The Wheel of Order.
It was the third major enterprise Corleone had opened in the heart of Flea Bottom, working in tandem with the Hall of Order and the Ring of Order to form a complete economic chain.
If the Hall of Order gave the smallfolk hope of survival and the Ring of Order gave them a chance to change their fate with their fists, then the Wheel of Order existed to make people with a few spare coins happily hand them over.
In plain terms, it was a casino.
But this casino looked nothing like the dark, damp, sweat-and-sour-ale-smelling underground dens scattered around King's Landing.
Corleone had designed it with ideas borrowed from the high-end gambling houses of another life. The high vaulted ceiling was covered in elaborate colorful murals depicting famous wagers and legendary stories from the history of the Seven Kingdoms. The walls were paneled with polished wood, and every few steps hung a bronze oil lamp with carefully ground glass shades that gave bright but gentle light.
Dozens of large gaming tables filled the main floor, their edges trimmed in brass, their green felt surfaces crowded with people. Some shouted prayers to the Seven. Others cursed after losing ten hands in a row. A few slammed their last copper onto the table with red eyes. And some sat in front of piles of gold dragons, arms around the free courtesans the house provided, grinning like idiots.
At the very back, near the hearth, sat a smaller table.
This one ran the simplest game in the house — guessing the dice. It required no thought at all. Usually only two kinds of people sat here: complete newcomers, and people who had already lost so much they no longer wanted to think.
Tyrion Lannister clearly belonged to the second group.
The pile of chips in front of him looked impressive at first glance, but a closer look revealed that most of them were gray (one silver stag each). There were maybe a dozen yellow chips (one gold dragon) mixed in. Not a single red chip (ten gold dragons) remained.
"Three, four, five! Twelve is high!"
The dealer's voice rang out. The crowd around the table reacted with cheers and groans.
Tyrion didn't even glance at the result. He simply pushed every chip he had left into the center.
"Again. Small."
His voice was slurred. He spoke like he had something in his mouth.
He had already drunk three full pitchers of Arbor gold tonight — one of the most expensive wines the casino offered, three gold dragons a bottle.
For the man once called the Wine God of Casterly Rock, three bottles would have meant nothing in the past. But his mood these days was foul enough that even the servers walked softly when they passed his table.
They had seen this type before.
Usually these people caused trouble once they were broke and got thrown out.
But Lord Corleone had given clear instructions: "Give him whatever he wants. Put it on my account."
So no one tried to stop Tyrion.
"My lord, your chips."
A server approached with a tray and set down a fresh stack: a hundred yellow chips, ten red chips, and one black chip worth a hundred gold dragons.
Another three hundred dragons.
Tyrion didn't even look at them. He just waved a hand, dismissing the man.
The server fled like he had been granted a royal pardon.
Tyrion lifted his cup and took a long swallow. Wine ran down his chin and soaked his collar, but he was wearing plain clothes tonight — no fine robes, no Lannister lion.
"Three sixes! Leopard! House wins!"
The dealer's voice rose again, drawing curses from the table.
Tyrion's pile shrank by another third, but his expression didn't change. He pushed more chips forward.
"You know the amount you just lost would keep an ordinary Flea Bottom family alive for how long?"
A lazy, mocking voice spoke right beside his ear.
Tyrion recognized it immediately but didn't bother turning his head.
"Thirty years," the voice continued. "If they're careful with their coin, maybe longer. Long enough to raise a newborn into a man, see him marry, and watch him have children of his own."
"And you just pissed all of that away in the time it takes to drink one cup of wine."
"What the hell do you want?" Tyrion finally said.
"Came to see if the drunk was dead yet."
Bronn dropped into the seat beside him without invitation, wearing his usual shit-eating grin. These days the sellsword-turned-lord looked every inch the flashy new money he was — ridiculous silk doublet, rings on every finger, the general air of a man who had more gold than sense.
"If you were dead I was going to drag your corpse back to the Red Keep and see if Lord Tywin would pay me a finder's fee," Bronn added cheerfully. "He is your father, after all. Ought to be worth something."
Tyrion finally turned and gave him a flat look.
Bronn grinned wider.
"Fuck off, you bastard," Tyrion muttered, then turned back to the table.
This time he won. A hundred gold dragons.
"See? I bring you luck!"
Bronn waved a server over and pointed at Tyrion's pitcher without shame. "Another bottle of that. Put it on his tab."
The server hesitated, glancing at Tyrion.
Tyrion shot the man a glare but said nothing. He shoved his winnings and most of his remaining chips into the center.
"Buy small. Hands off."
The dealer shook the dice cup. The ivory cubes rattled like strange music.
"So what the fuck is wrong with you?" Bronn asked, voice dropping the worst of the mockery. "The Tyrion Lannister I know might be a dwarf, but he's got a brain. He doesn't make losing bets. And he sure as hell doesn't throw gold into the gutter."
"This isn't throwing gold into the gutter," Tyrion said, taking another drink. "This is… enjoying life."
"Enjoying life?" Bronn snorted. "Fuck that."
The server returned with the new bottle and a crystal glass. Bronn ignored the glass, took the bottle, and drank straight from it.
"Ha! Not bad. Still not as good as the cheap shit by the Blackwater, though. That stuff'll knock you on your ass for three days."
"You don't know shit about wine," Tyrion muttered.
Bronn took another pull, then jerked his chin toward the main floor. "You know what I saw over at that table earlier?"
"A fishmonger hit seven wins in a row. Walked away with fifty gold dragons."
"Fifty gold dragons. Enough to keep him selling fish for ten years. The stupid bastard got so excited he dropped to his knees and kissed the dealer's boots."
"And then?"
"Then he tried to go for one last big win." Bronn shrugged. "Now he's sitting outside crying."
Tyrion said nothing. Fifty gold dragons meant nothing to him right now. He had bigger problems.
Bronn studied him. "So how much have you lost tonight?"
Tyrion was quiet for a few seconds, then pointed at the chips still in front of him.
Bronn whistled.
"Five hundred? Eight hundred?"
"A thousand."
Bronn's eyes went wide. Then he burst out laughing — loud, ugly, genuine laughter that turned heads at nearby tables. He laughed until tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.
"A thousand gold dragons? Hahahaha! Do you have any idea how much pussy that would buy you on the Street of Silk? A hundred pretty girls doing every filthy thing you can imagine for a whole month!"
"Enough!" Tyrion snapped.
Bronn finally got himself under control, wiped his eyes, and looked at Tyrion with something almost like seriousness.
"So what the fuck is going on with you, Tyrion Lannister? I'd rather see you whoring yourself senseless in a brothel than sitting here looking like a kicked dog."
Tyrion stared down at the table for a long moment. Then he drained his cup in one go.
"Where the fuck else am I supposed to go?"
The wine finally loosened his tongue. The words came out raw, half to himself, half to Bronn.
"Every morning I wake up and the first thing I have to do is report to the Gold Cloak headquarters. I have to look at that bastard Humfrey Waters' face until he signs my ledger saying 'Lord Tyrion Lannister reported as ordered. No flight risk.' Only then am I allowed to move around."
"Move around," he repeated bitterly. "You know what that means? I can't take a ship. I can't ride out the city gates. I can't go near any dock that might have a boat. I'm stuck inside the walls like a dog in a kennel."
"You could go back to the Red Keep," Bronn said.
Tyrion gave a short, ugly laugh. "The Red Keep? My dear sister looks at me like she wants to burn me alive with her eyes. She'd love to strangle me with her bare hands and tear my throat out with her nails. If Father wasn't there, if there weren't a few Gold Cloaks still loyal to him, she'd have already sent her white knights to finish the job."
He gestured around the casino.
"This is the only place I feel even a little safe. Even Cersei won't start shit inside Corleone's territory. So I stay here. Among the drunks and the gamblers. It's the only place left."
His voice grew quieter and quieter until it was almost lost under the noise of the casino.
Bronn sat beside him, unusually quiet.
After a few seconds he spoke, his tone light but not quite mocking.
"After hearing all that, I almost feel like my own life isn't so bad."
Tyrion looked up.
Bronn leaned back in his chair, legs crossed. "You know what my idiot wife did yesterday? She sat in the garden all afternoon talking to a doll. Had a whole conversation with it."
Tyrion's mouth twitched despite himself.
"And her sister, Falise?" Bronn continued. "That bitch has been glowing lately. Walking around like she owns the city. Out at every noble feast every night. I asked Balman what the fuck was going on and he said she's been taking some fancy Braavosi health tonic that's supposed to make her look ten years younger."
He snorted. "Ten years younger. If that cunt gets any younger she'll probably kick me out of Stokeworth herself."
Bronn spread his hands. "I never should've taken that deal with your bitch sister. It was a losing bet from the start. Her and her husband just keep getting healthier. At this rate they'll probably outlive me."
Tyrion finally laughed — a short, genuine sound.
"You're laughing?" Bronn said. "Fuck you. I'm waiting for them to die. You're waiting for your crazy sister to die. We're both just sitting around hoping our own blood drops dead. We're the same kind of bastard."
Tyrion laughed harder.
"You're right."
He raised his cup toward Bronn. "To our beloved relatives."
Bronn lifted the wine bottle and clinked it against the cup.
"May they meet the Stranger soon."
"Meet the Stranger."
They drank.
Tyrion set his cup down and looked at the chips still on the table. A reckless idea struck him.
"Hey. Since you're here, I'll treat you to a hand."
"What?"
"Don't argue. One hand."
Before Bronn could answer, Tyrion waved a server over. "Bring me another thousand gold dragons in chips."
The server looked uncomfortable. "My lord… your credit line has been used up."
Tyrion blinked. "What?"
"Your credit line, my lord. Lord Corleone said you could sign for up to five thousand gold dragons. As of the last hand, you've already reached that limit."
Tyrion's face darkened.
"I gave that bastard forty thousand gold dragons! Forty thousand! And now in his own casino I only get five thousand in credit?"
His voice was rising. Several nearby gamblers turned to look. Security men began drifting closer.
"Enough, Tyrion," Bronn said quietly, hand on his shoulder. "I don't like gambling anyway."
"Why? Afraid to lose?"
"Not afraid to lose." Bronn picked up a chip and held it to the light. "It's too uncertain. You put it down and it might become two chips or it might become zero. I prefer things that are certain. Like killing a man for a set price. Clean. Simple."
Tyrion opened his mouth to argue, but Bronn was already standing, pushing the chips back toward the center of the table.
"Come on. Let's get out of here. I know a better place."
"Where?"
"Silk Street." Bronn winked. "Heard some new Lyseni girls arrived. Top quality. My treat."
Tyrion's eyes lit up, then hesitated. "Silk Street's a long walk from Flea Bottom. Is it safe? I heard from Humfrey that children have been going missing in the city lately."
"Are you a child?"
Bronn gave him a look, then thumped his own chest. "Relax. You're with me."
He hauled Tyrion to his feet. The two of them staggered toward the exit, the crowd parting around the unlikely pair — a drunk dwarf and a sellsword who looked like he wanted to stab the next person who annoyed him.
Outside, the streets of Flea Bottom were still brightly lit. Corleone's rule: a streetlamp every fifty paces. It wasn't Red Keep candlelight, but for people who had lived their whole lives in darkness, it was a miracle.
It was late, but vendors still had stalls open and gray-uniformed community wardens moved through the crowds keeping order.
Tyrion looked around, then glanced back at the glowing casino behind them.
"If I'd known that bastard was going to get this rich, I should've bought in when he first started. Even a hundred gold dragons back then would be worth a fortune now."
Bronn made a thoughtful noise. "Who the fuck knows."
They walked on.
After a while Tyrion stopped.
"Wait."
"What?"
"I need to piss."
"Here?" Bronn looked around.
They were standing at the mouth of a narrow alley, barely wide enough for one person. High walls on both sides. Pitch black inside.
"Where else?"
Tyrion gave him a look. "I'm not pissing in my pants."
"Flea Bottom has rules against pissing in the street," Bronn said seriously. "Corleone's rules. If one of those wardens catches you I can't help you."
Tyrion flipped him off. "Fuck Corleone."
He turned and walked into the alley.
Bronn leaned against the wall and waited. A few seconds later he heard the sound of water hitting stone.
Then Tyrion's voice drifted out, slurred and thoughtful.
"You ever wonder where the fuck Corleone even came from?"
Bronn didn't answer.
Tyrion kept talking to himself anyway.
"His healing is too good. His sword work is good enough to beat the best knight in the Vale. And somehow in a few months he becomes one of the most powerful men in King's Landing and takes my job as Master of Coin. It's not natural. He's not natural…"
His voice grew quieter until it faded completely.
The sound of water stopped.
But Tyrion didn't come out.
Bronn waited a few more seconds, then frowned.
"Hey. You done?"
No answer.
" Tyrion!"
Still nothing.
Bronn's face changed. He pushed off the wall and strode into the alley, eyes adjusting quickly to the dark.
The alley was empty.
Only a small puddle on the ground and a few scattered gambling chips.