Two days later.
In the backyard of the Hall of Order.
Two sword-wielding figures moved back and forth across the open training ground, the sharp ring of metal clashing echoing without pause.
If Jaime or Brienne had been here, their jaws would have hit the floor.
Less than a month ago, Corleone could barely swing a sword at a wooden post without looking clumsy. Now he was trading blows with a fierce Dothraki elite warrior—and actually holding the upper hand.
His strikes weren't flashy, but they were brutally efficient.
The longsword in his grip seemed to have a mind of its own, always finding the perfect angle to block Iggo's attacks. He even read the warrior's next move from the slightest shift in stance or twitch of muscle.
As the pace of their exchanges quickened, Iggo's breathing grew heavier. Sweat rolled down his bronze skin.
His attacks were wide and powerful, lightning-fast, yet he still couldn't break through Corleone's defense.
Finally, after dozens of high-speed clashes, Corleone spotted a tiny opening in Iggo's swing. He flicked his blade upward!
Clang!
Iggo's sword flew from his hand, spinning through the air before clattering onto the stone ground in a series of metallic rings.
The Dothraki staggered back two steps, hands on his knees, chest heaving as he stared at Corleone—who was only slightly out of breath. His eyes were wide with pure disbelief.
"Your progress… is too fast, Blood of my Blood!"
He instinctively switched to Dothraki, his voice thick with awe. "In less than a month… you can already defeat me… Even the most gifted warriors on the grass sea couldn't do this!"
Straightening up, Iggo shook his head, his gaze suddenly burning with wild excitement. "Truly one blessed by the Horse God! You… you will ride the world's stallion!"
Who the hell are you calling that?
Corleone sheathed his blade, a satisfied smile on his face—until he heard Iggo's comparison. He shot the warrior a flat look.
Riding the world's stallion…
Wasn't that the title for Daenerys and Khal Drogo's stillborn son?
The kid never even got to ride anything before dying in the womb. Ride my ass.
Still, he didn't bother explaining. How was he supposed to tell this illiterate barbarian that he had a system?
Shaking his head, Corleone started walking out while checking his system panel.
Hmm…
Tyrion's ten thousand gold dragons had solved his money problems perfectly. He had no idea how the dwarf scraped that much together so quickly, but then again—he was a Lannister. No big surprise there.
With the sudden windfall, Corleone had gone all-in and upgraded every skill to Lv3.
The system had delivered, as always. [Insight Lv3], [Basic Swordsmanship Lv3], and [Surgery Lv3] combined in perfect synergy.
During fights, he could now read his opponent's next move from the smallest twitch, while his medical knowledge let him target the most damaging angles with surgical precision.
If he hadn't been holding back to avoid hurting Iggo, he could have ended the spar several times over.
At his current level, he probably couldn't match the legendary "Barristan the Bold" or the late "Sword of the Morning" Arthur Dayne just yet.
But with the skills working together, beating most knights who weren't at the absolute top was well within reach.
The only problem…
Corleone's thoughts flicked to the system panel only he could see. His eyes twitched when they landed on one particular skill.
[Bed Skill Lv3]
Sweet mother of…
He'd done a random draw with the extra gold on a whim, and the system had given him this ridiculous "surprise."
When he tried to draw again, the system reminded him: [Host's current limit: maximum of five skills at once (excluding No-Level skills).]
To unlock more, he'd need to upgrade one existing skill to Lv5 or get another free No-Level draw.
As for how to get that… the system didn't say.
Fucking stupid system!
Corleone cursed silently, conveniently forgetting he'd called it "Daddy" earlier.
Whatever. Five skills were enough for now.
He comforted himself with that thought.
"Let's go see how things are outside," Corleone said, snapping out of it. He and Iggo walked out together.
Inside the main hall, it looked like a busy construction site.
Old decorations had been ripped out, replaced with stronger stone and timber.
Rorge's hoarse voice boomed across the room like a proper foreman. His noseless face was lit up with excitement as he barked orders at the workers, and—surprisingly—the efficiency was actually high.
Who knew the guy had a natural talent for civil engineering?
Corleone didn't disturb him. He gave an approving nod and quietly slipped through the busy crowd.
When he stepped out the heavy front doors of the Hall of Order, the morning sun bathed the newly leveled streets of Flea Bottom in warm light.
"Lord Corleone!"
"Good morning, Lord Corleone!"
"Lord!"
Along the way, many of the armband-wearing patrol members from the cleaning crews, plus early-rising stall owners, stopped their work to greet him respectfully.
Under his strict orders, Flea Bottom no longer allowed the sale of "Bowl of Brown" or similar horrors.
While this hurt some people's profits and sparked a bit of resistance, a few late-night "visits" from Rorge and the others had quickly silenced most of the complaints.
Still, Corleone could sense that a small group hadn't fully submitted—they were just lying low for now.
He wasn't in a hurry. He'd wait for them to poke their heads out, then crush them all at once.
Lost in thought, Corleone kept nodding politely in response to the greetings.
His eyes swept calmly over the slowly changing streets. The filth was being cleared, chaos was being tamed. A rough but vibrant new order was stubbornly taking root in this once-lawless land.
"Where to, Blood of my Blood?" Iggo asked quietly as they reached the edge of Flea Bottom.
Corleone lifted his head, looking ahead, and grinned. "We've been working hard. Time to enjoy ourselves a little."
"…Let's go get laid!"
---
The Street of Silk.
The air here was completely different from Flea Bottom—thick, sweet, and heavy with cheap perfume, powder, old wine, and the faint scent of lavender.
Even in daylight, ornate lanterns glowed with seductive warmth. The moment they stepped in, rows of scantily clad professional women came into view.
Their faces were painted with inviting smiles. Some leaned out from decorated balconies or windows, laughing and waving. Others stood boldly in the street, using their eyes and bodies to lure customers with zero shame.
Ah, the glorious Middle Ages…
Though his previous body had some experience, this was Corleone's first time stepping into a place like this.
But hey, prostitution wasn't illegal in Westeros, so he felt no real guilt.
Men gotta see the world sometime.
As they walked through the sea of perfumed bodies, Corleone nimbly dodged the reaching arms, looking every bit the man who could walk through a flower garden without getting a single petal on him.
Iggo, on the other hand, was far less restrained.
His eyes went wide, and he kept reaching out to pinch and grab. If Corleone hadn't kept walking, the warrior probably would've been dragged into one of the houses already.
Seeing this, Corleone couldn't resist teasing him. "What's this? I thought you only liked women like Brienne—who can wrestle wild beasts with their bare hands."
Iggo snapped out of it, licked his dry lips, and answered with honest Dothraki practicality. "Mating with a strong woman produces stronger children."
"But for fun… these soft ones look nice too."
He even added a clumsy comparison: "The women on the grass sea are healthy and strong, like proud mares. These… are like juicy peaches."
Corleone burst out laughing at the warrior's raw philosophy, drawing even more eager looks from the women around them.
After all, Iggo might look fierce, but his new clothes were expensive.
The women of Flea Bottom—and this street—knew how to spot money when they saw it.
Iggo, however, was getting impatient. Seeing Corleone keep walking without stopping, he asked again, "Where exactly are we going, Blood of my Blood?"
"There are… plenty of women right here!"
His eagerness made Corleone roll his eyes. "Relax, Blood of my Blood."
He slowed his steps, his gaze sweeping over the flashy but somewhat tacky doorways. "These street-level girls aren't worthy of our status."
"Remember—we're not beggars who'll take just anyone. Today, you and I are the most honored guests on this street."
With a grand wave of his hand, Corleone declared loudly on purpose: "If we're going to get laid, we're getting the best!"
The bold declaration drew stares from everyone nearby.
And just then, the two stopped in front of a particularly grand building.
The three-story structure had smooth white stone walls, colorful leaded-glass windows depicting elegant pastoral scenes instead of crude erotic art.
There were no heavily made-up women soliciting at the entrance—only two well-dressed, clearly elite guards.
A black ebony sign hung above the doorway, engraved in elegant lettering with its name:
The Hummingbird.