"Don't forget, Sir Corleone."
Tywin stared intensely at the knight in pure white armor for a long while before speaking again.
"Even if you have infiltrated the Gold Cloaks, there are still two thousand Lannister soldiers stationed outside the Gate of the Gods in King's Landing. With one command from me, they can level Flea Bottom within an hour!"
"Your starving soldiers, corrupt officers, and bribed mid-level commanders are nothing more than lambs to the slaughter before a true Lannister army."
His tone was extremely firm, attempting to seize the initiative of the conversation back into his own hands.
As he spoke, Tywin took a step forward. He was burly and slightly taller than Corleone, appearing full of imposing momentum.
"You play your games well, Corleone. Bribery, infiltration, psychological warfare—these are all useful tools."
"But you must understand one thing: in the face of absolute martial force, all little tricks are meaningless. The loyalty of a Lannister army can never be bought with a few Gold Dragons."
"If I so desired..."
"6"
"By sunrise tomorrow, every shack in Flea Bottom will be ablaze, every street will flow with blood. Your The Mafia, your The Hall of Order, everything you have meticulously built will turn to ash in the flames."
"And you," his gaze pierced Corleone like a knife, "will stand upon the walls of the Red Keep, watching it all happen with your own eyes, and then be hanged from the highest gallows as an example to traitors."
After these words were spoken, the air in the room seemed to grow several degrees heavier.
The firelight from the hearth flickered across both their faces, casting long, tangled shadows.
Corleone looked at Tywin quietly.
He did not flinch, showed no fear, and not even anger. His expression remained calm—disturbingly so.
Then, he laughed.
It was a genuine, hearty laugh, as if he had just heard the funniest joke in the world.
"Hahahaha..."
""
Seeing this, Tywin frowned.
This reaction was entirely different from what he had expected.
Corleone took a step forward; the distance between them was now less than two feet.
He could clearly see the faint bloodshot lines in Tywin's eyes, the sagging skin on the sixty-year-old's neck, and the two deep nasolabial folds beside his tightly pursed lips.
"Lord Tywin, you are right. Absolutely correct."
Corleone stopped laughing, his eyes as deep as an ancient well under the candlelight, reflecting no emotion at all.
"Two thousand elite soldiers who grew up in the Westerlands, eating Lannister grain and wearing Lannister armor—their combat power is indeed enough to level ten Flea Bottoms."
"After all, everyone knows that civilians with kitchen knives and wooden sticks are indeed just lambs to the slaughter before fully armed soldiers."
"If... you wish to become the first 'Mad Hand' of The Seven Kingdoms."
The moment those words were uttered, Tywin's pupils constricted slightly.
After all, the insulting term 'Mad Hand' was far too difficult to accept for Tywin, who had prided himself on his brilliance and had absolute confidence in his rule his entire life.
It was almost comparing him to the The Mad King—no, it was even more offensive.
But Tywin remained stubborn: "Why should a lion concern itself with the opinions of sheep?"
"Indeed, a lion does not need to care about the opinions of sheep."
Corleone nodded, then took another step forward, closing the distance to less than a foot. They were so close they could see the reflection of the flickering candlelight in each other's pupils and smell each other's scent.
"But... Lord Tywin, who exactly is the sheep now?"
As he spoke, Corleone slowly raised his longsword. The blade glinted under the candlelight, appearing eerie against the backdrop of the dried crimson blood upon it.
Seeing Tywin seemingly stunned by his words, Corleone continued, delivering a potent verbal blow: "If I were to kill you right now, at this very moment, in this bedroom."
"Would that command of yours ever be delivered?"
Upon hearing this, Tywin's breathing seemed to stop for a moment. A log in the fireplace popped loudly, sparks splashing onto the carpet and sending up a small wisp of blue smoke, sounding exceptionally jarring in the silence.
Because he could hear that Corleone's tone did not sound like he was joking.
However, after just one breath, Tywin regained his composure and spoke with forced calmness: "You wouldn't dare."
The short sentence was spoken with absolute conviction.
It represented Tywin Lannister's conceit, the foundation upon which he had ruled The Seven Kingdoms for twenty years. Everyone feared the wrath of a Lannister; everyone had heard the famous song 'the rains of castamere'.
He had every reason to believe that no one would dare lay a hand on him, the Hand of the King, especially in his own bedroom.
But clearly, Tywin had guessed wrong again.
Corleone tilted his head slightly, his expression one of curiosity, as if he wanted to crack open the other man's head to see why he still maintained such naive thoughts in front of a knight holding a longsword, wearing armor, and possessing swordsmanship far exceeding that of the Mountain.
The cold blade touched Tywin's neck. Corleone's gaze fell upon his blood-stained gauntlet, then slowly rose to meet Tywin's eyes: "What makes you underestimate my courage so, Tywin Lannister?"
"I dared to sow discord within the Brave Companions, a band of pure villains, eventually successfully causing their downfall. I dared to go to Dragonstone alone, risking being burned alive by Stannis to persuade him to surrender."
"And now, wearing this white armor stripped from a dead man, I have walked into the Tower of the Hand in the depths of the Red Keep and stood before you."
"What makes you think I wouldn't dare kill you?"
"Hmm?"
""
"You are a knight I personally knighted."
Tywin was still Tywin; even with a sword held to his throat, he refused to back down.
He stared straight into Corleone's eyes and said deeply, "Your honor, your status, everything you have comes from me."
"If you kill me, there will be no place left for you in The Seven Kingdoms. No one will trust a man who personally killed the lord who knighted him."
His voice was very steady, and his eyes showed not the slightest hint of fear.
Sure enough, hearing Tywin's words, Corleone fell silent for so long that Tywin could hear the sound of his own blood drumming in his ears.
"Wrong answer."
Despite saying so, Corleone moved the blade away from Tywin's neck.
"Please remember, Lord Tywin Lannister, the reason I haven't killed you is that we are both people who focus on interests. You and I are the same."
"Killing you is easy, but it brings me no benefit."
"I am not a madman, nor an idealist. Honor has absolutely no binding power over me. I am a businessman, Lord Tywin."
He sheathed his sword and looked at Tywin calmly, his tone very frank: "I believe in transactions, pursue win-win situations, and am keen on obtaining maximum profit within the existing framework."
"Killing you would be a losing bargain, because the Lannister army might slaughter King's Landing in a frenzy, the Westerlands would raise the banner of vengeance, and The Seven Kingdoms would be plunged into war once more."
"And everything I have built in Flea Bottom might also vanish in the chaos."
Corleone spoke very directly and realistically.
But Tywin's face was incredibly grim, because this was the first time he felt himself being treated as a bargaining chip in someone else's tone.
To be honest, this feeling... was quite terrible.
In his nearly sixty years of life, he had been Hand of the King for twenty years and ruled Casterly Rock for forty.
He had always played the role of the player, not the chip.
However, next, Corleone took a half-step back and leaned back against the windowsill again.
His posture was relaxed, as if the previous talk of assassination was just a casual mention.
"Instead of all this killing, why don't we talk about something more practical."
"For example... what you have done today."
Upon hearing this, Tywin immediately frowned, as he captured a hint of something amiss in Corleone's words.
But before he could react, Corleone began counting on his fingers, listing them one by one.
"This morning you woke up early and went to your study in the Tower of the Hand first. You reviewed the urgent dispatches sent last night, including a brief on the Siege of Storm's End and intelligence regarding the whereabouts of the Redwyne Fleet."
"After reading those, you began your breakfast: toast, honey, bacon, two boiled eggs, and a cup of mint tea with three spoons of sugar. I bet your maester must have advised you to eat less sugar, but you never listen."
As Corleone spoke, Tywin's hands quietly clenched inside his robe sleeves.
But it wasn't over. Corleone seemed completely oblivious to his increasingly grim expression and continued in a light tone: "In the morning, you held a Small Council meeting. Prince Oberyn Martell made you very unhappy."
"After the meeting, you returned to your study and received three people. First was Ser Adam Marbrand; he reported on the casualties of the Gold Cloaks. You were very angry then, but you restrained yourself."
"Then came Grand Maester Pycelle, who brought a draft of the files for Tyrion's trial. And finally... it was Varys."
At this point, Corleone paused and gave a slight smile.
"You talked with Varys for about twenty minutes. Most of the time he spoke and you listened."
"He mentioned some intelligence from Flea Bottom, as well as a certain 'ghost wearing a stag-horned helm' on Dragonstone."
"Later, you asked him a question: 'What exactly does Corleone want?'. Varys's answer was, 'My lord, some men want power, some want gold, but what Vito Corleone wants is respect.'"
Tywin stood rooted to the spot, motionless, as if his entire being had gone numb. Cold sweat gradually dampened his forehead.
But Corleone continued as if he hadn't noticed: "At noon, you ate very little."
"A bowl of vegetable soup, half a piece of white bread, and then you napped for twenty minutes. At half-past one in the afternoon, you summoned Kevan Lannister again, this time in the small sitting room on the third floor of the Tower of the Hand, rather than the study."
"You talked for an hour about how to purge the corrupt elements within the Gold Cloaks."
"Enough..." Tywin murmured, his breathing starting to become heavy.
"The glass of summer red you drank in the afternoon was from the Dornish Marches, fifteen years old. That year had plenty of rain, and the grapes were very sweet; it's one of your favorite vintages."
"Dinner was grilled trout with lemon juice, cream of mushroom soup, and a small plate of fruit. You didn't eat much because you were worried about Flea Bottom and thinking about how to handle the potentially more chaotic situation tomorrow."
"Enough..." Tywin clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms.
"Oh, right. You have some discomfort in your stomach now. It's nothing serious, just common digestive issues for the elderly. I suggest you best not eat anything before bed."
"ENOUGH!!!"
Listening to Corleone's incessant chatter about his life from morning till night, Tywin finally couldn't help but lose his composure and roared.
This was followed by a long silence.
The only sounds in the room were the popping of the firewood in the hearth and the Hand's incredibly heavy breathing.
Tywin stood there, looking at Corleone, his emerald eyes revealing an intense anger for the first time—one that even he could no longer suppress.
Because he knew very well that every word Corleone had just spoken was true.
The timing and content were incredibly precise; he even knew the trivialities that Tywin himself might have overlooked!
Terrifying...
After a long while, Tywin finally spoke, his voice extremely dry: "You have done well, Corleone."
"I was unaware of when you planted spies by my side."
Hearing this, Corleone smiled. There was no hint of apology in that smile; instead, it was quite brilliant.
"Please don't use a word with such intent as 'planted', Lord Tywin. I did not specifically send anyone to monitor you; that would be too much effort and too easy to discover."
He paused, seemingly weighing his words.
"You see, the Red Keep is a large place. There are cooks, maids, servants, guards... nearly a thousand people working, living, and talking here every day."
"It just so happens that some of them owe me favors, and others simply enjoy having someone to talk to."
As he spoke, Corleone made a gesture as if to say, 'it's just that simple'.
"And I am a very good listener."
"I remember the little things everyone tells me. What the Hand ate today, who he saw, how his mood was, what he said. When these fragments are pieced together... everything becomes clear, doesn't it?"
"So, you see."
Corleone leaned forward, the candlelight casting dancing shadows across his face.
"Even if I don't kill you here, even if I walk out of this room and let you live until tomorrow, are you so certain that your decrees can truly reach the military camps outside the city in time?"
"Or rather, can you ensure that tomorrow morning's breakfast won't have a little 'extra' seasoning, or that the next person you grant an audience to won't pull a dagger from their sleeve at some point?"
"Heh."
"
He chuckled softly, his voice gentle. "Ruling has never been just about sitting on a high throne and barking orders, my lord."
"Ruling is in the details, the daily routine, those trivial little matters you consider beneath you and leave for the servants to handle."
"And yet, a large portion of those small matters is now under my control. Even knowing this, you can only watch from the sidelines, utterly helpless."
"That is the difference between you and me."
When Corleone finished speaking, Tywin took a deep breath.
For the first time in his life, he felt such a sense of powerlessness against a single individual. That omnipresent feeling of restraint was like a fly caught in a spider's web—the more it struggled, the tighter it was bound.
And the man before him was not a noble, nor an enemy.
He was a plague.
From the moment he stepped into King's Landing, he had begun to spread silently, infecting everyone.
From the paupers of Flea Bottom to the officers of the Gold Cloaks, and even to the lowliest servants of the Red Keep—by the time you noticed, the entire system was already riddled with his tentacles.
"You..." Tywin gritted his teeth. "Are threatening me."
It wasn't a question, but a confirmation.
However, Corleone shook his head, his expression even showing a hint of disappointment, as if Tywin had failed to grasp his deeper meaning.
"I've said it before, Lord Tywin, we are both men who focus on interests."
"What good does threatening you do me? To have you live in fear, on guard day and night, only to one day order a desperate scorched-earth policy?"
"No, that would be too foolish."
His tone became calm and rational again, like a merchant analyzing a business deal. "Killing you does me no good. Continually threatening you, keeping our relationship in a state of constant tension, also does me no good."
"Because that would prevent you from focusing on governing The Seven Kingdoms and keep King's Landing on the edge of turmoil. And a King's Landing in turmoil does not serve my interests."
"The same logic applies to you."
Corleone paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before speaking again. "You could use the Lannister household guards to raze Flea Bottom to the ground, but at what cost?"
"Accidents might happen within the Red Keep, your decrees might be delayed, and even your daily safety might no longer be guaranteed."
"Not to mention, what will the other lords think when they see you need to deploy Lannister soldiers just to suppress a riot in the capital?"
"They will think Tywin Lannister has grown old, weak, and lost his grip on the situation. That his methods are no longer as iron-fisted as in his youth, and his wisdom has begun to fade."
"And once that thought takes root, all your allies—Tyrell, Frey, Bolton... even the lords under your own banner—will begin to reconsider their positions."
"And most importantly, Casterly Rock still has no clear heir!"
As he finished, Corleone retreated to a chair and slowly sat down, looking Tywin straight in the eye. "Honestly, Lord Tywin Lannister."
"Do you really wish to pay such a price just to gain absolute control over a slum?"
Tywin did not answer.
But his tightly pursed lips and the slight twitch of the muscle at the corner of his eye gave the answer.
Corleone knew the timing was right.
He deliberately adjusted his blood-stained bracer with an elegance as if preparing for a banquet, and smiled. "So, let's look at this another way."
"Since the cost of forced suppression is too high, and maintaining the status quo benefits neither of us."
"Why not try... cooperation?"
"Be more specific."
"
Silence lingered in the room for a long time, long enough for the last piece of wood in the fireplace to crackle and collapse into the ashes, leaving only a dull red warmth.
Tywin finally spoke.
His voice sounded even more tired than before—not a physical fatigue, but a deeper exhaustion that belonged to a ruler.
"Outsourcing."
Corleone slowly uttered this unfamiliar term.
"You outsource Flea Bottom to me, along with the tens of thousands of mouths within it that need to be fed."
"I will establish Flea Bottom's own watch—trained by my people, commanded by my people, and paid by my people."
"They will be responsible for maintaining order on the streets, but they won't be part of the Gold Cloaks' official roster. We could call them 'community coordinators,' or to be more direct..."
"
Corleone looked up, the candlelight dancing across his face.
"Labor dispatch."
"You 'dispatch' this job to me, and I provide the 'labor personnel' to complete it."
Upon hearing this, Tywin's eyes narrowed.
He was thinking, calculating, and weighing this proposal that sounded absurd yet was exceptionally clear.
"What good does this do me?"
The Hand's voice remained firm, but Corleone heard a subtle hint of softening beneath that hardness.
"Many benefits."
"First, Flea Bottom will return to order within three days. Markets will reopen, tax revenue will flow back into the treasury—and I will turn over a reasonable portion, more than you are currently able to collect, because I can make more merchants willing to do business there."
"Second, the Gold Cloaks can withdraw gracefully. You can have Ser Adam Marbrand announce to the public that this is an exploration of a 'more efficient urban management model.'"
"Third, and most importantly..."
"
Corleone leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping lower and becoming more sincere. That heart-to-heart tone was often more lethal than any threat.
"Lord Tywin, you are nearly sixty years old."
He said it so calmly, so naturally, as if saying "dawn is coming."
But it struck Tywin Lannister's heart with precision; the Old Lion's fingers twitched slightly.
"Let me do the math for you."
There was no offense in Corleone's tone; instead, it carried the objectivity and concern of a doctor facing a patient.
"You lived through the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Back then, you were the heir to Casterly Rock and saw firsthand how war destroys an economy."
"You served the The Mad King Aerys; you know where an unstable ruler leads a nation. You participated in Robert's Rebellion, making the choice at the final moment to secure the future for House Lannister."
"Now, you have returned to the position of Hand, cleaning up the mess left by Robert Baratheon and winning the War of the Five Kings..."
"
"To be honest, the achievements you have attained have surpassed most kings of the Targaryen Dynasty."
As he spoke, he shook his
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