As night fell, Flea Bottom lit up.
Unlike the majestic and ornate arrangements of the Red Keep, the light in Flea Bottom was bright, even, and orderly, as if someone had measured every inch of the ground with a ruler and calculated every shadow.
In the square in front of the Place of Order, fifty newly made glass oil lamps were hung on iron lamp stands; the lamp shades were polished until they were transparent, and the flames burned steadily behind the glass, undisturbed by the night wind.
This was the result of Corleone having craftsmen experiment for half a month; it was brighter and more economical than candles, and most importantly, it would not easily go out.
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Jaime Lannister stood at the edge of the square, watching this scene, and remained silent for a long time.
He was supposed to have returned to the Red Keep with the royal motorcade.
Joffrey had complained in the carriage the whole way, saying Corleone's banquet was "unworthy of a King's presence" and that Flea Bottom "would always be Flea Bottom."
Of course, Jaime knew Joffrey was completely traumatized by yesterday's riot.
Driven by some inexplicable impulse, Jaime reined in his horse when the motorcade turned onto Iron Street.
"I'm going to take a look," he said to Balon Sven. "To ensure... security."
Balon glanced at him and reminded him bluntly, "You are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, not Corleone's personal guard, Ser Jaime."
But before he could finish, the white-armored knight had already turned his horse around and disappeared into the alley leading to Flea Bottom.
Now he stood here, looking at everything before him, a strange feeling rising inexplicably in his heart.
Jaime couldn't say what it was, but he watched people walking on the clean streets, their faces lacking the fear usually seen in the commoners of King's Landing—the look of being ready to flee or kneel at any moment.
They were just walking, busy, as if they were walking in their own homes.
"Ser?"
A voice spoke up.
Jaime turned his head and saw Rorge standing at the entrance of the Place of Order.
This noseless fellow was actually wearing a rare, well-fitting dark coat today.
Although the buttons were fastened crookedly and the collar was wrinkled, at least he was wearing it.
"Sir Corleone is inside waiting for you."
Rorge bowed slightly, trying his best to maintain the "politeness" Corleone had instructed him to show.
Jaime nodded and followed him through the main doors, pausing for a moment in surprise.
The hall of the Place of Order was not at all what Jaime had imagined.
He had expected to see the kind of filthy tavern common in King's Landing, with greasy tables and chairs, and the air thick with the smell of cheap ale and sweat.
But the hall before his eyes...
Was spacious.
That was the first impression.
With a three-story high ceiling, the space that might have originally been divided into a dozen small rooms had been opened up, forming a massive hall capable of accommodating at least two hundred people.
The walls were freshly whitewashed, a blinding white that was completely different from the dark stone walls of the Red Keep.
It was bright.
Along the edge of the second-floor floorboards, a whole row of glass lamps projected light downward, concentrating it in the central area where long tables and food were placed.
The edges were slightly darker, suitable for conversation without being disturbed.
Jaime had never seen light used this way; even in the banquet hall of the Red Keep, they simply filled candelabras with candles.
Very... unique.
In the center of the hall, there weren't traditional long dining tables, but rather a dozen round tables of various sizes, with six to eight chairs placed around each.
Round tables were almost never seen at noble banquets because they failed to reflect the hierarchy of status and precedence.
But here, the round tables seemed to allow everyone to converse face-to-face.
The way the food was displayed was also different.
Instead of mountains of suckling pigs and whole lambs, there were separate sections.
The cold platter section featured sliced ham, cheese, and pickled fish.
In the hot food section, servers were carving roast chicken and ribs on the spot.
The dessert section offered various small, exquisite pastries, many of which even Jaime, born a Lannister, could not name.
The most wonderful part was the drink station.
It was a long, curved table with three servers in white aprons standing behind it.
On the table were not wine barrels and clay jars, but rows of crystal-clear glass bottles containing liquids of different colors.
The servers used a set of silver measuring cups, funnels, long-handled spoons, and so on to mix several liquids, shake them evenly, and then pour them into stemmed glass goblets.
The movements were so fluid they almost seemed like some kind of ritual.
"This is..." Jaime murmured.
"Sir Corleone says this is called a 'bar counter'."
Rorge explained from the side, "Those are 'cocktails'."
"He instructed that nobles are tired of drinking wine and ale and need something... fresh."
Hearing this, Jaime curiously walked to a round table and ran his fingers across the surface.
The wood was polished very smooth, and the table was covered with a thick dark green velvet cloth that felt high-quality, with simple geometric patterns embroidered in gold thread along the edges.
"These arrangements..."
...
Jaime looked around: "How many gold dragons did this cost?"
Rorge grinned, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth with several missing: "Didn't cost a penny."
"What?"
"The wood was salvaged from old houses; we polished it ourselves. The glass lamps were made by apprentices for practice—it took thirty failures to get these fifty successes."
"Only the velvet was a bit expensive, but it was 'donated' for free by House Stokeworth."
Rorge paused and lowered his voice: "Sir Corleone says that in Flea Bottom, creativity is worth more than gold."
Jaime fell silent.
He thought of that massive oak desk in Tywin's study, the gilded candelabras in the Red Keep's banquet hall, and the long table in the hall of Casterly Rock that required twenty men to lift.
Those things all proclaimed the same thing: I have money, a lot of money.
But here in the Place of Order, a different principle was being upheld.
I know how to use the least amount of money to do the most things.
This was smarter than flaunting wealth.
"Hey! Jaime!"
Corleone's voice came from deep within the hall.
Jaime looked up and saw Corleone standing by the stairs leading to the second floor.
He had changed out of his armor and was wearing a simple dark gray robe, his cloak still on his shoulders, the black hand sigil looking particularly striking under the lights.
Seeing this, Jaime walked over, and the two climbed the stairs to a small platform on the second floor.
A relatively private space had been partitioned off here with screens, containing two comfortable armchairs and a small round table.
From the platform, one could overlook the entire hall without being easily seen by those below.
A very, very thoughtful arrangement.
Jaime sat down in a chair; it was very comfortable, the padding neither too soft nor too hard. He teased, "Is this your domain, Sir Corleone?"
"No, this is my home." Corleone grinned and snapped his fingers, and a server immediately brought two glasses of liquor.
An amber liquid, with a slice of lemon and a few small red berries floating in it, and fine water droplets condensing on the glass.
"Try it." Corleone raised his glass: "This is called an 'Old Fashioned', I mixed it myself."
Jaime took a sip; the flavor was complex.
First came the richness of the alcohol, then the acidity of the lemon, and finally a hint of sweetness and the fragrance of some herbal plant.
"Good drink," Jaime remarked sincerely. "Much better than those moldy wines in the Red Keep's cellars."
Hearing this, Corleone didn't respond, but simply sipped with him, watching the hall below gradually become lively.
The invited guests arrived one after another: leaders of several small guilds, shop owners from Saltpans Street, and some who looked like merchants from the Free Cities.
No nobles, at least not yet.
"Jaime." After a long silence, Corleone suddenly spoke, his voice very calm: "You have something you want to ask me."
His tone was not a question, but a statement.
As soon as these words were spoken, Jaime immediately set down his glass and looked at Corleone seriously.
He did indeed have something to ask; he had wanted to ask since they left the sept, holding it in all this time.
"Yesterday... on Saltpans Street, were those rioters arranged by you?"
He asked very directly.
Because with Corleone, he didn't want to beat around the bush.
"Yes." Without any hesitation, Corleone actually admitted it bluntly!
The frankness made Jaime pause for a moment.
"From Old Jim being injured by the horse, to the sudden surge of the crowd, to Meryn Trant's death, to Cersei and the others being cornered, to my timely arrival—everything was designed by me."
His voice was extremely calm, with no intention of hiding anything.
Hearing such an answer, Jaime's hand tightened around his glass—the glass was cold—but he did not speak.
Seemingly sensing his internal struggle, Corleone continued, his tone peaceful: "Jaime, you were born the heir to Casterly Rock."
"You have enjoyed a privileged life since childhood; you became a squire to Ser Sumner Crakehall at eleven, and won your first tourney championship at thirteen."
"You became a knight at fifteen, and just a few months later, you were anointed as the youngest Kingsguard in the history of The Seven Kingdoms."
Corleone listed the honors Jaime had achieved; there was no envy or jealousy in his tone, only a hint of weariness Jaime had never heard before.
"You will never understand what a commoner must sacrifice just to survive in this world."
Saying this, he looked up, his dark eyes staring directly at Jaime: "In this world, the paths for commoners to rise are almost completely welded shut."
"You can save people, you can perform great deeds, you can make many contributions, but as long as you have no title, you are always just 'a commoner', 'that Farmer', 'that guy'."
"They will use you when they need you and kick you away when they don't, just like kicking a dog."
"So... I must make them need me."
Listening to Corleone's explanation, Jaime was silent for a long time.
He thought about his thirty years of life; others called him "the eldest son of House Lannister," "the heir to Casterly Rock," "the future Warden of the West."
Those titles were innate, as natural as breathing.
Although he was not interested in any of it, he also knew very well that if he hadn't been born with these titles, life might have become much harder.
"My father once said something."
Corleone took a sip of wine, his voice very light, as if talking to himself: "Son, there are two kinds of people in this world: those born to eat at the table, and those born to pick up bones under the table."
"If you want to get to the table, you can't wait for others' charity; you have to flip the table yourself and then tell them: either let me sit down, or... nobody eats."
Jaime looked up sharply and murmured: "Your father..."
...
"Is dead."
"When I was ten, because he owed the lord taxes, he was hanged from an apple tree in the manor. I watched him draw his last breath, watched the crows come to peck at his eyes, watched the rain and wind, while his body swung for half a month."
His tone was too calm, so calm it made Jaime's heart tighten.
"So." Corleone raised his wine glass toward the light, the amber liquid swirling inside: "I don't believe in charity, I don't believe in grace, I don't believe in the 'mercy' of noble lords."
"I only believe in exchange. I save the King, the King gives me a title; I control Flea Bottom, Lord Tywin gets order; I do the dirty work, he keeps his hands clean."
"A very fair trade."
"If all of this is a trade, then what about me..."
...
Suddenly Jaime looked up sharply, meeting Corleone's gaze: "Between us, is it also a trade?"
As soon as he said this, he seemed to realize his loss of composure and quickly explained: "Of... of course, I know you rescued me from the The Riverlands for gold dragons..."
...
"No, Jaime."
Corleone smiled and interrupted him, then set the wine glass on the table and said seriously: "You are my friend."
Hearing this answer, Jaime stared blankly at the man before him who had designed the entire deception yet admitted it so frankly.
Then, to his own surprise, Jaime smiled.
From the bottom of his heart.
"You know what."
"On the way here just now, I kept thinking, what should I do if you denied it, if you made up a reason to lie to me."
"But now you've told me the truth, even if the truth isn't so honorable; this shows you treat me as a friend."
He paused and added: "Between true friends, there is no need for lies."
After a moment of silence, the corners of Corleone's mouth turned up slightly.
It wasn't the usual smile of cold calculation, but a genuine smile with warmth.
"Thank you, Jaime Lannister."
...