As Rorge finished speaking, Tywin Lannister strode into the Hall of Order first.
The hem of his deep-crimson brocade coat cut through the air. His sharp, balding head gleamed like polished metal under the lamplight. Every line on his face radiated absolute authority. His eyes looked straight ahead as he walked at a measured pace.
The scattered conversations in the hall died instantly.
Everyone straightened their spines without thinking, as if afraid to show poor manners in front of the Hand—even though most of the commoners present had never had much manners to begin with.
Tywin stopped in front of the main seat. A servant had already pulled out the chair.
He didn't sit right away. He simply swept his cold eyes across the room. One glance was enough to make every person feel a chill run down their spine.
"So this is the Old Lion," Corleone thought.
No roaring. No bared teeth. He only had to sit there and everyone knew who ruled. Even the way he moved carried the scent of power.
Corleone stepped forward, right hand over his heart. "Lord Tywin. Thank you for taking the time to come tonight."
"You invited me. Of course I came," Tywin said without the slightest inflection. "A knight who protected the king in his hour of need deserves this much respect."
Corleone lowered his head modestly. "You flatter me, my lord."
Inside, he was laughing coldly.
Respect?
If I hadn't found Tyrion Lannister two days ago, washed the boy clean, and personally delivered him to your solar so you could keep legally eating the Harlaw family's inheritance, would you have given me this "respect"?
It was all business. Nothing more.
Just then, the beautiful Queen Regent swept in, riding the wake of her father's presence.
She wore a deep-red gown embroidered with gold thread, the neckline cut scandalously low to reveal a generous expanse of pale skin. Her golden curls spilled over her shoulders, swaying with every step.
Even now, as the former most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, she drew every man's eyes the moment she entered.
But her gaze went straight to Corleone.
"Ser Corleone!" she said brightly, stepping forward and extending her hand, fingers slightly raised as if bestowing a gift.
Corleone's brow furrowed. He had no idea what fresh madness this woman was plotting now.
Still, he took her fingertips, bent, and brushed his lips against them before immediately letting go. No lingering touch.
Cersei was not satisfied.
She stepped closer and patted his arm with her other hand. "Thank you for saving my life in my moment of need."
The gesture was far too familiar—more suited to a superior with a subordinate, or a mistress with a servant.
Clearly, Cersei still hadn't given up on him. She still wanted to bring him fully under her control.
She had miscalculated.
Corleone lifted his head and looked her straight in the eyes.
There was no gratitude or reverence in his pitch-black gaze. Only calm. "You overestimate me, Your Grace. I have already received my reward."
"Lord Tywin himself knighted me. That is something every man in the Seven Kingdoms dreams of."
Cersei's pupils shrank.
She glanced back at her father. Tywin gave a small, approving nod, clearly pleased with Corleone's answer.
Cersei's face flushed red. She wanted to speak, but Tywin had already turned to Corleone.
"Ser, I hear you've made some changes in Flea Bottom. The streets are cleaner. Crime is down. There are even proper shops and guilds now."
"I only did my duty, my lord," Corleone replied, standing beside the table with neither humility nor arrogance. "You know as well as I do—chaos breeds corruption, order brings prosperity. The people of Flea Bottom are still citizens of King's Landing. They deserve basic security and dignity."
Tywin studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Order."
"Many people talk about bringing order, but most only mean forcing their own rules on everyone else. I'm curious what your version looks like."
"It's simple, my lord." Corleone paused for two seconds. "Work for pay. Follow the law and receive protection. Create value and share the rewards. That's all."
"Sounds like a merchant's contract."
"In essence, it is a contract," Corleone explained. "Between commoners and nobles, between commoners and commoners, even between nobles and nobles—every relationship ultimately comes down to a contract."
"The only difference is that some contracts are written on parchment, some are carved into steel, and some… are burned into fear."
A tiny, almost invisible smile touched the corner of Tywin's mouth.
"A wise choice," he said. "Crude, but wise."
He took a sip of the wine a servant had just poured, then set the cup down.
"Since you mentioned contracts," Tywin continued evenly, "I'll fulfill my part. The Flea Bottom expansion plan has been approved by the Small Council. You may begin construction according to the blueprints. The City Watch will provide any necessary manpower and materials."
"But you will have to arrange the funding yourself."
A collective gasp rippled through the hall.
Expansion plan?
What did that mean?
No one here was a fool. It meant Corleone's control over Flea Bottom had gone from "unofficial order" to "official sanction."
Cersei's fingers tightened on her skirt, knuckles white.
She glared at Corleone like he was a traitor, silently demanding answers.
When did you discuss this with Father?
Why didn't I know?
The Queen Regent was seething.
Damn you, Vito Corleone. Who do you think you are?
I am the Queen Regent!
I gave you a chance!
Without my help, you would still be nothing but an upstart playing in the mud of Flea Bottom!
She wanted to explode, but she didn't dare in front of her father. Tywin's authority ran too deep in her blood.
She took a deep breath and turned toward her seat, steps slightly hurried.
As she passed Petyr Baelish, she suddenly stopped, as if she had only just noticed him.
Cersei stared at him for two seconds, then let out a light, mocking laugh.
"Lord Baelish!" she said loudly, making sure most of the room could hear. "How wonderful to see you here!"
Petyr, who had been trying to shrink behind the bar, flinched.
Damn it… I thought I'd hidden well enough. Of course the madwoman found me.
With no other choice, he turned around and forced a bow. "Your Grace…"
"Oh my~~" Cersei's smile turned vicious. "I thought you'd already sailed for the Eyrie. After all, Father only gave you one week, and today is already the second day, isn't it?"
The words sounded concerned on the surface, but they were a public slap.
She reminded everyone that Tywin had ordered Petyr to leave, emphasized that he had already lost power in King's Landing, and hinted that if he lingered, he might be plotting something behind the scenes.
Pure malice.
Petyr set his cup down. His smile stayed perfectly in place, but the muscles at the corners of his eyes twitched nonstop.
I'm an idiot. I really am.
I never should have come to this damn feast today…
"Your Grace's concern is overwhelming," he said, forcing the words out while his mind raced. "I'm not staying in King's Landing because I want to. There are some debts that need to be settled. Ser Addam can vouch for me."
"Debts?" Cersei didn't give him an inch. "You mean the thirty thousand gold dragons you mortgaged those seven brothels over and over again?"
The hall went silent again.
The words were brutally direct.
Even among nobles who hated each other, attacks were usually wrapped in metaphor and implication to preserve surface dignity.
But Cersei didn't care. Her anger needed an outlet, and Petyr was right there.
For some reason, every time she saw that flawless smile on his face, she felt an overwhelming urge to rip it off.
Petyr's smile froze once more.
How the hell did everyone in King's Landing suddenly know about this?
It had to be Addam Marbrand who told her.
"Those were… a misunderstanding," he said, swallowing hard. "My ship for the Eyrie is already arranged. Ser Addam and I just settled everything."
"I can leave King's Landing at any moment. I only need to sort out a few accounts first."
Petyr tried to stall, but before Cersei could mock him again, Tywin's cold voice came from the main table.
"Then sort them out."
Petyr turned sharply toward Tywin. Those icy emerald eyes met his.
The silent question was clear: I ordered you to leave. Why are you still here?
For a moment, Petyr had no answer.
If he left now, he would lose every last shred of face in King's Landing. But if he stayed…
Tywin Lannister's anger was far more dangerous than Cersei's.
"If I were you, Lord Baelish," a hoarse, dry voice said from the doorway, "I would repay the debt first and worry about sailing later."
Everyone turned.
A thin old woman leaned on Margaery Tyrell's arm as she slowly entered the hall.
She wore a deep-purple gown embroidered with dark-gold thorn patterns. Her face looked like a dried apple, wrinkles carved deep into her skin, but her eyes were razor-sharp.
The true power behind House Tyrell.
The Queen of Thorns—Olenna Redwyne.
Tap… tap…
Olenna's cane struck the floor as she stopped beside Petyr's seat. She didn't even look at him, speaking as if to the air.
"You know, Littlefinger… drowning at sea is one thing. Being tied to a rock and thrown into the Blackwater by angry creditors is quite another."
The words were even more direct than Cersei's—and twice as insulting. Even Corleone had to silently applaud.
She truly lived up to her reputation as the sharpest tongue in Westeros.
With one sentence, Petyr's face went completely white.
His lips trembled, but Olenna had already looked away, as if he were nothing more than an unpleasant piece of furniture.
The arrival of this grandmother-and-granddaughter pair shifted the atmosphere once more.
House Tyrell had come.
And they had timed it perfectly—right after Tywin took his seat, but before the other nobles fully arrived.
Margaery, ever the picture of grace, curtsied to Tywin first. "Lord Hand."
Then she turned to Corleone, her smile flawless. "Ser Corleone, congratulations on your knighting."
"My grandmother heard you were holding a feast tonight and insisted on coming. She said she wanted to meet the man who turned Flea Bottom into the Hall of Order."
Before Corleone could reply, Olenna released her granddaughter's arm and stepped forward, leaning on her cane.
She was short, and had to tilt her head back to look at Corleone, yet her presence made everyone nearby unconsciously take half a step back.
"So you're that farmer."
Olenna's voice was as cutting as ever.
"Formerly a farmer, my lady," Corleone replied without anger, bowing slightly. "Now… a knight."
"A knight."
Olenna gave a cold laugh. "I've lived a long time and met many knights of common birth. Only three ever impressed me."
"The first was Ser Duncan the Tall. Brave and loyal, but Aegon the Fifth burned him alive. The second was a merchant who bought himself a title and jumped into the Blackwater not long after going bankrupt."
She stared hard into Corleone's eyes, as if trying to see straight through him.
"The third… is you."