"Don't forget, Ser Corleone."
Tywin stared at the knight in white armor for a long moment before speaking again.
"Even if you've infiltrated the Gold Cloaks, there are still two thousand Lannister soldiers camped outside the Gods Gate. One order from me and they can flatten Flea Bottom in an hour."
"Your hungry soldiers, your corrupt officers, your bought-off commanders… they're nothing but lambs before real Lannister steel."
His tone was hard. He was trying to take control of the conversation back.
As he spoke, Tywin took a step forward. He was taller than Corleone and used every inch of it.
"You've played your game well, Corleone. Bribery, infiltration, psychological warfare — useful tools. But you need to understand something. When real force enters the equation, all your little tricks become meaningless. The loyalty of Lannister soldiers isn't something a few gold dragons can buy."
"If I wanted to," he continued, voice cold and steady, "by sunrise tomorrow every shack in Flea Bottom would be burning. Every street would run with blood. Everything you've built — your Black Hand, your Hall of Order — would turn to ash."
"And you," his green eyes locked onto Corleone, "would be hanging from the highest gallows as a traitor for everyone to see."
The room grew heavier.
Corleone looked at Tywin in silence. There was no fear on his face. No anger. Just that same calm, unsettling stillness.
Then he laughed.
A real, full laugh, like he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world.
Tywin's brow furrowed.
Corleone took one step closer. They were now less than two feet apart.
"I have to admit, Lord Hand," he said, still smiling, "you're right. Completely right."
"Two thousand elite soldiers from the Westerlands. Men who grew up eating Lannister bread and wearing Lannister steel. They could crush Flea Bottom ten times over."
"After all, peasants with knives and sticks are just lambs when they're standing in front of armored soldiers."
He tilted his head slightly.
"…If you're willing to become the first 'Mad Hand' in the history of the Seven Kingdoms."
Tywin's pupils shrank.
The insult landed cleanly. Comparing him to the Mad King was something very few people had ever dared to do to his face.
But Tywin still pushed back. "A lion doesn't care what sheep think."
"True," Corleone nodded. "A lion doesn't have to care what sheep think."
He took another half step forward, closing the distance until they were almost chest to chest. Close enough to see the fine lines around Tywin's eyes and the tension in his jaw.
"But tell me, Lord Hand… right now, who's really the sheep?"
As he spoke, Corleone slowly raised his sword. The blade caught the candlelight, the dried blood on it dark and ugly.
Tywin didn't move.
Corleone's voice dropped, quiet and direct.
"What if I killed you right here? Right now, in this room?"
"Would that order of yours still reach the Lannister camp outside the city?"
Tywin's breathing changed — just slightly.
Corleone continued, voice calm.
"You keep saying I wouldn't dare. That I'm your knight. That everything I have comes from you."
He looked Tywin straight in the eyes.
"So tell me… what makes you so sure I won't do it?"
He pressed the flat of the blade lightly against the side of Tywin's neck.
The old lion didn't flinch. His voice was steady when he answered.
"Because you're not a fool. Killing me brings you nothing but ruin. The Westerlands would burn King's Landing to the ground. Your little empire in Flea Bottom would collapse in the chaos. You know this."
Corleone stared at him for a long moment.
Then he slowly lowered the sword.
"You're right," he said. "Killing you would be bad business."
He stepped back and leaned against the windowsill again, sword resting point-down on the floor.
"I'm not here to kill you, Tywin Lannister. I'm here to make a deal. Because we're both men who understand profit."
Tywin's eyes narrowed.
Corleone continued.
"You tried to take Flea Bottom from me. You failed. Now the cost of forcing it back under your control is too high — for both of us."
"So let's stop pretending."
He looked Tywin in the eye.
"Give me Flea Bottom."
Tywin was quiet for several seconds.
Then he spoke.
"I can have the Gold Cloaks withdraw by sunset today. Within three days, the king will issue a decree making Flea Bottom a special autonomous district. Taxes will be reduced to one-third of the normal rate, and the first three months will be tax-free for rebuilding."
He paused, then added firmly:
"But the security force cannot exceed three hundred men. They will not be allowed heavy armor or military crossbows. Any cases involving nobles must still go through the Red Keep. And they will not wear uniforms that resemble soldiers. They will be… civilian volunteers."
It was the best offer Tywin was willing to make.
Corleone shook his head.
"Not good enough."
Tywin's expression darkened. "That is already a massive concession."
"It's a verbal promise," Corleone said. "And we both know how much those are worth."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a single gold dragon. He held it up between two fingers so the candlelight caught it.
"Let's make a bet instead, Lord Hand."
Tywin stared at the coin, then back at Corleone.
"What kind of bet?"
Corleone flipped the coin into the air and caught it.
"If I win, you give me everything I asked for — full control of Flea Bottom, no restrictions on my security force, and official recognition."
He flipped the coin again.
"If you win… I walk away. I leave King's Landing. You never see me again."
Tywin studied him carefully.
"And what exactly are we betting on?"
Corleone smiled.
"Whether or not your new quartermaster — the one Kevan personally chose — is actually loyal to you."
He held up the gold coin between them.
"So? Do we have a deal?"
Tywin looked at the coin, then at the man holding it.
For the first time in a very long while, he wasn't sure who was holding the real power in the room.