The corridor of the The Hall of Order.
Perhaps the newly laid floor was too smooth, or perhaps the density of the wood in The Walls was just right; in any case, footsteps were slightly amplified here.
Tyrion Lannister was walking out along this corridor. His footsteps were lighter than usual; although his legs were short, his pace was quick, and the sound of his boots striking the floor was very rapid.
He was even humming a tune.
It was a ditty from Lys, across the Narrow Sea, with a frivolous melody and suggestive lyrics, telling the story of a sailor meeting a dancer at the port. Tyrion's voice was a bit hoarse; the imprisonment of these past few days had left him physically and mentally exhausted, but he was humming with great enthusiasm, his shoulders swaying slightly to the rhythm.
Turning the corner of the corridor, he nearly collided with someone.
"Careful..."
The other person reached out to steady him.
Tyrion looked up and saw a pair of familiar emerald eyes.
His brother stood before him, wearing his full white armor and white cloak, an expression of surprise on his face.
Jaime frowned at him: "What are you doing here, and... what has made you so happy?"
Upon hearing this, Tyrion steadied himself, brushed off his clothes, and then grinned.
"What's wrong? Does the law dictate that the dwarf cannot be happy?"
At these words, Jaime became even more puzzled.
He looked his brother up and down; although his face was still a bit pale, there was a light in his eyes. Having just escaped a trial that could have resulted in a death sentence, he looked so at ease.
Too at ease. Something was wrong.
"Did you just come from Corleone's?" Jaime asked.
"Of course." Tyrion nodded his large head repeatedly, leaned in secretively, and whispered: "And I have news for you, some very, very interesting news."
Jaime spread his hands, showing a hint of anticipation.
Tyrion stepped closer, stood on his tiptoes looking somewhat furtive, and then dropped the bombshell: "Sansa and I are divorced!"
"???"
The corridor went quiet for a moment.
Jaime's expression froze, his eyes widened slightly, revealing a look of disbelief.
Then, looking at the utterly lecherous expression on Tyrion's face, his mouth twitched, and then his shoulders began to shake slightly.
Immediately after, he actually burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the corridor.
"Haha... divorced!" Jaime laughed even louder, asking in an exaggerated tone: "By the Seven, you really... you really did it!"
"I didn't do it," Tyrion corrected, but his smile didn't diminish at all: "Sansa proposed it. I just agreed."
"When?"
"Just now, in Corleone's office, the ceremony was officiated by Bishop Raynard, with Sir Corleone as a witness; the whole process is guaranteed to be legal and valid."
Upon hearing this, Jaime's laughter gradually subsided, but the mirth in his eyes still flickered. He shook his head, revealing a look of helplessness.
"Father is definitely going to blow a fuse," he said, his tone devoid of worry, but instead tinged with schadenfreude: "He went to such great lengths to bind you and Sansa Stark together, just so the blood of House Lannister could touch the North."
"Now, thanks to a divorce, all his plans have gone down the drain."
At these words, Tyrion shrugged—a gesture that was somewhat uncoordinated for him, as his neck was too thin and his head too large, causing it to wobble constantly.
""You have ruined everything, Tyrion.""
He cleared his throat and then mimicked Tywin's tone, perfectly imitating him.
This wretched appearance made Jaime laugh again, but Tyrion continued to mimic his own reaction: "No, Father, it is you who ruined everything. From the moment you forced us to marry, all of this was destined to be destroyed.""
When he said this, there was an almost rebellious pleasure in his voice.
The two looked at each other and laughed, enjoying this moment of defying their father, as if they could already see the embarrassment of the great Tywin Lannister as his plans failed.
It was strange.
The world knew Tywin Lannister as a wise ruler and a powerful lord, but what they didn't know was that all three of his children took pleasure in defying him.
Cersei was mad, Jaime was rebellious, and Tyrion...
He, who had previously been quite eager for his father's approval, had simply decided to stop caring after experiencing this trial and the framing.
After a long while, Tyrion patted Jaime's thigh... because he couldn't reach his shoulder.
"At least now, we have a shared joke to enjoy."
He said: "Imagine Father's expression when he hears the news; the scene must be spectacular, it's a pity we can't see it."
Jaime laughed again: "Indeed a pity."
Just then, the door at the other end of the corridor opened.
Sansa Stark walked out.
Seeing Jaime and Tyrion, she stopped in her tracks.
For a moment, the air between the three of them froze.
A complicated history, intertwined grievances, a marriage just annulled; all of this weighed on this brief silence.
Then, Sansa curtsied slightly, performing a standard court courtesy, but it appeared very cold.
"Ser Jaime." Her voice was calm, devoid of any emotion, and she did not acknowledge Tyrion.
Seeing this, Jaime nodded in return, also not speaking.
After all, what could he say?
Happy divorce?
However, Sansa was not embarrassed at all. She straightened up and walked past them, the sound of her boots on the stone floor clear and firm.
She did not look back, walking straight towards the stairs and disappearing around the corner.
The sound of her footsteps faded into the distance.
Tyrion watched that direction for a long time.
"She is a strong girl," he said softly: "I can feel it; the girl who trembled in the Red Keep is dead, and the one living now... is a warrior. Perhaps she will outlive us all."
Jaime was silent for a moment, then said: "You are right."
Another silence followed.
This time, it was Tyrion who broke it.
"Alright, I must go." He waved his hand, his tone becoming light again: "I have to report to the City Watch; you know, I have to go every day to prove I haven't run away."
"At this time, we cannot let our wise and mighty father catch any handle on us."
He deliberately said the words "wise and mighty" slowly and heavily.
Jaime nodded.
"Take care," he said, his tone revealing a trace of genuine concern.
Tyrion smiled, did not answer, just waved his hand and continued walking out along the corridor.
He started humming that Lysene ditty again, but this time the sound was softer, almost inaudible.
Jaime stood where he was, watching his brother's small back disappear at the end of the corridor.
Then, he turned and walked towards the door that was still open.
Corleone's office was permeated with a simple, scholarly atmosphere.
But when Jaime walked in, he happened to see Corleone toss a heavy little cloth bag to Bishop Raynard, who was standing in front of the desk.
The bag traced an arc in the air, and when it landed in the bishop's hand, it made a crisp metallic clinking sound.
Having grown up in Casterly Rock, Jaime was all too familiar with it; it was the sound of gold dragons rubbing against each other, unique and pleasant.
The bishop took the bag, weighed it, and a satisfied but restrained expression appeared on his face.
He did not open it to check, but carefully tucked the bag into his wide robe sleeve, then bowed deeply.
"Thank you for your generosity, Sir Corleone." The bishop's voice was solemn and sincere, as if he were preaching at the Great Sept: "The Seven will remember your good deeds. The repairs to the Sept will begin immediately, and the food and lodging for the poor septons will be improved; all this is thanks to you."
Corleone sat behind the desk, his hands folded on the surface, his posture relaxed as if he were just chatting.
"No need to thank me, Lord Bishop." He said in a calm voice: "It is a transaction. You provide what I need, and I pay the agreed reward; it is fair."
The bishop bowed again.
"Then, please allow me to take my leave; there are many matters at the Sept that need to be dealt with."
"Please do. Oh, that's right, please give my regards to the High Septon; I will go personally in a couple of days to provide therapy for his rheumatism."
"Of course, Ser." The bishop turned, saw Jaime at the door, bowed again, and then hurried away.
His footsteps were light, and as his sleeves swung, one could faintly hear the clinking of gold dragons inside.
The door closed gently.
Only two people were left in the office.
Jaime walked to the desk, did not sit down, just stood there, looking at Corleone.
"Your network of favors," Jaime said slowly: "It is truly pervasive; you can even bribe a bishop of the Great Sept of Baelor."
Corleone leaned back in his chair, a faint smile appearing on his face.
"Not bribery, Jaime," he corrected: "It is a transaction. Bishop Raynard needs money; the Sept is in disrepair, and the septons are not eating well... although these are all excuses, the High Septon is indeed old and ill, and cannot attend to these trivial matters."
"And I need some people inside the Church... to provide some conveniences."
He paused, tapping his fingers gently on the desk.
"All relationships in this world, in the final analysis, are only of two kinds: favors and interests."
"Favors require time to cultivate, requiring emotional investment, while interests... interests are direct, clear, and quantifiable."
"You give money, I do the job; simple, clean, and no unnecessary entanglements."
Jaime listened, a flash of approval appearing in his eyes.
These words were cold and realistic, but... they made a lot of sense. He thought of his experiences in King's Landing over these years.
Alliances between nobles, vows between knights, marriages between houses; on the surface, they are about honor, loyalty, and family, but peel back that gorgeous skin, and underneath, it is all naked exchange of interests.
Even within House Lannister, it is the same.
But it is different between me and Corleone.
He stubbornly thought this, a curve appearing at the corner of his mouth again.
Corleone picked up an exquisite crystal glass from the table, poured some ale, and pushed it to Jaime.
Jaime took it and, without any hesitation, took a big gulp.
"For example, Dontos Hollard," Corleone continued, pouring himself a glass: "Without those interests and favor relationships, you could not have found him within three days. I have a very good relationship with Lord Lake of Duskendale, and I promised to give him a thirty percent share of the profits from a part of the business in Flea Bottom."
"Almost all the dockworkers in Blackwater Bay owe me favors, and even more than a third of the Gold Cloaks are willing to do things for me."
He sipped his wine.
"All of these are woven into a net. Dontos is like a fish that has fallen into the net; no matter how he struggles, he will eventually surface."
Upon hearing this, he drained the ale in his glass.
The ale was strong, stinging him and making him frown, but after swallowing, a warmth rose in his throat.
"You are right."
"If not for that net, I might be completely confused and have no clue at all, and Tyrion... might already be dead."
He put down the glass and looked at Corleone.
"So, thank you."
Corleone shook his head: "No need to thank me; I said it, this is a transaction. You owe me a favor, and you will have to pay it back in the future."
"I know," Jaime said, "and... I might soon have to owe you another favor."
At these words, Corleone raised an eyebrow and looked at him in confusion.
Jaime took a deep breath and stood up straight; this action made him look taller, his white armor gleaming with a cold luster in the afternoon sun.
His expression was very serious, serious to the point of being heavy.
"I am here to say goodbye."
"A farewell?" A trace of surprise appeared in Corleone's eyes, an expression he had never even shown when facing the entire tribunal at the Great Sept of Baelor.
"I am leaving King's Landing." Jaime, however, was very firm: "I told you, I requested the North, to go to The Wall."
The room fell silent for a moment.
Only the faint clamor of the market from outside the window could be heard, along with the ticking of the old grandfather clock beside the bookshelf.
After a long time, Jaime raised his only remaining left hand and said bluntly: "After losing my right hand, I tried practicing the sword with my left, but... it doesn't work."
"The posture is wrong, the exertion is wrong, I can't even do the most basic slashes. Even after practicing with Bronn, the way I use a sword now still looks like a child who has just picked up a weapon."
As he said this, a deep sense of frustration emanated from him.
A fencing prodigy since childhood, Jaime had always been incredibly brave in battle. Even when facing the Smiling Knight, he had charged straight at him without hesitation, never feeling inferior or discouraged about his own swordsmanship.
Taking a deep breath, Jaime lowered his hand into a fist and continued: "When I saw Joffrey die before my eyes and Tyrion thrown into prison, I realized that Jaime Lannister without his swordsmanship is not even as useful as an ordinary Gold Cloak."
"I couldn't protect Joffrey, I couldn't protect Tommen, I couldn't even protect my brother, watching him walk toward the gallows. Perhaps one day in the future, I might not even be able to protect Cersei!"
His voice began to tremble, not out of fear, but out of anger—anger at himself.
"I don't want to go on like this anymore, I don't want to stay in King's Landing like a useless waste, wearing this white armor, playing the part of an 'honorable' Kingsguard, when in reality I can do nothing."
"Honor, titles, family names—these things are worthless in a critical moment. What is truly useful is what you can do, that you can grip a sword and stand in front of the people you want to protect, that you can say 'Enough,' and then have the ability to make that statement a reality."
Jaime became more and more agitated as he spoke, while Corleone listened quietly.
Sometimes, listening itself is the best form of understanding.
"So I am going to The Wall." Jaime continued, his voice becoming firm once again, "I am going to relearn how to fight, with this left hand!"
"And what about Tyrion?"
After the atmosphere eased slightly, Corleone asked: "If you leave, who will protect him? Tywin will not let him off easily, and Cersei wants nothing more than for him to die."
Upon hearing this, Jaime looked at Corleone, his green eyes filled with certainty: "That is why I came to you."
"During the time I am away from King's Landing, Tyrion's safety... I leave to you."
Once these words were spoken, Corleone smiled, his tone carrying a hint of teasing: "I am no god, Ser Jaime Lannister."
"I cannot control everything. Tywin is Hand of the King, Cersei is the Queen Regent. If they want Tyrion dead, there are many ways they can bypass me."
"You can, as long as you want to." Jaime said: "Because you are Vito Corleone."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room, and then across the orderly Flea Bottom outside the window.
"Honestly, I have never seen my father forced into such a position by anyone. You broke into the Tower of the Hand at night, held a sword to his throat, and forced him to concede."
"You tore Flea Bottom from his grasp, rebuilt this place full of order, and you saved Tyrion. All these things you have done, my father could not do."
"So I believe that if you are willing, you can protect Tyrion, at least, keep him alive until I return."
A simple sentence, but the trust within it carried immense weight.
Corleone looked at him for a long time, then he smiled. In that smile, there was helplessness, recognition, and an inexplicable warmth.
"That will cost extra."
"I know." Jaime also smiled: "And I said, I will pay it back."
"You already owe quite a bit."
"Then I'll just owe a little more." Jaime shrugged: "The more debt you have, the less you worry."
The room fell into silence again.
Corleone stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Jaime.
Sunlight shone in over his shoulders, casting a long shadow on the table. He looked out the window, watching the people living, working, and walking on the streets of Flea Bottom.
"Very well." Corleone finally said: "I will take responsibility for Tyrion's safety, even the Seven Gods shall not be able to take his life, but I have a few conditions."
"Name them."
"First, you must return alive. Dead men cannot pay their debts."
"I will try."
"Second, you must truly master the left-handed sword. I do not want my investment to go down the drain."
"I will."
"Very good."
Corleone nodded, walked back to the table, and without sitting down, reached out and pulled a thin rope hanging beside the table.
The other end of the rope led to a room downstairs, where there was a bell.
Before long, the door opened.
Rorge walked in.
"My lord."
"Bring me the thing I ordered."
Rorge didn't say a word, nodded, and hurried away.
Jaime frowned in confusion: "What thing?"
"A parting gift." Corleone sat back down and said in a quite relaxed tone: "I originally wanted to get you a Valyrian steel sword. That stuff is light, sharp, never dulls, and is best suited for one-handed use—it's practically no different from a divine artifact."
"But I made some inquiries, and there are too few Valyrian steel weapons in circulation. Every one of them has an owner, and the owners treat them as heirlooms and refuse to sell."
"So I had to settle for second best. I had Master Tobho Mott, the best blacksmith on Iron Street, forge one for you. He used fine steel he's cherished for years, folded and forged repeatedly, and the quenching process is also top-tier."
"Although it cannot compare to Valyrian steel, with the current technology in The Seven Kingdoms, this is the best sword that can be forged."
As he said this, before Jaime could express his thanks, Corleone walked to the bookshelf again and pulled out a leather-bound booklet: "During this time, I have studied all the records of left-handed swordsmen I could find, although there aren't many."
Then he pushed the booklet in front of Jaime.
Jaime looked down and saw some names recorded inside. Under each name were a few lines of small text, recording their training methods, common techniques, and even dietary habits.
Looking at these names for a long time, he suddenly felt a lump in his throat.
In recent days, his father had cold-shouldered him, and Cersei had blamed him for not protecting Joffrey well. Yet, every time he came to the The Hall of Order, he could feel that in this King's Landing, there was truly still someone who cared about him.
"Where did you get these records?" Jaime asked, letting out a long breath.
"There are scattered records in books written by maesters, and some pieced together from the drunken chatter of old veterans."
"It is said that 'Qhorin Halfhand' took a full year to master it." Corleone looked up and teased: "For a swordsman, a year is not long. You are only thirty-four this year; even if you spend another five years practicing, it is not too late."
"Don't forget, Barristan Selmy was still able to win the tournament at fifty-seven, and..."
"You were never a swordsman who relied on brute strength to win, Jaime."
The more Corleone spoke, the more Jaime lowered his head in silence.
After losing his right hand, the voices he heard were all of pity, sympathy, or even schadenfreude.
No one had said to him, you can still become a top-tier swordsman.
Only Corleone. He was even somewhat reluctant to leave King's Landing, but... he had to go.
Not long after the silence, Rorge returned.
He was holding a long, rectangular wooden box in his hands.
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