Flea Bottom's afternoon sun filtered through tangled clotheslines, casting broken shadows across the stone streets. Smoke curled from low chimneys, carrying the smell of stew and cheap spices. Kids chased each other through the alleys, their laughter sharp and alive—nothing like the violence that had ruled these streets just days earlier.
Tyrion Lannister stood outside the Hall of Order and stared at the new wooden sign above the door. Black paint spelled it out plain and straight: Hall of Order—Flea Bottom Special Autonomous District Administrative Center. Under Ser Vito Corleone. The letters were still a little wet in the light.
He let out a slow breath and walked inside.
Two young wardens in gray uniforms stood straight-backed in the entryway, short clubs at their hips, looking proud as hell. The main hall had changed again since the feast. Fresh wainscoting lined the walls, the stone floor was smooth and level, and a fire crackled in the big hearth. People moved in orderly lines at long tables where clerks stamped papers and handed out small wooden cards. Green for permanent residents. Blue for temporary. The cards meant cheaper grain, medical care, and school for the kids.
An old woman paid a handful of coppers and tucked her green card carefully into her dress like it was made of gold.
Tyrion watched it all without a word.
A quiet voice spoke behind him. "Resident identity cards."
He turned. Corleone stood there in a plain dark robe, no sword, a thick ledger tucked under one arm. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a meeting.
"Everyone who lives here registers and gets one," Corleone said, stepping up beside him. "Green for permanent. Blue for temporary. The card gets you fair prices at the grain stores, treatment at the clinic, and schooling for the children."
His tone was flat, like he was talking about the weather. Tyrion heard the rest anyway—control over food, medicine, and education. A whole system built in three months.
"You've built a kingdom inside the kingdom," Tyrion said, genuine surprise in his voice. "Better run than anything most lords manage in the Seven Kingdoms."
Corleone gave him a sideways look. "I just made a place where people can live like people."
He turned and started walking. "Come with me."
Tyrion followed him upstairs. The second floor was quieter, full of offices where voices murmured behind closed doors. They kept climbing until they reached the third floor. Corleone pushed open a heavy oak door at the end of the hall.
His office.
Bookshelves lined three walls. Sunlight poured through tall windows that looked out over the rooftops of Flea Bottom—some already patched with new shingles, others still being worked on. A big oak desk sat in the middle with nothing on it but a few papers, an inkwell, and a quill. Two high-backed chairs faced each other across it.
Tyrion climbed into one. His feet didn't reach the floor, so he let them swing. Corleone took the other chair. A big black cat jumped into his lap and started purring.
Tyrion cleared his throat. "Thank you. For keeping your word. For getting me out."
Corleone stroked the cat's back. "It was business. You paid. I delivered. You're free for now."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "For now?"
"Tywin hasn't dropped the charges completely," Corleone said. "Dontos Hollard's testimony helps, but one washed-up knight's word isn't enough to clear you. You still have to check in with the City Watch every day until the trial ends. Call it bail."
Tyrion gave a short, bitter laugh. "Better than the noose."
The room went quiet for a moment. Tyrion studied the man across from him—the plain face, the dark eyes that didn't give anything away. A few months ago he'd been a farmer. Now he was running Flea Bottom like his own private kingdom.
Tyrion shifted in the oversized chair. "Speaking of payment—I had Bronn deliver the ten thousand dragons to your vault. You should have it by now."
Corleone nodded once. "Your sellsword pays on time."
"Good." Tyrion's mouth twitched. "That little threat of yours made an impression. Taught me money isn't everything, but not having it when you need it can get you killed."
He let his short legs swing again. "So while I was still Master of Coin, I skimmed a little here and there. Not much at once, but it adds up. Funny, isn't it? A Lannister having to hide money from his own family."
Another silence stretched between them.
Tyrion finally met Corleone's eyes. "Transaction's done. I can go, or do you have more services to sell?"
Corleone leaned back. The cat stretched and purred louder. "The deal is finished. But there's one more thing."
Tyrion waited.
"Someone wants to see you."
Corleone stood, crossed to the door, and opened it.
Sansa Stark walked in.
She wore a simple gray wool dress and a dark cloak, her red hair braided over one shoulder. No jewelry, no paint on her face. She looked older than the girl who had once dreamed of marrying a prince. Behind her came a middle-aged man in a deep red robe with the seven-pointed star at his throat—Bishop Reynard from the Great Sept.
Tyrion's stomach tightened. He looked from Sansa to the bishop and back.
"Sansa," he started. "What is this—"
"Lord Tyrion Lannister," she said, cutting him off. Her voice was calm and cold. "This is Bishop Reynard. He's here to oversee a formal ceremony."
She placed a rolled parchment on the desk and smoothed it flat.
Tyrion leaned forward and read the first lines.
To the Faith of the Seven and the High Septon:
I, Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, do hereby formally request the dissolution of my marriage to Tyrion Lannister…
He looked up at her, stunned.
"You want a divorce?"
"Yes."
Tyrion's mouth opened, then closed. He glanced at Corleone, who stood by the door with his arms crossed, face unreadable.
"If you divorce me, you'll be vulnerable," Tyrion said quietly. "King's Landing is full of people who would use you. The North belongs to the Boltons now. Without the Lannister name—"
"Lannister name?" Sansa's voice sharpened. "Look at yourself, Lord Tyrion. You wear the name and you can't even protect yourself. Your father wanted to use me to steal the North. Your sister wanted you dead. Your family never protected me. They used me."
She took a breath. "I don't need that protection anymore. I'd rather face whatever comes on my own than stay tied to any of you. And here in Flea Bottom, I have real safety."
Tyrion closed his eyes for a long moment. He knew she was right. He had no power to shield her. Their marriage had been nothing but a chain from the start.
He opened his eyes and looked at Corleone. "You arranged this."
Corleone didn't deny it. "I can have the bishop keep it quiet if you want to protect your name. The papers can stay sealed until the right time."
Tyrion gave a short, humorless laugh. "My name? After the trial, after my own family tried to hang me, you think I still care about my name?" He turned back to Sansa. "Do it. Publicly. I want everyone to know Sansa Stark chose to end her marriage to Tyrion Lannister. Especially my father."
He smiled, thin and sharp. "I'd pay good money to see the look on his face."
Sansa held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once.
Bishop Reynard stepped forward with the documents. The ceremony would be quick and final.
Tyrion sat back in the too-big chair, legs swinging, and waited for the end of the marriage that had never been his choice in the first place.