Night fell and Flea Bottom lit up.
Unlike the grand, imposing lights of the Red Keep, the glow here was bright, even, and orderly—as if someone had measured every inch of ground and calculated every shadow.
In the square before the Hall of Order, fifty new glass oil lamps hung from iron stands. The shades were polished clear, flames burning steady behind the glass, untouched by the night wind.
This was the result of Corleone making his craftsmen experiment for half a month. Brighter and cheaper than candles, and they didn't blow out easily.
Jaime Lannister stood at the edge of the square, watching in silence.
He should have ridden back to the Red Keep with the king's party.
Joffrey had complained the whole way in the carriage, calling Corleone's feast "unfit for a king" and Flea Bottom "a flea pit forever."
Jaime knew the boy was still rattled by yesterday's riot.
On impulse, when the carriages turned toward the Street of Steel, Jaime reined in his horse.
"I'm going to check on things," he told Balon Swann. "Make sure it's safe."
Balon gave him a look. "You're Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, not Corleone's personal guard, Ser Jaime."
Before he could finish, the white knight had already turned his horse and vanished down the alley into Flea Bottom.
Now Jaime stood here, taking in the scene, and felt something strange rise in his chest.
He couldn't name it, but as he watched people walking the clean streets with no trace of the usual fear—ready to run or kneel at any moment—that commoners in King's Landing always carried, it struck him.
They were just walking, busy, like they were in their own homes.
"Ser?"
A voice called.
Jaime turned and saw Rorge standing at the door of the Hall of Order.
The noseless man wore a surprisingly well-fitted dark coat today—buttons crooked, collar wrinkled, but at least he was wearing one.
"Ser Corleone is waiting for you inside."
Rorge bowed slightly, doing his best to show the politeness Corleone had drilled into him.
Jaime nodded and followed him through the doors. He stopped the moment he stepped inside.
The hall was nothing like he had imagined.
He'd expected the usual filthy tavern—greasy tables, air thick with cheap ale and sweat.
But this hall…
It was wide.
That was his first impression.
Three stories tall, the space that had probably once been divided into a dozen small rooms had been opened up into a vast hall that could easily hold two hundred people.
The walls were freshly whitewashed, stark and bright, nothing like the dark stone of the Red Keep.
Bright.
Along the second-floor balcony, a row of glass lamps cast light downward, focused on the central area where long tables and food were laid out.
The edges were dimmer—perfect for quiet conversation without being overheard.
Jaime had never seen lighting used like this. Even in the Red Keep's feast hall, they just crammed candles into holders.
Very… distinctive.
In the center of the hall, instead of traditional long tables, there were a dozen round tables of different sizes, each surrounded by six to eight chairs.
Round tables were almost never seen at noble feasts because they didn't show rank.
But here, they let everyone face each other.
The food was arranged differently too.
Not towering piles of roast pig and whole lambs, but divided into sections.
Cold platters held sliced ham, cheese, and pickled fish.
Hot food had servers carving roast chicken and ribs on the spot.
The dessert station offered small, delicate pastries—many of which even Jaime, born a Lannister, couldn't name.
Most remarkable was the drink station.
It was a curved bar with three servers in white aprons behind it.
Instead of barrels and clay jugs, there were rows of gleaming glass bottles filled with liquids of different colors.
The servers used silver measuring cups, funnels, and long-handled spoons to mix and shake the liquids, then poured them into tall stemmed glasses.
The motions were so smooth it looked like a ritual.
"This is…" Jaime murmured.
"Ser Corleone calls it a bar," Rorge explained beside him. "Those are cocktails."
"He said nobles are tired of wine and ale. They need something… fresh."
Jaime walked curiously to one of the round tables and ran his fingers over the surface.
The wood was polished smooth, covered with thick dark-green velvet cloth that felt luxurious. The edges were embroidered with simple geometric patterns in gold thread.
"All this setup…"
Jaime looked around. "How many gold dragons did it cost?"
Rorge grinned, showing a few missing teeth. "Nothing."
"What?"
"The wood came from tearing down old houses. We sanded it ourselves. The glass lamps were made by apprentices practicing—thirty ruined before we got these fifty."
"Only the velvet cost anything, and that was a 'donation' from House Stokeworth."
Rorge paused, lowering his voice. "Ser Corleone says in Flea Bottom, creativity is worth more than gold."
Jaime fell silent.
He thought of the massive oak desk in Tywin's solar, the gilded candelabras in the Red Keep's feast hall, and the enormous table in Casterly Rock's great hall that took twenty men to lift.
Those things all said the same thing: I have money. A lot of it.
But here in the Hall of Order, a different principle ruled.
I know how to do the most with the least.
That was smarter than showing off wealth.
"Hey, Jaime!"
Corleone's voice called from the back of the hall.
Jaime looked up and saw Corleone standing by the stairs to the second floor.
He had changed out of his armor into a simple dark-gray robe, cloak still over his shoulders, the black hand sigil striking in the lamplight.
Jaime walked over. The two climbed the stairs to a small private platform on the second floor.
Screens separated it into a quiet space with two comfortable armchairs and a small round table.
From here you could look down over the entire hall without being easily seen from below.
Very thoughtful.
Jaime sat in one of the chairs. It was comfortable, the padding just right. He teased, "This is your domain, Ser Corleone?"
"No. This is my home." Corleone grinned and snapped his fingers. A server immediately brought two drinks.
Amber liquid with a slice of lemon and a few small red berries, condensation beading on the glass.
"Try it," Corleone raised his glass. "It's called Old Times. I mixed it myself."
Jaime took a sip. The flavor was complex—rich alcohol first, then bright lemon, finishing with a touch of sweetness and herbal freshness.
"Good drink," Jaime said sincerely. "Better than the moldy wine in the Red Keep cellars."
Corleone didn't reply. He just sipped with him, watching the hall fill up below.
Invited guests arrived one by one—heads of small guilds, shop owners from Pickled Meat Street, and a few merchants who looked like they were from the Free Cities.
No nobles. Not yet, anyway.
"Jaime." After a long silence, Corleone spoke, voice calm. "You have something you want to ask me."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
Jaime immediately set his glass down and looked at Corleone seriously.
He had wanted to ask since leaving the sept. He'd held it in all the way here.
"Yesterday… on Pickled Meat Street. Were those rioters your doing?"
He asked directly.
With Corleone, he didn't want to beat around the bush.
"Yes." Corleone answered without hesitation, admitting it outright.
The honesty caught Jaime off guard.
"From the old man Jim who got kicked by the horse, to the sudden crowd, to Meryn Trant's death, to Cersei and the others getting trapped, to me arriving at just the right time—everything was my design."
His voice was perfectly calm, no attempt to hide anything.
Jaime's hand tightened around his glass. The glass was cool, but he said nothing.
Corleone saw the struggle in his eyes and continued evenly. "Jaime, you were born the heir to Casterly Rock."
"You grew up in comfort. At eleven you became squire to Ser Sumner Crakehall. At thirteen you won your first tourney. At fifteen you were knighted, and a few months later you became the youngest Kingsguard in the Seven Kingdoms."
Corleone listed Jaime's honors without envy or jealousy, just a fatigue Jaime had never heard from him before.
"You can never understand what a commoner has to do just to survive in this world."
He looked up, black eyes meeting Jaime's. "In this world, the path for commoners to rise has been welded shut."
"You can save lives, earn glory, make contributions—but without a title, you're always just a commoner. 'That farmer.' 'That guy.'"
"They use you when they need you and kick you aside when they don't—like a dog."
"So… I have to make them need me."
Jaime was silent for a long time.
He thought of his own thirty years. People had always called him "eldest son of House Lannister," "heir to Casterly Rock," "future Warden of the West."
Those titles were his from birth, as natural as breathing.
He'd never cared about them, but he knew life would have been much harder without them.
"My father once said something," Corleone took a sip, voice quiet, almost to himself. "Son, there are two kinds of people in this world. One is born eating at the table. The other is born picking up scraps underneath it."
"If you want a seat at the table, you can't wait for handouts. You have to flip the table yourself and tell them: either let me sit, or nobody eats."
Jaime's head jerked up. "Your father…"
"Dead."
"When I was ten. Hanged from the apple tree in the manor for owing the lord taxes. I watched him die. Watched crows peck out his eyes. Watched the rain and wind swing his body for half a month."
His tone was so flat it made Jaime's chest tighten.
"So," Corleone raised his glass to the light, the amber liquid swirling inside, "I don't believe in handouts. Or grace. Or noble mercy."
"I believe in exchange. I saved the king, the king gave me a title. I control Flea Bottom, Lord Tywin gets order. I do the dirty work, he keeps his hands clean."
"Very fair trade."
"If it's all a trade… then what about us?"
Jaime suddenly looked up, meeting Corleone's eyes. "Are we just a trade too?"
The moment the words left his mouth, he realized how blunt they were and rushed to explain. "Of course… I know you saved me from the Brave Companions for the gold dragons…"
"No, Jaime."
Corleone smiled, cutting him off. He set his glass on the table and said seriously, "You're my friend."
Jaime stared at the man who had just admitted to orchestrating an entire riot, yet told the truth so openly.
Then, to his own surprise, Jaime smiled.
A real smile.
"You know," he said, "on the way here I kept wondering what I'd do if you denied it. If you made up some story to fool me."
"But now you told me the truth—even when it's not pretty. That means you see me as a friend."
He paused. "Real friends don't need lies."
For a moment Corleone was quiet. Then the corner of his mouth lifted—not his usual calculating smile, but one with real warmth.
"Thank you, Jaime Lannister."