As soon as these words came out, Jaime was instantly dumbfounded.
Along the way, he had witnessed with his own eyes how Corleone was calculating, showing considerable obsession with benefits and Gold Dragons.
For a mere hundred Gold Dragons, Corleone didn't even hesitate to set a trap and toyed with Stole and his men until their deaths.
In Jaime's heart, Corleone was a goal-oriented profit chaser. He even felt that Corleone, in some aspects, bore a striking resemblance to his father, for whom profit was the highest principle.
Yet, faced with a huge reward within easy reach, Corleone showed such a gentle side.
He was even thinking for Jaime, persuading him to return to his family first and enjoy that long-lost kinship.
What kind of vision and breadth of mind was this!
Looking into those sincere, deep eyes, the shock in Jaime's heart was unparalleled. Corleone's image became more complex and lofty in his mind again.
Yes, he was calculating, but he seemed to possess something his father lacked.
That was an indescribable... human touch.
Recalling that back in Harrenhal, Corleone chose to redeem Brienne and gave up the reward, an indescribable warmth surged in Jaime's heart.
This feeling of being understood, cared for, and even "guided" was extremely rare in his life full of betrayal and scorn.
It even made Jaime involuntarily think of that imposing figure who personally knighted him.
"Corleone..."
When Jaime recovered from his emotion, he found that Corleone had already merged into the crowd, blending into the hustle and bustle inside the Lion Gate.
Only one sentence clearly reached his ears: "Don't worry, Ser. Later, I will personally visit Duke Tywin."
"Hope by then, you have my reward ready."
---
Flea Bottom.
The nauseating stench reached its peak here.
If King's Landing was a big cesspit, then Flea Bottom could almost be called the bottom of that pit where sediment was thickest, fermentation longest, and countless maggots bred.
Inside the most prestigious underground fighting pit, the "Blood Cellar."
The smell of sweat, blood, old urine, and various filth mixed together, almost suffocating.
Firelight distorted in the pervasive smoke, illuminating every excited face like ghosts in hell.
Among them were beggars, thieves, mercenaries, and even some decently dressed nobles, but here, everyone seemed to wear the same face.
In an inconspicuous corner, Corleone scanned the venue expressionlessly.
[Insight Lv2] allowed him to capture many details.
The trembling fingers of gamblers placing bets, the triumphant look of the dealer, the roars of winners, the ashen faces of losers.
Humanity's most primitive emotions were staged here nakedly, without concealment.
Yes, after eliminating Stole and his group, he looted over a hundred Gold Dragons and upgraded the [Insight] skill to Lv2.
Had to say, Northern barbarians were indeed poor. Over twenty people, only a total of over a hundred Gold Dragons were found.
At this moment, in the pit below, a bloody "performance" was underway.
A scrawny man, bare-chested, was fighting three snarling wild dogs.
He had no weapons and looked untrained, just clumsily waving his arms to counterattack.
This resistance was futile in front of the wild dogs that hadn't eaten for unknown days.
Soon, a wild dog bit his calf, dragging him to the ground. The other two immediately swarmed up and began tearing frantically.
The man screamed, but was soon drowned out by the excited roars of people, consumed along with the wild dogs.
Looking at this bloody scene before him, Corleone was expressionless, lightly uttering one word: "Low-level."
Yes, his evaluation was "low-level."
Because he knew very well that although this was a fighting pit, fights between beasts were just appetizers. What truly excited the audience and made them willing to fork out their last copper was always life-and-death combat between humans, or humans and beasts.
In his previous life, during his combined Master's and PhD study, Corleone had briefly dabbled in some psychology.
Watching tense and exciting life-and-death combat could trigger strong physiological reactions in humans, experiencing extreme tension and excitement.
And when the number of viewers reached a certain level, this emotion would be sublimated. Shared frenzy allowed people to unscrupulously release the pressure of daily life.
Plus, for the audience, this pleasure of controlling others' life and death gave ordinary people the illusion of gaining power, a highly tempting psychological experience.
Therefore, from ancient times to the present, this sport has almost never ceased.
Only in Corleone's view, the methods of the fighting pit before him were simply too low-level. If handed over to him to manage, the profits gained might increase hundreds or thousands of times.
Just as Corleone was thinking rapidly, the commotion in the pit subsided.
That man didn't last long and soon became the wild dogs' lunch.
Staff began using hooked long poles to roughly drive the unsatisfied wild dogs back into cages. Then two people jumped into the pit, skillfully dragged away the broken corpse, scattered a few shovels of sand casually, barely covering the bloodstains.
The whole process was very efficient, like waiters clearing a messy dining table.
Corleone tilted his head slightly, his gaze falling on the stocky man beside him.
"You've trained this place quite well. Seems you mixed well in King's Landing, Rorge."
This sentence sounded like praise, yet also like a probe.
Hearing this, Rorge immediately squeezed out an ugly smile: "Look at what you're saying, Boss Corleone. If I mixed well in King's Landing, I wouldn't have been caught and sentenced to death."
Yes, this guy had woken up on the road long ago and very sensibly prostrated himself at Corleone's feet.
Corleone wasn't surprised by this. After all, people like Rorge who grew up at the bottom almost all had their own survival logic.
Whoever had harder fists and ruthless means, he would follow. Admitting cowardice brought him no psychological burden at all.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have immediately requested to take the black and join the Night's Watch after being sentenced to death.
"I don't like listening to fawning nonsense."
Towards Rorge's flattery, Corleone appeared very indifferent. He just tilted his head: "Ten thousand words of flattery are not as effective as doing one solid thing."
Feeling Corleone's gaze, Rorge understood immediately.
"Understood, Boss Corleone!"
He grinned, pushed through the crowd familiarly, and walked towards a man sitting on a high stool at the edge of the fighting pit.
That guy was lowering his head, rapidly recording on rough paper rolls with charcoal.
Three burly men stood around him, presumably protecting him.
Clearly, this was the person responsible for registering bets and managing odds.
In front of Rorge, at least ten people were already lined up waiting to bet. However, this couldn't stump a local tyrant like him; after all, he wasn't the type to queue honestly.
Pushing the crowd aside roughly with both hands, ignoring people's angry glares, Rorge came before the bookkeeper, puffed out his chest, and roared in a muffled voice: "Next match."
"I bet one thousand Gold Dragons!"