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As the evening wore on, the atmosphere at the dinner table shifted from cordial to intimate.
At least, that was how Shae saw it.
Corleone was a master conversationalist. He spoke with effortless charisma, segueing from music and poetry to the geopolitics of war, and from the lands across the Narrow Sea to the ancient doom of Valyria. He seemed to know everything.
He even possessed a surprising depth of knowledge regarding the cultivation and harvesting of apples.
This image—learned, witty, and elegant—had already scrubbed the memory of that lecherous dwarf from Shae's mind. She was already fantasizing about how many children she might bear for Lord Corleone.
"You know..."
Under Shae's glistening gaze, Corleone dabbed the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin, meeting her eyes with a gentle warmth.
"It is a cruel joke of fate that a lady of such elegance has been reduced to serving at Stokeworth Castle, Miss Shae. I detect a hint of the Westerlands in your accent?"
Shae immediately straightened her spine, a practiced mask of melancholy slipping over her features. She recited the same script she had fed Tyrion upon their first meeting.
"Yes, my lord. My father... he was a merchant in the Westerlands. Cloth trade. We lived well enough, but after my first flowering, he tried to force himself on me..."
She paused for effect.
"I fought him off and ran away from home. To survive, I worked for the wealthy. When the war started, I fled to King's Landing with the refugees. Thankfully, Lady Falyse took me in."
She conveniently omitted her time as a camp follower, lowering her eyes to look suitably pitiful.
Corleone listened quietly, then nodded with apparent empathy. "Life is unpredictable. We cannot choose our origins."
"But to survive this chaotic world requires a strong heart. You are a survivor, Miss Shae."
The tenderness in his voice intoxicated her. She licked her lips unconsciously and took a sip of wine to cool the heat rising in her chest.
Then, Corleone shifted the topic with natural ease. "Lord Tywin Lannister. The realm hails him as a genius of governance. The West is orderly under his rule."
"His golden mane certainly commands authority. Did you ever catch a glimpse of him while you were in the West?"
Shae's expression didn't flicker. She smiled, her response practiced and smooth. "Everyone knows Lord Tywin's name, but how would a commoner like me ever see such a lion? I've only heard stories of his majesty."
She added the last part casually.
Her answer was flawless; not even a facial muscle twitched. However, under the gaze of [Insight Lv. 2], Corleone determined she wasn't Tywin's creature. At least, not yet.
Perhaps Tywin knew of her existence but hadn't made contact, viewing her merely as a pawn to be deployed against Tyrion when the moment was right.
Corleone seemed satisfied with the answer and dropped the subject.
The dinner concluded in a near-perfect atmosphere. Servants cleared the plates, while Corleone nursed his wine, his gaze settling on Shae once more.
His eyes slid over her simple dress, finally resting on her neck.
Mistaking his focus for her cleavage, Shae lowered her head in feigned shyness.
"Your necklace is exquisite, Miss Shae."
"A gift from someone special?"
Shae's heart hammered against her ribs. Blood rushed to her cheeks.
She raised a hand to touch the chain, a flash of panic in her eyes quickly suppressed. She forced a tone of indifference mixed with a hint of sorrow. "Just a trinket. It doesn't mean much."
Corleone didn't seem to notice her fluster or the lie. He nodded and let it go.
He placed his glass down and slowly stood up. The candlelight cast his shadow long across the table, engulfing Shae.
Her heart synchronized with the rhythm of his footsteps. Her mind went blank. She had always prided herself on her ability to handle men, but right now, she felt as helpless as a maiden.
They were both adults. She knew exactly what was coming next.
Accept?
Would he think she was too easy?
Refuse?
No... she might miss the greatest opportunity of her life.
While Shae was locked in her internal struggle, a cool fingertip grazed her cheek. He was so close she could smell him—a faint mix of wine, disinfectant, and... apples?
She hesitated no longer. She tilted her head back, exposing the fragile, graceful line of her neck.
She had been used roughly by countless men, but never had she anticipated being conquered, possessed, and occupied as much as she did in this moment.
She closed her eyes, feeling the contour of his fingers sliding down her skin, until they finally...
Stopped at her vulnerable throat.
---
The residence of the Master of Coin was thick with gloom, the very air heavy with the crushing weight of the Iron Throne's debt.
Tyrion Lannister lay in his oversized bed, tossing and turning.
Filling the massive hole in the Crown's finances had drained him. He barely touched his beloved wine anymore, and he hadn't managed to sneak away to see Shae in weeks.
Longing and guilt for the dark-haired girl tangled with fear of his father, twisting into a chaotic nightmare that denied him rest.
Somewhere between sleep and waking, a faint sound snapped him to attention.
He bolted upright, eyes flying open, heart racing. He scanned the room.
There, in the shadows by the window, stood a towering silhouette.
"Who are you!"
Tyrion hissed, instinctively reaching for the dagger beneath his pillow.
The shadow didn't answer. He simply flicked his wrist. A small object arched through the air, glinting in the darkness, flying straight for Tyrion's face.
Thinking it was a weapon, Tyrion threw up a hand to block it, but the object landed softly on his chest. It carried no force.
Then, a low voice spoke, thick with a heavy foreign accent.
"Lord Corleone sends his regards."
Corleone?
The Imp froze. Before he could process the name, the bedroom door crashed open.
"My Lord!"
Bronn charged in, sword drawn and torch held high. The sudden light banished the darkness in the room.
He roared and lunged at the intruder.
But the moment Bronn burst in, the shadow placed a single hand on the sill and vaulted out the window with impossible agility.
Bronn rushed to the opening and peered down. The figure had already melted into the deep night, vanishing without a trace.
"I heard a noise. You alright?"
Knowing the chase was futile, Bronn turned back to ask.
"You're late."
Tyrion gritted his teeth, punching the quilt in frustration.
He reached down and picked up the object from his chest. In the torchlight, it reflected a soft, warm glow.
It was a necklace. A simple silver chain, dangling a small but perfectly shaped freshwater pearl.
The moment he saw it, Tyrion felt as though a giant hand had squeezed his heart.
Shae!
It was the gift he had given her. A hundred gold dragons or so—not a king's ransom, but she had said she loved it. She said it symbolized the beginning of her freedom.
She always wore it. She never took it off, even when they were in bed.
"Lord Corleone sends his regards..."
The voice echoed in Tyrion's skull like a curse. That heavy accent...
It was the Dothraki!
It was Corleone!
Fear and rage swallowed Tyrion whole.
His relationship with Shae was a secret guarded with his life. He had even kept it from his father. How did that bastard know?
And he didn't just know she existed; he knew what she meant to him. He had her personal necklace.
What did it mean?
Was Shae in his hands?
What had he done to her? Kidnapped her? Hurt her? Or...
The next time we meet, I believe you will not say no to me.
Recalling Corleone's parting words from their last meeting, Tyrion's chest tightened.
It was a naked threat.
"I told you to watch that guy, Vito Corleone. What did you find?"
He looked up at Bronn, his expression grave.
"The guy's nuts. He's actually trying to clean up Flea Bottom, and he's planning to feed all the gutter rats and pickpockets."
Seeing the Imp's intensity, Bronn answered honestly. "Seriously? I've never seen anyone that naive. Flea Bottom has been here since King's Landing was built. It hasn't changed in hundreds of years. I don't believe anyone can fix that pit."
Bronn's eyes darted mischievously. "But, I did pay a thug to cause that Corleone fellow some trouble. Cost me three gold dragons. When are you gonna reimburse me for that..."
"Damn it!"
Tyrion ignored the sellsword's greed. He clenched his fist. "Go. Find Lord Varys. Bring him here."
He scrambled off the high bed. "No. I'll go see him myself."
He was frantic, rushing toward the door with Bronn following, confused by the urgency.
But as they stepped into the corridor, another figure approached from the darkness, carrying a torch and walking with a leisurely, measured pace.
The two stopped. Tyrion stepped back, and Bronn instinctively moved in front of him, sword raised.
As the light drew near, a smooth, hairless, powdered face came into view.
Plump hands were folded inside wide sleeves. The man's gaze swept over the shaken Tyrion, finally landing on the pearl necklace clutched tightly in his hand.
"It seems I am late, my Lord."
"I hope you weren't too startled. Shall I summon the Gold Cloaks?"