
"You bear the Lannister name, but you cannot even protect yourself."
"If I hadn't defended you at the trial, you would already be on the gallows. Your father wanted to use you as a scapegoat, your sister wanted to use your death to vent the pain of losing her son, and your family... your family has never truly accepted you."
She spoke very directly, every word like a knife, precisely piercing into Tyrion's deepest wounds.
"So please don't talk to me about protection. I have had enough of Lannister protection. They tricked my father into coming to King's Landing, then betrayed him, and then forced me to marry a dwarf to legally seize the North!"
She took a deep breath and said resolutely: "I don't need such protection. I would rather face the danger alone than have any further connection with the Lannisters, and besides..."
"In Flea Bottom, I have absolute safety."
Upon hearing this, Tyrion closed his eyes.
He wanted to refuse, not because he wanted to keep Sansa—he knew he couldn't—but because he felt that once divorced, Sansa would truly be all alone.
A girl, without family protection, without the name of a husband, in the most chaotic time of The Seven Kingdoms, having to face everything alone—this was extremely dangerous.
But Sansa was right. He couldn't even protect himself, so how could he protect her?
At the trial, it was Sansa who saved him, not him who saved Sansa.
In the Red Keep, she endured humiliation and fear, and never gained a shred of safety or dignity from the status of being Tyrion Lannister's wife.
Their marriage was a mistake from the beginning, a plot by his father. Continuing to maintain this mistake was unfair to Sansa and a form of torture for him as well.
Thinking this, Tyrion looked at Corleone. The man was still standing quietly by the door, his face devoid of any expression.
But Tyrion suddenly realized that he had arranged this meeting, he had brought the bishop, and he had provided Sansa with protection and support, giving her the confidence to propose a divorce. This was not a sudden decision.
"Lord Tyrion." Feeling his gaze, Corleone spoke: "Divorce is indeed a disgrace for a male noble. If you are worried about your reputation, I can have Bishop Raynard keep it confidential for now. The documents can be sealed, the ceremony can be private, and it can be announced when the time is right."
"That way, you can at least retain some... superficial dignity."
Upon hearing this, Tyrion laughed, but there was no bitterness in it; instead, he appeared quite calm.
"Dignity? Sir Corleone, after experiencing that trial, after being abandoned and framed by my family, do you think I have any dignity left to speak of?"
As he spoke, he shook his head and looked at Sansa. The girl was also looking at him, her beautiful blue eyes showing not a shred of attachment.
"I agree." Tyrion said, his voice very firm: "I, Tyrion Lannister, agree to annul the marriage with Sansa Stark."
Sansa's eyes widened slightly. Clearly, she had not expected him to agree so readily.
"But." Tyrion continued, his gaze shifting to the bishop: "I request that the ceremony take place now, publicly."
"There is no need for secrecy. I want everyone to know that Sansa Stark has voluntarily annulled her marriage to Tyrion Lannister."
He paused, a trace of self-mockery appearing at the corner of his mouth: "Speaking of which, I really can't wait to see how ugly my father's face will turn when he hears this news, given how he prides himself on controlling everything!"