Hearing Corleone's blunt accusation, the smile on Petyr's face froze for a beat before he bowed with practiced humility. "You flatter me, Lord Corleone. I'm merely running a modest business to keep food on the table in this fine city."
"Modest business? That's one hell of an understatement."
Corleone smiled, half-joking. "Word around King's Landing is that after Lord Tywin Lannister, you're the richest man in the city, Lord Baelish."
"Former Master of Coin," Petyr corrected smoothly, then pivoted with exaggerated self-reproach. "Look at me, letting such an honored guest arrive without so much as a drink or bite to eat. Please sit. I'll have them bring out my private stock of Dornish Summer Red right away."
Corleone watched the flawless performance and simply gestured for him to proceed. No point calling out the act.
Petyr kept the smile plastered on, turned elegantly, and slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.
In the hallway, red-haired Ros was already waiting with a pitcher in hand.
"How many men did he bring?"
Petyr took the pitcher, smile unchanged, but his eyes went cold.
"Just one Dothraki, my lord. He's next door. I put three of our best girls on him."
Petyr exhaled. No army meant Corleone probably wasn't here to start a war. Still, the man made him nervous.
Ever since Cersei's little episode in the Red Keep—where her Kingsguard nearly opened his throat while lecturing him about power—he'd learned to tread carefully.
"Go fetch Captain Jeff from the Old Gate," Petyr murmured to Ros. "Tell him to bring his lads over. New Essos stock just arrived. Drinks on the house."
"Yes, my lord."
Petyr took a breath, grabbed two crystal goblets, and stepped back inside.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, my lord."
He poured the wine with smooth efficiency, mind racing, and launched into easy small talk. "I hear you're cleaning up Flea Bottom. Quite the feat. Honestly, I'm impressed. Even the best tax collectors won't set foot in that pit."
"A few days back, Ser Olyvar Payne's eldest got drunk, wandered in, and came out stripped to his smallclothes. Ran home bare-assed the next morning."
Corleone took the glass but didn't drink. He just swirled the deep red liquid, gaze distant, as if Petyr hadn't spoken at all.
"Order needs a foundation, Lord Baelish," he said at last. "And foundations are poured with gold. Give me enough coin and I'll turn Flea Bottom into the safest, richest district in the entire Seven Kingdoms."
Both men were too sharp for subtlety. That was no hint—it was a straight demand.
Petyr, however, played the slippery fish perfectly. He sipped his wine and feigned nostalgia. "Gold is everything in business. I learned that the hard way back when I was tax collector in Gulltown. Took years, but I raised revenue tenfold and gave that little port new life."
He waved a hand. "Of course, my small successes are nothing next to the grand work you're doing."
"I have no doubt that if you had run Gulltown back then, your results would've been ten times mine."
He raised his glass in a sincere-looking toast.
Corleone's lip twitched. Ten times? You squeezed Gulltown dry. Push it another tenfold and the sky would've been three feet higher by the time you left.
"This is our second meeting, Lord Baelish," Corleone said, polite mask finally dropping. His voice turned cold. "The first was short but pleasant enough. Pleasant enough that I actually thought we might be alike—men who value friendship and the favors that come with it."
He shook his head. "I was wrong."
"You don't seem to give a damn about my friendship. Or any favor I might offer."
An invisible weight rolled off Corleone and filled the room—[Presence Lv3] made real. Petyr felt it like a physical pressure, as if the man seated across from him had suddenly grown taller.
Those black eyes pinned him in place, sharp enough to strip away every layer of charm and lie.
"I think there's been a misunderstanding—"
Corleone cut him off with a sharp gesture. "No need. What's done is done. Never look back—not for excuses, not for defense, not for sport. Never look back. Some things in this world can't be changed."
The finality left Petyr momentarily speechless. Since he'd climbed the ladder on his back, this was only the second time someone had refused him even the courtesy of an explanation. The first had been Cersei's blade at his throat.
"We both know the score," Corleone continued, rising slowly. Every word landed like a hammer. "You cleaned up the mess in Flea Bottom and saved me time. I remember the favor. But we both know five thousand gold dragons was never the real price."
He softened, almost magnanimous. "Doesn't matter. I don't mind repaying favors double. So I'm letting it go."
The light tone was more dangerous than any threat. It said: I see your game. I just have bigger fish to fry—or a far worse way to settle accounts.
While Petyr was still reeling, Corleone straightened his coat with calm precision.
"Business is like the wind. You never know whose hat it blows away."
He headed for the door. As he passed Petyr he added, almost casually:
"I hear you're leaving King's Landing soon for the Vale to spread your wings, Lord Baelish. I wish you every success. I just hope that while you're enjoying the mountain views from the Eyrie, you'll still manage to keep a firm hand on the golden goose you left behind in King's Landing."
Corleone didn't wait for an answer. He walked straight toward the exit.
Petyr's heart slammed against his ribs. Five thousand dragons? No—the man was after everything. His brothels. His information network. The heart of his power in the city.
"Wait! Lord Corleone!"
Panic cracked his polished mask. He lunged forward and planted himself in the doorway, blocking Corleone's path.
"We haven't even had a real conversation. Why leave so soon?"
He forced a crooked smile, mind spinning. Who was pulling the strings? Tywin? Someone else?
"We've said all there is to say, Lord Baelish."
Corleone's face stayed unreadable, but inside he was grinning. Got him.
Petyr Baelish—future Lord of the Eyrie—was still clutching his little patch of King's Landing like a drowning man. The Eyrie was hundreds of miles away. How the hell was he going to protect these assets once he left?
Even if Corleone did nothing, half the city's vultures were already circling, ready to carve off a piece the second Petyr's back was turned.
Petyr wasn't a fool. He recovered fast, straightening his spine and forcing steel into his voice. "Perhaps you're still new to the capital, Lord Corleone. Search every street and you won't find a single mockingbird sigil. That doesn't mean I have no friends here."
"Empty threats don't scare me."
Corleone gave him a flat look. "Have I threatened you? I'm simply fulfilling my duty as Grand Royal Commissioner of Special Affairs—reminding you to protect your valuable property."
His gaze dropped pointedly to Petyr's hand still gripping the doorframe.
Petyr's pulse hammered. Was Tywin behind this? The stalemate lasted three long seconds.
Then a raw, agonized scream tore through the wall from the next room, followed by women shrieking and the crash of breaking glass.
Both men moved at once. They yanked the door open and rushed into the chaos next door.
A knight in bright red armor knelt on the floor, howling. His right hand was pinned to the table by a wicked-looking dagger driven clean through the palm. Blood pooled beneath it.
Iggo stood over him, chest heaving, eyes wild. Three half-naked girls cowered in the corner, and shattered wine goblets littered the floor.
The Dothraki warrior snarled something in his native tongue that sounded like a promise of worse to come.