The "arithmetic lesson" didn't last long.
The old count wasn't nearly as devout as he pretended. By the time Corleone pulled out the third fingernail, Gyles had spilled everything—every last detail, every name, every whispered conversation.
And in those few minutes, Corleone taught him three things:
First, pain can be pinpointed to individual nerve endings.
Second, fear can be measured in every single heartbeat.
Third, some secrets even the Seven never hear.
By the time Corleone slipped back into the Hall of Order, the sky was just turning the pale gray of false dawn.
He didn't wake anyone. He went straight upstairs to his room, stripped off the dark clothes that still carried the musty stink of the cellar and a faint trace of wine, and changed.
Eight years of medical school—countless dissections, cadavers opened on cold slabs—had burned any hesitation about killing out of him long ago. Gyles Rosby's death was peaceful, clean, almost gentle. No blood, no struggle. To any ordinary maester it would look exactly like natural causes. Pycelle might spot something if he really tried, but the old coin was too craven to risk Tywin's wrath over it.
Corleone called for hot water, washed thoroughly, and even managed a couple hours of solid sleep.
He didn't wake until the sun was high. Lunch was waiting.
He was halfway through a perfectly seared pork chop when the door slammed open.
"My blood of my blood!"
Iggo burst in, eyes bloodshot, face split in a filthy grin that showed every yellow tooth. The Dothraki looked wrecked but weirdly exhilarated.
"You… you just left?" he complained in thickly accented Common. "I wake up in the Hummingbird, red-haired woman says you dipped out in the afternoon. I searched two whole streets for you!"
Corleone paused mid-cut, swallowed, and gave Iggo a flat look.
What was he supposed to say? Sorry, I forgot I left my blood rider in a brothel?
"I figured you needed the rest," he said evenly.
"Rest?" Iggo slapped his chest with a laugh. "Dothraki warriors don't rest! You don't know—that redhead, waist like a grass-sea mare. Then we tried—"
"Shut up and eat."
Corleone pushed the plate of pork pie across the table.
Iggo just grinned wider, dropped into a chair, and started shoveling food like a starving man. Watching him devour everything in sight, Corleone couldn't help but marvel at the stamina. The man had spent the entire night and morning in a high-end brothel and still looked ready to wrestle a horse.
Corleone had originally planned to bring Iggo along last night, but with [Insight Lv. 3] he figured he'd handle it cleaner himself. Besides, a body like Gyles's needed professional treatment to look natural.
Rosby's lax security had been laughable under that skill—almost insulting how easy it was.
Still… he needed more hands. Real ones.
Iggo was top-tier second-rate at best—fast and vicious, but no knight. Rorge was great at bullying merchants and laying cobblestones, but put him against Brienne and he'd be paste in seconds.
If he could build something like the Faceless Men… things would get a lot simpler.
He was still chewing on that thought when a black shadow landed silently on the table.
Iggo jolted, hand halfway to his arakh—then relaxed.
A cat. Solid black, long-haired, huge. One notched ear like it had been chewed in a fight. Amber eyes locked on the last strip of bacon in Iggo's hand.
"That's people food," Corleone said calmly. He tossed over a raw chunk of meat instead.
Iggo blinked. "Where'd the cat come from?"
"Red Keep."
Corleone kept it short.
Yesterday afternoon, leaving the Tower of the Hand, the cat had been sunning itself on a ledge. Those vertical pupils tracked him the whole way across the courtyard. That stare had prickled the back of his neck.
On impulse, right before stepping through the gate, he'd made a soft "tch-tch-tch" sound.
He hadn't expected anything. But the cat followed. All the way to Flea Bottom. And now it was sharing lunch.
The black cat sniffed the raw meat, then tore into it with slow, aristocratic precision. When Iggo reached to pet its back, the cat exploded—fur puffed, claws out, raking a bloody line down his arm.
"Ow! Temperamental little shit," Iggo muttered, pulling back without real anger.
Dothraki didn't hold grudges against pets. Especially not Corleone's pets.
The cat finished the meat, licked its paws, then butted its head against Corleone's wrist, purring like distant thunder.
Completely different attitude.
Corleone set down his knife, opened his palm, and scooped the cat into his lap. The fur was softer than it looked. He ran fingers from head to tail; the cat narrowed its eyes in bliss and cranked the purr up a notch.
Sunlight poured through the window, catching them both in gold.
On impulse, Corleone murmured, "Balerion?"
The cat rumbled a low "mrrrow."
Then footsteps pounded up the stairs.
"Boss! I found—"
Rorge's big voice cut off the second he hit the doorway.
The noseless thug froze, eyes bulging like copper coins, staring at the enormous black cat sprawled across Corleone's lap, purring like it owned the place.
Rorge's face went through a rapid series of expressions: shock, panic, forced calm. His eyes flicked to the two men behind him—who were suddenly very interested in the ceiling and backing down the stairs, each carrying a cloth-covered… cage?
Rorge cleared his throat. "Uh… feeding the cat, boss?"
Corleone lifted his gaze. That look went straight through the fake calm and made Rorge sweat.
"How many times do I have to say it? 'My lord.'"
"Yes! My lord Corleone!"
"Come in. Close the door."
Rorge straightened like a soldier, stepped inside, and shut the door softly.
He didn't sit. Just stood at the table, stealing glances at the cat.
"As you ordered this morning," he started, voice low. "We tailed that old monk preaching in the Fishmonger's Square. Time was short, but we got something."
"Go on."
Rorge stepped closer. "You were right—he's already got his hooks in Flea Bottom."
"I was about to send men when I heard hundreds showing up every day. So I grabbed three locals—old Hal the cobbler, Widow Mora who sells greens, and a dockhand's kid. All born here. I split them up. Stories match."
"Since last month, every morning the monk's in the square preaching the Seven. Anyone who lines up gets a chunk of black bread and half a bowl of thin gruel. Not much, but enough to keep the starving alive."
"Then they have to pray. Can't leave till everyone's done chanting with him."
"First couple days, mistakes don't matter. But keep screwing up the words or mumbling? Bread gets smaller. Eventually no gruel at all."
Iggo frowned. "No loud voice, no food? What kind of shit is that?"
Rorge shrugged. "Widow Mora's got a strong voice—third day she got a full loaf. Old Hal mumbles; after a week he's still on scraps. His wife tried shouting for him—got dragged out. Took days of begging to get back in."
"Sounds like conditioning," Corleone said, fingers drumming lightly on Balerion's back. "Keep going."
"After the morning sermon, he hands out 'medicine.' Black, bitter soup. They have to drink it on the spot—bowls collected right away. 'Divine grace, can't be hoarded.'"
"Old Hal's wife had a bad cough. One bowl and it's gone. She's energetic, clear-eyed… but she says everything looks floaty. Heart feels light. Whatever the monk says, it's gospel. Like the Seven are standing right there."
Corleone's half-lidded eyes snapped open.
The room went still. Even Iggo set down his bread.
"The medicine," Corleone said. Voice flat. Cold. Dangerous.
Rorge swallowed. "They can't take it. Have to finish it there. But Widow Mora's clever—scooped the dregs into her sleeve while pretending to drink. Saved them for when the shakes hit later. I bought the packet off her. One silver stag."
He laid a small oiled-paper bundle on the table.
Corleone opened it. [Insight Lv. 3] on full.
Deep brown-black, uneven, obvious sediment layers.
He scraped a bit with his nail, rubbed it between fingers. Gritty, plant fibers not fully ground.
Brought it to his nose—then his tongue.
Spit it out instantly.
BAM!
Fist slammed the table hard enough to rattle plates.
Rorge flinched.
In all the time he'd known Corleone, the man had never lost composure. Even murder looked like art. This… this was rage.
Corleone tasted bitter almond first—amygdalin. Trace amounts suppress coughs. Too much kills.
Then lead.
This wasn't medicine.
It was poison.
A slow, deliberate cocktail for the poor: instant "relief" traded for lifelong dependency and ruin. All wrapped in fake divine light.
"My… my lord?" Rorge's voice shook.
Corleone stood, chest rising and falling, eyes burning with something deeper than anger—pure, soul-deep revulsion.
"Buy grain," he said.
Rorge blinked. "What?"
Corleone locked eyes. "I said buy grain."
"Now. Every channel, every contact. Enough to feed ten thousand people for a month. Black bread, oats, beans, salt pork, dried fish—anything that fills a belly."
Rorge's face drained white as he did the math. "My lord… that's… how many dragons? War's wrecked the Riverlands, Vale's locked down, King's Landing prices are ten times normal. We've already poured gold into the fighting pit and the clean-up crews—"
"Money's coming."
Corleone's voice was steel.
"Just do it."
He stepped around the table until they were face to face.
"First shipments in the warehouse by sunset. Full month's rations for ten thousand in three days. Haggle prices, find suppliers. If any merchant gouges…"
Rorge nodded frantically, sweat rolling. "Understood! I'll—I'll handle it!"
"One more thing."
Rorge turned back.
"Spread the word."
Corleone walked to the window, looking down at Flea Bottom—already cleaner, already changing.
Morning light framed him like fire.
"Tell them Vito Corleone is opening soup kitchens and clinics in Flea Bottom. Starting today."
"Free food. Free medicine. No prayers. No chants."
"You show up, you eat. You're sick, you get treated."
He turned, voice quiet but carrying the weight of a vow.
"I'm declaring war… on the so-called Seven Gods."