The two drank for a while longer as the clamor downstairs gradually grew louder.
Jaime suddenly remembered something and asked in confusion, "I heard it was Petyr Baelish who reported you to Uncle Kevan."
"Why is he targeting you? Do you have a grudge against him?"
Hearing this, Corleone simply shook his head. "We have no personal enmity."
"But sometimes, a conflict of interest is more lethal than a personal grudge."
"Interest?" Jaime was puzzled. "What kind of conflict of interest could exist between you and Petyr?"
Corleone didn't answer but asked instead, "What was Flea Bottom like before?"
"A cesspool," Jaime said without thinking. "The filthiest, most chaotic, and most dangerous place in all of King's Landing. Even the Gold Cloaks were unwilling to patrol there."
"Then... what about now?"
At these words, Jaime frowned and looked down at the hall, observing the neatly dressed guests, the exquisite food, and the bright lights.
He seemed to understand something.
"When a cesspool that everyone reviles and avoids like the plague turns into a piece of fat meat, then everyone wants to seize it."
Corleone smiled and pointed at the bustling crowd below. "The profits from the casino, the income from the brothel branches, plus the soon-to-be-opened fighting pits—Flea Bottom will become the most profitable place in all of King's Landing, perhaps even the Seven Kingdoms."
"That money used to flow into the sewers; now it flows into my pocket. Naturally, some people feel uncomfortable watching that."
"Littlefinger wants the Place of Order!"
Jaime reacted immediately, slamming his fist onto the table in anger. "He wants to steal your business, but you built all of this yourself!"
"Not steal," Corleone corrected. "Take back."
"In Petyr's eyes, the dirty money of Flea Bottom should have belonged to someone like him all along—a noble by birth, with brains, who knows how to operate."
"And I am just a lucky commoner, merely keeping his property safe for him for the time being."
"Damned bastard!" Jaime cursed first, then frowned, muttering to himself, "But Tyrion said Littlefinger is the person he understands the least in all of King's Landing. Why did he act so obviously this time?"
"Going directly to Kevan to complain... that's not his style."
Corleone laughed at this, his smile tinged with irony. "Because he doesn't see me as an opponent."
"In his view, I'm just a lucky commoner who happened to save Jaime Lannister and happened to please Lord Tywin. A string of good luck made me who I am today, and good luck always runs out."
Corleone looked at Jaime with a deep gaze. "In other words, he doesn't think I'm qualified to oppose him, so he used the most direct and effective method—reporting to authority."
"Just like when a master finds a servant stealing, they don't play mind games with the servant; they just call the guards to seize him. Because... a servant isn't worth a master's effort to scheme against."
These words made Jaime open his mouth, wanting to say it was absurd.
But he had to admit it was very real.
"But it's normal."
Corleone continued, his tone as flat as if he were talking about someone else, seemingly unbothered by being schemed against. He patiently analyzed it for Jaime: "After all, even if Littlefinger comes from a small place like the Fingers, he was born a noble."
"That innate contempt for commoners is rooted in his blood. It's like a lion looking at a sheep; it will never see the sheep as an equal opponent."
As Corleone finished speaking, Jaime fell silent.
He remembered his childhood and how his father taught him that "nobles must have noble dignity." In Casterly Rock and King's Landing, commoners would automatically make way, bow their heads, and not dare look him in the eye.
Yes, wasn't that just a matter of course?
"Corleone," Jaime suddenly spoke, his voice filled with seriousness and determination. "Regardless of whether you are a commoner or a noble, you are my best friend."
"I swear by my honor... if I have any of that left."
Corleone looked at him for a long time, then raised his wine cup.
"Jaime Lannister." Corleone spoke every word slowly and clearly. "Whether you are the kingslayer or a member of the Kingsguard, you are my friend. I guarantee it... in the name of House Corleone."
After speaking, the two smiled at each other, and their wine cups clinked gently in the air.
The crisp sound of the glass clinking was pleasant to the ear, nearly inaudible amidst the noisy background.
But they both heard it.
They drained their cups. The cold liquid slid down their throats, carrying the tartness of lemon and the sting of alcohol, leaving a hint of sweetness at the end.
"By the way."
Jaime set down his cup, suddenly remembering something. "Since Father knows about the setup you orchestrated, why did he still personally knight you?"
"According to his personality, he should have..."
""
"Should have thrown me into the dungeon, or at least stripped me of everything?"
Jaime nodded.
Corleone stood up, walked to the edge of the platform, and rested his hands on the railing, overlooking the increasingly lively crowd below, intending to explain.
Just then, a slight commotion came from the entrance of the hall.
Jaime turned to look, and his expression darkened.
A short, thin figure stepped through the doors of the Place of Order.
Petyr Baelish.
The Lord of Harrenhal was dressed very low-key today, in a dark blue coat with no embroidery or accessories—he wasn't even wearing his signature mockingbird pin.
He was alone, without even guards or attendants, as if he had just happened to wander in while taking a casual stroll.
But his appearance caused the hall to fall silent instantly.
All the guests turned their heads to watch him, as most of them recognized that face.
The former master of coin of King's Landing, the Lord of Harrenhal, and the behind-the-scenes owner of at least half the brothels on Silk Street.
What was he doing here?
Jaime stood up excitedly, his hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of the sword at his waist, his face instantly turning cold.
"That fellow actually dares to show up?"
His voice was suppressed with anger. "He just made trouble with Uncle Kevan, and now he dares to stroll into your banquet?"
"I'll go kick him out right now!"
With that, he made a move toward the stairs.
But Corleone pressed a hand onto his shoulder. "Don't be impulsive, Jaime."
"But that guy, he..."
"Sit down."
"Remember, if you want a seat at the table, you can't be in a hurry to flip it. At least see what dishes are being served first."
Jaime was stunned. He turned back to look into Corleone's eyes; the dark pupils held no anger or tension, only a calm so deep it was hard to read.
Like the surface of the sea before a storm.
Finally, Jaime reluctantly sat back in his chair.
But he sat with his back straight, his eyes fixed on the figure below like a lion ready to pounce at any moment.
Below, Petyr Baelish had already elegantly woven through the crowd toward the bar.
He smiled and nodded to those around him, a flawless smile as if he were attending a gathering of old friends.
Corleone stood at the edge of the platform, arms crossed, quietly watching it all.
A new round of the game had begun.
And this time, the opponent had personally stepped onto his chessboard.
Petyr Baelish stood at the bar, eyeing the crystal-clear glass bottles. His gaze swept over the exquisite silver tools in the waiter's hands and finally landed on the wine list hanging on the wall.
The words were neatly carved into the wooden board and painted with gold, shimmering under the lights.
"Interesting."
Petyr spoke softly with curiosity, "'Lionheart Fire', 'Direwolf Howl', 'Highgarden Rose Dew'... even the names of the wines are so well-thought-out."
In front of such a noble, the waiter, wearing a clean white apron, had Fingers that trembled slightly from nervousness as he tried to keep his voice steady. "What would you like to drink, My Lord?"
Petyr gave him a contemptuous glance, his finger tracing over the wine list before stopping on a name.
"'Peak of King's Landing'."
He read the name aloud, his lips curling into a meaningful arc. "This one. Let me taste what the view from the very top tastes like."
The waiter nodded quickly and was about to mix the drink when a voice came from behind him.
"That wine doesn't suit you, Lord Baelish."
Turning around, they saw Corleone walking down the stairs at a leisurely pace.
A white cloak swayed gently behind him, and a black hand sigil appeared and disappeared with his steps.
He walked to the bar and stood beside Petyr, the distance between them just enough to draw a sword.
If they had swords, that is.
Petyr turned elegantly, his smile unchanging. "Oh? Why is that?"
"Does Sir Corleone think that I am unworthy of the name 'Peak of King's Landing'?"
"It's not that you're unworthy." Corleone took the wine list from the waiter and pointed his finger at another name: "It's just inappropriate."
Saying this, he smiled slightly at the waiter: "Bring Lord Petyr a glass of 'Bitter Informant'."
As soon as these words were spoken, the area around the bar suddenly fell silent.
Several guests nearby peeked over and then quickly looked away, pretending to be focused on tasting the wine in their hands.
Petyr stared at Corleone for a full three seconds.
Then he laughed.
It wasn't a fake smile; it was the kind of laugh that came from the heart, so much so that his shoulders shook and his eyes narrowed into slits.
"Haha, this is truly interesting!"
Petyr slapped the bar: "Sir Corleone, not only can you treat illnesses and manage affairs, but you're also so talented at naming things, hahaha."
He turned to the waiter, his smile as bright as a blooming flower: "This is the one."
"Bring me a glass of 'Bitter Informant,' I want to have a good taste!"
Hearing this, the waiter looked at Corleone with uncertainty, and only after receiving a slight nod from him did he swallow hard and begin to work.
The mixing process was slow.
The silver shaker vibrated in the air, the ice cubes clinking with a crisp sound.
One, two, three.
Finally, a ghostly green liquid was poured into a tall, slender glass.
Petyr took the glass and held it up to the light to inspect it.
The liquid had a dull luster in the glass, not as bright and eye-catching as other cocktails; instead, it had a... dusty feeling.
"Like muddy water," Petyr commented, then tilted his head back and drained it in one gulp.
The whole process was clean and decisive, without hesitation or a frown, as if he were drinking a glass of plain water.
Petyr licked his lips as if savoring the aftertaste: "Not bad."
He said this so frankly that the eavesdroppers around them were stunned.
Normally, when being publicly mocked as an 'informant,' even if one didn't lose their temper, they should at least be embarrassed, angry, or offer a loud defense.
But Petyr did not.
He admitted it, accepted it, and even used a joking tone to brush it off.
One doesn't strike a smiling face; this kid certainly has some tricks up his sleeve.
Corleone narrowed his eyes, re-evaluating the small man before him.
This fellow was harder to deal with than imagined, not because his schemes were deep, but because he had no self-respect.
Or rather, his self-respect was hidden too well, too deep.
You insult him, he takes it with a grin; you mock him, he helps you make the words even harsher.
In the end, you become the petty one who makes a fuss over nothing.
"Lord Baelish is truly magnanimous," Corleone said flatly.
"It's not magnanimity, it's self-awareness." Petyr pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the corners of his mouth with movements as elegant as a true old-school noble: "I know what kind of person I am, and I know how others see me, so when someone speaks the truth, why should I be angry?"
"Anger cannot change the facts."
He folded the handkerchief, put it back in his pocket, and then very smoothly pulled a roll of parchment from another pocket.
The paper was thick with gilded edges, tied with a dark green silk ribbon.
"Speaking of facts."
Petyr placed the parchment on the bar and gently pushed it toward Corleone: "I've come here today to apologize, Corleone."
"While I don't believe there's anything wrong with providing accurate information to the master of laws, I admit my method..."
"...was ill-considered."
Saying this, he untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment.
"These are the deeds for seven brothels, three casinos, and two warehouses on Silk Street."
"Altogether, they represent thirty percent of my assets in King's Landing. Based on last year's earnings, they are worth approximately... fifteen thousand gold dragons."
"Of course, if Sir Corleone's management skills are truly as good as the rumors say, they might be worth twenty or even thirty thousand in the future."
Hearing this, Corleone stared at the roll of parchment, his mind quickly calculating.
He knew about Petyr's properties on Silk Street.
The seven brothels were all mid-to-high-end, the three casinos were small but highly profitable, and the two warehouses were in excellent locations right by the Blackwater Rush docks.
A thirty percent stake, at market price, was indeed around that figure.
But given Petyr's personality, it was absolutely impossible for him to give away such a large sum of gold dragons for nothing, even to ease their relationship.
"You intend to buy in?" Seeing the other's half-smiling expression, Corleone immediately realized.
Hearing this, Petyr nodded and said frankly: "I've carefully studied what Sir Corleone has done in Flea Bottom these past two months—cleaning the streets, establishing order, introducing new management, and even... designing such an interesting drink."
"I've realized that you and I are actually the same kind of person."
"We both believe in rules—rules based on interests. You set the rules, make people follow them, and then profit from it. I do the same."
He spoke this way, looking at Corleone with an honest gaze, not even proposing how much of a stake he wanted in the Place of Order, appearing full of sincerity.
But Corleone understood perfectly well that this fellow was about to leave King's Landing. Holding onto those properties would be meaningless; on the contrary, they might be swallowed up by others.
By bringing them out now, he could not only turn Corleone from an opponent into a partner but also shift their relationship from 'life or death'...
...to 'bound interests'.
Brilliant.
Utterly brilliant.
Corleone looked up at Petyr.
Their gazes met in the air, like two invisible swords gently clashing.
But... you think you can just leave after offending me?
"Fair."
"I accept." Corleone took the parchment: "Thank you for your gift, Lord Baelish. I hope our future cooperation is... pleasant."
"It certainly will be." Petyr extended his hand.
The two hands clasped together.
The handshake was neither long nor short, exactly three seconds, and then they released simultaneously.
The deal was struck.
At least on the surface.
The atmosphere relaxed, and Petyr looked around as if suddenly remembering something: "By the way, Sir Corleone is hosting a banquet today, why are the only ones here... well, these friends?"
His gaze swept over the guests in the hall; they were all commoners, not a single noble among them.
"Of course, I'm not saying these friends aren't good."
Having said that, he seemed to realize his gaffe and quickly explained: "You haven't been in King's Landing for long, so it's understandable that you haven't befriended many nobles, but we are partners now."
"And... you are a knight now, the chief special agent of the small council. It's only right that some respectable figures come to show their support."
"How about this: I've been in King's Landing for many years and am quite familiar with many nobles. If you need, I can help contact them and have them come over to get acquainted."
"It will also make it more convenient for you to manage our business after I leave."
These words sounded incredibly thoughtful.
Like a true friend looking out for another friend.
But Corleone heard the underlying meaning.
Look, without me, you can't even invite a decent guest.
You, Corleone, are ultimately of commoner birth and cannot squeeze into the noble circles; if you want to do business in the future, you must be bound to Petyr.
Of course, perhaps Petyr didn't intend to humiliate Corleone; he might have just wanted to demonstrate his own importance.
However, under his gaze, Corleone actually grinned.
"I truly appreciate Lord Baelish's concern."
He gave a slight nod, his voice at just the right volume: "However, today is a celebration of my investiture ceremony. For you to be singing and dancing here... it would be quite improper to trouble you so much."
Hearing this, Petyr frowned slightly. Does this fellow really not care about face?
Impossible!
In King's Landing, if you want to grow a business, face is of paramount importance. If no nobles come to congratulate him on his knighthood investiture today, then everyone will look down on the Mafia's strength!
Just as Petyr was completely baffled, a sudden commotion came from the hall entrance.
Rorge's short, stout figure appeared at the door. Because his pace was hurried and his bulk was too large, his originally well-fitting coat was stretched tight, looking as if it might burst at any moment.
But he had no time to manage his image as he shouted at the top of his lungs: "Sir Corleone!"
"The Lord of Twilight Valley Town, Lord Ryver Lake, has arrived!"