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Corleone ignored the guards at the door and strode straight into the brothel known as The Hummingbird.
The interior was the height of luxury. Soft carpets swallowed every footstep, and the air carried a refined, subtle incense rather than the usual heavy cloud of cheap perfume.
Still, no amount of elegant decor could change the simple fact that this was a brothel.
Even from the first-floor hall, Corleone could glimpse obscene scenes through the hanging curtains. The only real difference from the cheaper houses outside was that thin layer of silk.
He shook his head slightly. [Majesty Lv3] unfolded silently around him, instantly drawing the eyes of everyone nearby. His expensive clothes and the tall Dothraki warrior standing behind him made people whisper: Who is this unfamiliar noble?
At that moment, a red-haired madam with voluminous curls hurried forward to greet him.
"Welcome to The Hummingbird, my lord!"
Her voice was sweet as honey—warm, professional, never fawning. A practiced smile curved her lips.
She called herself a madam, but she couldn't have been older than twenty-five. Her figure was excellent, and the deep purple silk gown she wore had a neckline cut just right—revealing the elegant line of her collarbone and a teasing glimpse of pale skin. Enough to stir the imagination without being vulgar.
Petyr Baelish clearly had an excellent head for business.
Corleone gave her a brief glance.
Sometimes men didn't crave total exposure. They preferred this half-concealed allure, the pleasure of unwrapping the gift themselves.
"My name is Ros, my lord."
Seeing that Corleone didn't respond, the woman didn't seem offended. She continued smoothly, "It is my honor to serve you. What kind of company are you seeking tonight?"
Her sharp eyes had already judged correctly who held the real authority here.
But Corleone ignored her entirely. Without a word, he walked past her toward the grand staircase leading upstairs.
His familiar, confident stride made Ros immediately classify him as a seasoned patron who knew exactly what he wanted.
She quickly lifted her skirts and followed, light on her feet.
"My lord, the second floor has comfortable private rooms. The girls there are even more…"
She kept up the enthusiastic introduction, but Corleone paid no attention. He continued straight up the stairs to the third floor.
Ros's eyes flashed with excitement. The third floor was reserved for the highest-paying clients—the prices were steep, and so was her cut.
The third-floor hallway was far more private, lined with heavy curtains over each door. The soundproofing was excellent; almost no noise escaped.
Corleone's sharp gaze swept left and right, as if searching for something. In the end, he didn't find the person he was looking for.
Shaking his head, he pushed open the door of an empty room and stepped inside, settling casually onto a velvet-cushioned couch.
"Arrange the best girls for my companion," he ordered Ros. "The very best. Let him enjoy himself."
"Yes, my lord!" Ros beamed. Another man who doesn't care about the cost.
Iggo, who had been holding back for a long time, lit up with excitement. After following Corleone for so long, he hadn't had a proper release in ages.
Soon, three women—each with stunning figures and beautiful faces—entered the room. Ros was about to ask which one he preferred, but Iggo simply stepped forward, grabbed two in each arm, and declared with pure Dothraki honesty:
"I want them all!"
They headed toward another room. Iggo still had some conscience left and glanced back at Corleone.
"You're not joining us, blood of my blood?"
"In the Dothraki Sea, blood brothers share everything!"
Corleone's mouth twitched slightly. He waved a hand. "No need. This is your reward. Enjoy it."
Though Iggo looked a little confused, his body had already taken over. Blood rushed south, and his brain had stopped working entirely.
Click.
The door closed, leaving Corleone and Ros alone in the room.
Before Corleone could speak, Ros gracefully slipped out of her gown, swaying her hips as she approached him with sultry eyes.
After all, when a man sent his guard away, there was usually only one reason.
"You're not a natural redhead," Corleone remarked calmly, a hint of teasing in his voice.
Ros simply leaned into his arms. "Let me help you pass the time while you wait, my lord."
But just as her hands reached for his clothes, Corleone raised a single finger and gently pressed it against her smooth shoulder, stopping her.
Ros froze.
Corleone calmly pulled a single Gold Dragon from his tunic.
He didn't tuck it into her cleavage like an ordinary customer. Instead, he held it between his fingers, raising it between them. The coin gleamed softly in the room's gentle light.
"Ros, wasn't it?"
Corleone spoke slowly, his voice gentle yet commanding. "Your service is excellent, but this Gold Dragon is for a different favor."
He placed the coin on the table with a soft clink and gave his order in a calm, measured tone:
"Go tell your master, Petyr Baelish."
"Say that the Grand Royal Commissioner of Special Affairs, Vito Corleone, has an excellent piece of business he wishes to discuss with him."
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Petyr Baelish was in a very good mood.
He had just returned from the Red Keep, where he had skillfully planted seeds in the Hand's ear—carefully embellishing the news that the Queen of Thorns, Olenna Tyrell, planned to have her grandson Loras marry Sansa Stark.
He knew Tywin well. The Old Lion would never allow Highgarden and the North to form any kind of alliance. That marriage was doomed before it even began.
For many years, his deepest desire had been Catelyn Tully. That longing was the engine driving all his ambition.
To climb the ladder, he had played the long game with her foolish, lovesick sister Lysa, using her influence to rise from a minor heir on the Fingers all the way to Master of Coin in King's Landing.
Although Tywin had taken the position of Master of Coin away and given it to his dwarf son, he had compensated Petyr with the title of Lord of Harrenhal.
More importantly, during the Small Council meeting, Petyr had boldly declared that he would travel to the Eyrie to convince Lysa Tully to marry him—in order to secure the Vale's support.
That foolish woman had been obsessed with him for years, like a dog begging for a bone. She would agree to anything he asked. Petyr was certain of it.
The thought made the corners of his mouth curl into a cat-who-got-the-cream smile.
Once he married Lysa, he could arrange a convenient "accident" for her in a few years. Then he would rightfully become Lord of the Eyrie.
And that girl who carried her mother's shadow—Sansa Stark—would finally be completely his.
Since he could not have Catelyn, having her daughter was still a kind of victory.
Humming a little tune, daydreaming about the glorious future ahead, Petyr's steps felt lighter. He was almost tempted to skip.
As he stepped into the front hall of The Hummingbird, he ran into the red-haired madam, Ros, hurrying down the stairs.
"What's the rush?" Petyr asked, a touch of displeasure in his voice, though his habitual gentle smile remained.
The woman was from the North, but unlike those coarse northerners, she was sharp-minded and quick-witted. She had come straight to The Hummingbird on her very first day in King's Landing.
In just half a year, she had proven herself capable. Her skills in bed were also exceptional—every customer left satisfied.
Because of that, Petyr had quickly promoted her to madam.
Scolded lightly by Petyr, Ros still moved quickly. She leaned close to his ear and whispered a few words.
Instantly, the relaxed, easy smile on Petyr Baelish's face froze solid.
Vito Corleone?
What did that man want with him?
They had only met once before. The last time, to cleanly sever his connection to the filth of Flea Bottom after dealing with Raff, Petyr had sought him out himself.
Could it really be about the few thousand Gold Dragons left in the Blood Cellar?
Surely he wasn't that petty?
Countless thoughts flashed through Petyr's mind, but his face smoothly returned to that harmless, warm expression.
After all, the man was an outsider. Although he had somehow earned Tywin's favor and been appointed to that unheard-of position of "Grand Royal Commissioner of Special Affairs," Petyr had spent more than ten years carefully building his own web in King's Landing.
There was no reason to fear him.
"I understand."
With a calm reply, he dismissed Ros and headed up the stairs.
Reaching the door, he habitually straightened his finely tailored coat before pushing open the door to the most exclusive private room.
"Oh, my dear Commissioner, I was wondering why the birds were singing so cheerfully this morning. It turns out you've graced us with your presence."
He put on his usual smooth, charming smile.
Raising his head, he realized there was no one else in the room. No food, no wine—only a single figure standing by the window with his back to him, seemingly captivated by the lively scene on the Street of Silk outside.
"Petyr Baelish, my lord…"
Hearing the voice, Corleone finally turned around. The light from the window left half his face in shadow.
"Your Hummingbird really is a fine establishment."
His voice was gentle, like greeting an old friend. "Come to think of it, I should thank you for helping me clean up that little mess in Flea Bottom. You did a very thorough job."
"You're too kind," Petyr replied with a smile.
Just as he was about to exchange a few more pleasantries, he saw Corleone walking toward him.
"I've always believed that a man has only one destiny."
Corleone's steps were steady, and an invisible pressure radiated from him, making Petyr feel slightly uncomfortable.
"From the Fingers to Riverrun. From a tax collector in Gulltown to Master of Coin of the realm. And now, Lord of Harrenhal."
"Your ability and methods are truly admirable, Lord Baelish."
As he spoke, Corleone finally stopped right in front of Petyr. They stood so close they could feel each other's breath.
"But…"
"Can you explain to me why a man of your great vision and ambition would be so stingy as to leave me with nothing but… a bare, empty ruin?"
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