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The two men drank for a while longer. The noise from downstairs grew steadily louder.
Jaime suddenly remembered something and frowned. "I heard Petyr Baelish reported you to Uncle Kevan. Why would he go after you? Do you two have some kind of feud?"
Corleone shook his head without hesitation. "No personal grudge between us."
"Sometimes conflicting interests are deadlier than personal grudges."
"Interests?" Jaime looked confused. "What kind of interests could you and Petyr possibly share?"
Corleone didn't answer right away. Instead he asked, "What was Flea Bottom like before?"
"A cesspit," Jaime said without thinking. "The dirtiest, most chaotic, most dangerous place in all of King's Landing. Even the Gold Cloaks hated patrolling it."
"And now?"
Jaime glanced down at the hall, taking in the well-dressed guests, the elegant food, the bright lamps. Understanding dawned on his face.
"When a place everyone used to spit on suddenly turns into prime meat, everybody wants a bite."
Corleone smiled and gestured at the lively crowd below. "The fighting pit profits, the new brothel branches, the warehouses… Flea Bottom is about to become the most profitable district in King's Landing—maybe in the entire Seven Kingdoms."
"That money used to disappear down the gutter. Now it flows straight into my pocket. Some people don't like that."
"Littlefinger wants the Hall of Order!"
Jaime slammed his fist on the table, furious. "He's trying to steal your business! Everything you built!"
"Not steal," Corleone corrected. "Take back."
"In Petyr's eyes, the dirty money in Flea Bottom always belonged to people like him—noble-born, clever, good at running things. I'm just a lucky commoner who's been holding it for him."
"That arrogant bastard!" Jaime swore. Then he frowned again. "But Tyrion always said Petyr is the hardest man in King's Landing to read. Why would he make such an obvious move? Going straight to Kevan like that… that's not his style."
Corleone laughed, the sound dry and mocking. "Because he doesn't see me as a real opponent."
"To him I'm just some lucky peasant who happened to save Jaime Lannister, happened to impress Lord Tywin. A string of good luck made me what I am today. And good luck always runs out."
He met Jaime's eyes. "In other words, he doesn't think I'm worth playing games with. So he used the simplest, most effective weapon—reporting me to someone in authority."
"Like a lord catching a servant stealing. He doesn't scheme with the servant. He just calls the guards. Because a servant isn't worth the effort."
Jaime opened his mouth, then closed it. The logic was ugly, but it rang true.
"Besides, it makes sense," Corleone went on calmly, as if talking about someone else. "Even if Petyr came from a backwater like the Fingers, he was still born noble. That instinctive contempt for commoners runs in the blood—like a lion looking at a sheep. He'll never see me as an equal."
Jaime stayed quiet. He remembered his father teaching him about "noble dignity," how commoners in Casterly Rock and King's Landing automatically stepped aside and lowered their eyes. It had always felt completely natural.
"Corleone," Jaime said suddenly, voice serious. "Whether you're a commoner or a noble, you're my best friend. I swear it on my honor…" He hesitated. "If I still have any left."
Corleone looked at him for a long moment, then raised his glass.
"Jaime Lannister," he said slowly and clearly. "Whether you're the Kingslayer or Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, you're my friend. I swear it… on the name of House Corleone."
They smiled at each other and clinked glasses. The sound was faint against the noise downstairs, but they both heard it.
They drained their drinks. The cold liquid burned pleasantly down their throats, leaving a hint of lemon and sweetness.
"Oh, right," Jaime set his glass down. "Since your father knows you staged the whole thing, why did he still knight you himself? That doesn't sound like him. I thought he'd throw you in the black cells at the very least."
"Or strip me of everything?" Corleone finished for him.
Jaime nodded.
Corleone stood and walked to the edge of the platform, hands resting on the railing as he looked down at the growing crowd. He was about to explain when a small commotion rose at the main doors.
Jaime turned, and his face darkened.
A short, slender figure had just walked into the Hall of Order.
Petyr Baelish.
The new Lord of Harrenhal was dressed simply today—a plain dark-blue coat with no embroidery, no jewels, not even his usual mockingbird pin. He came alone, no guards or attendants, as if he'd simply wandered in for a stroll.
But his arrival brought the entire hall to a sudden hush.
Every guest turned to stare. Most of them recognized that face.
Former Master of Coin. Lord of Harrenhal. The man who secretly owned at least half the brothels on the Street of Silk.
What was he doing here?
Jaime shot to his feet, hand instinctively reaching for his sword hilt. His voice was cold with anger.
"That bastard actually showed up? After what he just pulled with Uncle Kevan? I'm throwing him out right now."
He started toward the stairs, but Corleone caught his shoulder.
"Easy, Jaime."
"But that son of a—"
"Sit down," Corleone said quietly. "Remember—if you want a seat at the table, you don't flip it the second someone annoys you. First you see what's on the menu."
Jaime froze. He looked back at Corleone's eyes—dark, calm, and unreadable, like the sea before a storm.
Slowly, reluctantly, Jaime sat back down. But he stayed rigid, eyes locked on the man below like a lion ready to pounce.
Downstairs, Petyr Baelish glided gracefully through the crowd toward the bar, smiling and nodding at everyone as if he were at an old friend's party.
Corleone stood at the railing, arms crossed, watching in silence.
A new round of the game had begun.
And this time, the opponent had walked straight onto his board.
Petyr Baelish stood at the bar, studying the gleaming glass bottles and the silver mixing tools the servers used. His eyes finally settled on the wooden menu board hanging on the wall, its lettering painted in gold that caught the lamplight.
"Interesting," he murmured. "Lionheart Fire, Ice Wolf Howl, Highgarden Rose… even the drink names have personality."
One of the servers, wearing a crisp white apron, tried to keep his voice steady despite the tremor in his fingers. "What can I get you, my lord?"
Petyr gave the man a dismissive glance and tapped the menu with one finger.
"'King's Landing Peak.'"
He smiled as he spoke the name. "Let me taste what the highest view feels like."
The server nodded quickly and reached for the shaker, but a voice spoke from behind him.
"That drink isn't for you, Lord Baelish."
Petyr turned. Corleone was walking down the stairs, white cloak swaying gently behind him, the black hand sigil flashing with every step.
He stopped beside Petyr at the bar, close enough that either man could have drawn a sword—if they'd been carrying one.
Petyr's smile never wavered. "Oh? Why not? Does Ser Corleone think I'm unworthy of 'King's Landing Peak'?"
"Not unworthy," Corleone said, taking the menu from the server and pointing to another name. "Just… unsuitable."
He turned to the server with a polite smile. "For Lord Baelish, one 'Bitter Informant,' please."
The bar went quiet. Several nearby guests glanced over, then quickly looked away, pretending to study their own drinks.
Petyr stared at Corleone for three full seconds.
Then he laughed.
A real laugh—shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling. "Ha! That's brilliant!"
He slapped the bar. "Ser Corleone, you're not only a healer and a manager—you're a poet with names! Absolutely hilarious."
He turned to the server, beaming. "I'll have the 'Bitter Informant.' I want to taste it properly!"
The server looked nervously at Corleone. When Corleone gave a small nod, the man swallowed and began mixing.
The process was slow and deliberate. Ice clinked inside the silver shaker. One shake. Two. Three.
Finally, a murky green liquid was poured into a tall, narrow glass.
Petyr took the drink, held it up to the light, and examined it. The liquid looked dull and cloudy compared to the other colorful cocktails—almost muddy.
"Like swamp water," he remarked, then tipped the glass back and drained it in one smooth motion.
No hesitation. No grimace. He drank it like it was water.
Petyr licked his lips thoughtfully. "Not bad."
The casual acceptance stunned the eavesdroppers nearby.
By every rule of King's Landing, being publicly mocked as a "snitch" should have drawn at least anger or embarrassment. But Petyr simply accepted it, even turned it into a joke.
Corleone narrowed his eyes, studying the small man more carefully.
This one was more dangerous than he'd expected—not because of his schemes, but because he had no pride to wound.
Or he hid it too well.
Insult him and he laughed. Mock him and he helped you sharpen the insult until you looked like the petty one.
"Very generous of you, Lord Baelish," Corleone said evenly.
"Not generous," Petyr replied, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing his mouth with perfect grace. "Just self-aware. I know exactly who I am and what people think of me. Why get angry when someone speaks the truth?"
"Anger won't change the facts."
He folded the handkerchief neatly and slipped it away, then produced a rolled parchment from another pocket.
The paper was thick, edges gilded, tied with dark-green ribbon.
"Speaking of facts," Petyr placed the scroll on the bar and slid it toward Corleone. "I came here to apologize, Ser Corleone."
"While I don't believe there's anything wrong with providing accurate information to the Master of Laws, I admit my method was… a bit clumsy."
He untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment.
"This is documentation for seven brothels, three gambling houses, and two warehouses on the Street of Silk—roughly thirty percent of my holdings in King's Landing. Last year's profits put the value at around fifteen thousand gold dragons."
"Of course, if your management skills are as good as the rumors say, the future value could easily reach twenty or even thirty thousand."
Corleone stared at the parchment, mind racing.
He knew Petyr's businesses on the Street of Silk. The seven brothels were mid-to-high end. The three gambling houses were small but profitable. The two warehouses sat in prime locations right by the Blackwater docks.
Thirty percent was indeed worth that much on paper.
But Petyr Baelish would never simply hand over that much gold—even to smooth things over.
"You want to become a partner," Corleone said, realization hitting him as he looked at Petyr's knowing smile.
Petyr nodded. "I've studied everything you've done in Flea Bottom these past two months—the street cleaning, the new order, the management systems, even this clever bar. I've come to realize we're the same kind of man."
"We both believe in rules. Rules based on profit. You create the rules, people follow them, and you profit. I do the same."
He spoke with open honesty, meeting Corleone's eyes directly. He didn't even name the percentage he wanted—just presented the offer as a sincere gesture of partnership.
But Corleone understood perfectly. Petyr was about to leave King's Landing. Holding on to these assets made no sense anymore; someone else might even take them. By offering them now, he turned a potential enemy into an ally and bound their interests together.
Clever.
Extremely clever.
Corleone looked up. Their eyes met across the bar like two invisible blades touching lightly.
But you think you can screw me over and just walk away?
"Fair enough," Corleone said at last. "I accept."
He rolled up the parchment. "Thank you for the gift, Lord Baelish. I hope our future partnership is… pleasant."
"It will be," Petyr said, extending his hand.
They shook. Three seconds, firm and precise, then released at the same moment.
The deal was done.
At least on the surface.
The tension eased. Petyr looked around the hall as if something had just occurred to him. "By the way, Ser Corleone, you're holding a celebration tonight, yet the guests are all… well, these fine people?"
His gaze swept over the crowd—commoners, every one. No nobles.
"Not that there's anything wrong with them," he added quickly, as if catching himself. "You've only been in King's Landing a short time. It's understandable you haven't made many noble connections. But now that we're partners…"
He smiled warmly. "And you're a knight now. The Grand Royal Commissioner of Special Affairs. You should have some distinguished guests to honor the occasion. I've lived here a long time and know many lords. If you'd like, I can help arrange a few introductions before I leave. It would make running our businesses much smoother for you afterward."
The words sounded genuinely helpful—like a real friend looking out for another.
But Corleone heard the message underneath.
See? Without me, you can't even get proper guests to your own knighting party.
You're still just a commoner at heart. You'll never break into noble circles on your own. From now on, if you want to do business here, you'll need me.
Corleone smiled anyway.
"How thoughtful of you, Lord Baelish," he said, voice perfectly polite. "But this is my knighting celebration. Having you run around arranging things would be far too much trouble."
Petyr's brow furrowed slightly. Did this man truly not care about appearances?
Impossible.
In King's Landing, face was everything. If no nobles showed up to his own knighting feast, everyone would think the Black Hand was weak.
Before Petyr could reply, a commotion broke out at the main doors.
Rorge's stocky figure appeared in the entrance, breathing hard. His coat looked ready to burst at the seams, but he didn't care.
"Ser Corleone!" he bellowed. "Lord Raynald Leek of Duskendale has arrived!"