Early morning.
A thin mist draped over King's Landing like a dirty gray veil.
A carriage bearing the Lannister lion sigil charged into Flea Bottom, flanked by an elite squad of Gold Cloaks. Behind the crooked windows on both sides of the street, countless eyes peeked out at these uninvited guests.
Tyrion sat inside, scowling at the surroundings through the window.
Vito Corleone. He once thought the guy was just a lucky peasant. But whether it was his ruthless methods or his sheer efficiency... the man had far exceeded his expectations.
In just two short days, this shithole that everyone in King's Landing avoided like the plague had actually been cleaned up. Sure, it still reeked, and there was still trash scattered around, but it was a world away from the cesspit it used to be.
Guys wearing dark armbands were sweeping up the occasional stray garbage with brooms. They didn't even flinch or hide when they saw the armored Gold Cloaks march by; they just watched them pass in dead silence.
It was still poor and backward, but some newly established order seemed to be taking root in this chaotic wasteland.
The procession stopped. Tyrion agilely hopped out of the carriage on his stumpy legs, looked up at the building, and muttered, "The Hall of Order."
He scoffed and marched straight in, his Gold Cloaks in tow.
As Master of Coin, he didn't have the direct authority to command the City Watch. Because this concerned Shae, he didn't dare take it to his father, Tywin. Fortunately, he had an uncle who was the Master of Laws—Kevan Lannister.
Unlike his father, Tyrion's uncles had always been decent to him. Too bad most of them were dead or missing, leaving only Uncle Kevan and Aunt Genna.
With a sharp wave of Tyrion's hand, three full squads of Gold Cloaks rushed the second floor, locking the place down tight.
He waddled upstairs right after them, only to be completely thrown off by the scene waiting for him.
His target, Vito Corleone, was sitting calmly behind a massive desk, enjoying breakfast.
He wore a simple, dark linen shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, looking completely relaxed.
Spread out in front of him was a plate of sliced toast, a small dish of honey jam, a few pieces of perfectly fried bacon, and a bowl of oatmeal. A very well-balanced meal.
He acted like he hadn't even noticed the small army crashing his turf. He just took his time, casually spreading butter on his bread and taking a slow, deliberate bite.
Tyrion looked left and right, scanning every dark corner, but didn't see a single trace of the woman he was desperately looking for.
Grumble~
An incredibly out-of-place stomach growl echoed from one of the Gold Cloaks. Met with glaring looks from the room, the guard awkwardly lowered his head.
But several of his buddies were secretly eyeing Corleone's breakfast, swallowing hard. This raid was sprung on them so fast that none of them had time to eat.
"Oh my..."
Hearing the noise, Corleone finally seemed to notice them. He looked up.
"The morning mist hasn't even cleared, and Flea Bottom gets a personal visit from the Master of Coin and the City Watch. I'm truly flattered."
"It's a shame I only have this peasant food to offer. I'm afraid it's not fit for your refined tastes."
Saying that, he deliberately forked a piece of bacon, popped it in his mouth, and chewed slowly.
Another round of audible gulps echoed through the room.
Even Tyrion felt a sharp pang of hunger. After all, he'd been up all night sweating bullets and had skipped breakfast too.
But he had thick skin. He marched right up to the desk. Since he was barely taller than the table, he had to reach up blindly, grab a few slices of bread, and shove them into his mouth whole.
"I hope it suits your palate, my Lord. My cook is no match for the Red Keep's royal chefs."
"I've eaten worse," Tyrion chewed roughly, trying to project a fierce, intimidating aura. "I wasn't born into grace, Corleone. Every dwarf is a bastard in his father's eyes."
"Since the day I was born, everyone has called me the 'Imp.' I don't think you want to find out just how terrifying a demon's revenge can be!"
With that, he violently swept all the food off the desk, crashing plates and bowls to the floor as he glared viciously at Corleone. The threat was clear.
To his surprise, Corleone didn't get angry. He simply set down his small knife, picked up a linen napkin, and gently dabbed the corners of his mouth.
Those deep, pitch-black eyes stared right through him, easily seeing past Tyrion's tough-guy act.
"An interesting legend, Lord Tyrion."
Corleone leaned forward slightly, speaking with a playful edge. "But I've heard a different story."
"Across the Narrow Sea, there's a fierce beast similar to a shadowcat, called a tiger. People believe a tigress usually gives birth to only two cubs at a time. But occasionally, there's an exception. A third one comes along. It's born looking different from its siblings—maybe scrawnier, maybe with a mottled coat. It's seen as a bad omen."
"The mother usually rejects it. She might even throw it out into the wild to fend for itself."
Hearing this, Tyrion's pupils contracted. Real anger flashed across his face.
This metaphor... no, it was a blatant, point-blank insult.
But the story wasn't over. Corleone continued, his voice carrying a strange, hypnotic cadence.
"But, if this unique, scrawny cub manages to survive and grow... it usually becomes the most terrifying predator in the forest."
"It grows up in a living hell. To survive, it has to fight beasts bigger and far more savage than itself."
"Its claws get sharper, its heart grows colder, and its methods become ruthless. Because it knows survival isn't a gift—it's something you carve out with your own blood and claws!"
"And once it gains absolute power, its first target... is the very mother that abandoned it!"
"Shut the fuck up!!!"
Corleone's words cut too deep. Tyrion couldn't take it anymore. He roared, the thick scar across his face twitching with rage.
This story mirrored his own life too closely, leaving him deeply unsettled. He shook his head to clear it, pulled out the intel Varys had provided, and read aloud: "You're busted, Vito Corleone!"
"King's Landing is under a strict curfew, yet you're organizing crews to operate at night. You've even set up your own illegal punishments—tearing the tongue out of an innocent man!"
"This isn't a 'Hall of Order.' It's a den of sin!"
He waved at the Gold Cloaks behind him. "Arrest him!"
The guards stepped forward. Corleone didn't move a muscle. He just slowly lifted his eyelids.
"You don't have the authority to arrest me."
His voice was casual, but the crushing weight of his presence erupted into the room like a physical force.
The Gold Cloaks froze in their tracks. Their eyes involuntarily locked onto the man sitting calmly before them, feeling a very real, gripping panic in their chests.
"Are you resisting arrest, Vito Corleone?!"
The oppressive aura was intense. Corleone's sheer confidence even made Tyrion break a cold sweat. But driven by his anxiety for Shae, he just wanted to bag Corleone and drag him to a black site for interrogation.
"Don't think paying off a few Gold Cloaks lets you do whatever the hell you want!"
"Let me tell you, I pulled these men specifically from the Gate of the Gods!"
He roared again, "Grab him! My uncle is the Master of Laws!"
Under Tyrion's orders, the guards had to bite the bullet and inch forward.
But just as one of the guards was about to put a hand on Corleone's shoulder, a light piece of parchment quietly slid across the desk.
"What the..."
The guard paused, his eyes landing squarely on the bottom right corner of the paper. Stamped perfectly clear was a dark red wax seal.
"Read it," Corleone ordered, handing him the parchment.
Seeing the guard shrink back, he asked coldly, "You don't know how to read?"
"I... I can read..."
Terrified by the crushing pressure, the guard quickly took the parchment and read aloud: "Appointing Vito Corleone as Grand Royal Commissioner of Special Affairs. Granted full authority to handle and prevent any illegal activities within the Crownlands and King's Landing that threaten royal interests, disrupt trade, or incite public unrest."
"Signed... Tywin Lannister... Hand of the King!"
The guard's hand shook violently at the end. Thank the Gods the parchment was thick, or he would have torn it.
The entire room was stunned. Everyone stared at Corleone in disbelief.
"Impossible!"
"Absolutely fucking impossible!"
Tyrion lost his shit. He scrambled forward, snatched the parchment, and rapidly scanned the text.
The handwriting at the bottom was painfully familiar. The seal of the Hand was genuine; there was no faking it.
But... Grand Royal Commissioner of Special Affairs? What the fuck kind of bullshit title was that?
Fortunately, the document detailed three specific authorities at the bottom.
One: May call upon the City Watch for cooperation when necessary.
Two: Possesses the authority to interrogate anyone suspected of endangering the realm's stability.
Three: In emergencies, has the right to take decisive action on the spot and report afterward.
Too vague...
Tyrion was smart. In seconds, he spotted the catch in this appointment.
"Grand Royal Commissioner of Special Affairs" sounded badass, but its jurisdiction was incredibly vague and broad. It had zero actual hard power.
Sure, it said he could "call upon" the City Watch, but he couldn't command them. How much they actually cooperated depended entirely on Corleone's under-the-table relationship with the Gold Cloaks.
Second, no financial authority. He couldn't move a single copper from the royal treasury. No official funding.
And even though the title had "Royal" in it, it wasn't a seat on the Small Council. He had zero say in major state decisions.
Meaning, in King's Landing, Corleone's official standing was actually pretty lightweight.
With his current power, he couldn't touch the high lords. He could only clean up street scum. Places like... Flea Bottom.
No wonder he planted his flag here!
Tyrion grew more furious by the second. This document meant his entire night of planning was completely useless!
"My Lord..."
Right on cue, the guard captain leaned in. Staring at the blood-red seal of the Hand, he hesitated before whispering, "We don't have the authority to arrest a special commissioner appointed personally by the Hand of the King. It violates protocol."
Tyrion snapped his head up. His face burned as if he'd just been publicly slapped.
"Get the fuck out!"
Suppressing the urge to scream, he gritted his teeth and ordered, "Guard the door! Nobody comes in without my say-so!"
"Yes, my Lord!"
The Gold Cloaks practically sprinted downstairs, eager to escape.
But just then, Corleone walked to the railing and called down, "Rorge!"
"Get some breakfast together. Bring up a few casks of ale from the cellar and pass it out to our brothers in the City Watch."
"They've been out busting their asses on a mission since early morning. They must be exhausted."
"You got it, Lord Corleone!"
Rorge's voice echoed from downstairs, clearly struggling to hold back a laugh.
Corleone nodded. He turned back, giving the dwarf a half-smile, almost flaunting it. "I've always liked making friends—especially with guys at the bottom who still bust their hump doing their duty."
"A little insignificant kindness now might just bring an unexpected return someday."
This psychological execution destroyed the last shred of Tyrion's patience. Once the hall was empty except for the two of them, he dropped all pretense of calm.
He practically lunged at the desk, planting both hands on it, glaring dead at Corleone, and hissed, "Enough!"
"Where is Shae?!"
"What the hell did you do to her?!"
The rapid-fire interrogation exposed just how deeply panicked he was.
Corleone didn't answer right away. He slowly walked over to the pile of smashed plates Tyrion had thrown on the floor and crouched down to pick up a surviving goblet.
He grabbed a carafe from the cabinet, poured a glass of wine, and handed it to Tyrion.
"You break my heart, Lord Tyrion."
Corleone looked down at him from above. In those pitch-black eyes, there was genuine, offended anger and disappointment.
"I genuinely hoped we could be partners. Friends, even. I showed you plenty of good faith in our previous negotiations. I made concession after concession."
"I spent a lot of money to host your friend at my place. I gave her food, fine wine, and emotional support."
"I showed you—and the Lannister name—nothing but respect."
His voice didn't waver. He spoke as if merely stating facts, yet Tyrion could feel the suffocating pressure radiating off him intensifying by the second.
In the end, his tone took on a sharp, questioning edge. "So what is it... what have I done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?"
"That you feel you can just invent these ridiculous charges, bring your soldiers, and kick in my door like you're hunting a wild dog, trying to put me in chains?"
"Care to explain yourself?"