Corleone's voice was full of Incitement. He spread his hands as if painting a magnificent blueprint: "Under your rule, Flea Bottom will no longer be the chaotic mess you remember."
"The streets will be cleaned, order will be strictly enforced, and any Ruffian daring to cause trouble here will receive the severest punishment. It will become the safest place in all of King's Landing!"
"Imagine, Your Majesty!"
He continued to entice him: "When you visit the brand-new Flea Bottom, walking down the clean streets with your subjects standing on both sides, shouting earth-shattering cheers for you!"
"This will be the greatest achievement in the history of the entire Seven Kingdoms, something even Aegon the Conqueror of the Targaryen could not accomplish, yet it will be achieved under your rule, Your Majesty King Joffrey the Great Baratheon the First!"
"You will prove to everyone that under your reign, even the darkest corners of King's Landing can be Completely Renewed and return to the glory of the crown!"
Corleone's highly seductive words were like the sweetest poison, completely filling Joffrey's Vanity.
Especially the phrase, "something even Aegon the Conqueror could not accomplish," which was highly impactful.
For a fifteen-year-old boy King, whose Mind was far from mature yet held Supreme Power, and who was also rather Dense, such a wonderful vision was utterly irresistible.
His breathing began to quicken, as if he could already see the history books placing Joffrey Baratheon alongside, or even surpassing, Aegon the Conqueror in that moment of glory!
"Wonderful... Absolutely wonderful!"
"Your idea, it's truly brilliant, Vi..."
He pointed at Corleone, his tone eager yet carrying his usual air of Lofty Flippancy: "Right, what was your name again?"
Hearing this, Corleone couldn't help but roll his eyes inwardly.
After talking for so long and wasting so much of my breath, you still haven't remembered my name?
This IQ... Inbreeding kills people.
But why are his younger siblings completely fine, except for being Love-struck?
It was thought-provoking.
While complaining internally, Corleone's expression remained impeccably respectful. He bowed slightly: "Vito Corleone, Your Majesty."
"Vito... Corleone!"
Joffrey repeated loudly, his Sharp voice almost echoing throughout The Tower of the Hand.
"Good! I'll remember you!"
"If you can truly do everything you said, turning that cesspool of Flea Bottom into a place worthy of a King's visit..."
"..."
"The great Joffrey Baratheon the First will personally Dub you a knight, and grant you Lands and a Title, allowing you to have your own Family Crest!"
This promise was certainly weighty.
For anyone else, they would probably be too excited to speak coherently on the spot.
After all, in Westeros, where birth determines destiny, it was as difficult as climbing to the heavens for a person to achieve a complete Class Leap. Being able to become a knight was already an unattainable dream for the vast majority of commoners.
Not to mention being personally dubbed by a King, and also being granted Hereditary Lands and a Title.
However, faced with Joffrey's generous promise, Corleone felt no stirring in his heart, even wanting to laugh a little.
A knight?
The Title was indeed useful, but it depended on who conferred it.
If it were a knighting by the Sword of the Morning or Barristan Selmy, knights renowned as great, then the recipient would similarly gain prestige and be revered.
But Joffrey Baratheon... Gods be good, even if the other man dared to knight him, Corleone probably wouldn't dare mention it to others later, because it would be the biggest dark secret of his life.
Just as Tyrion commented in the original story.
The history of the Seven Kingdoms had seen Mad Kings and Foolish Kings, but a King who was both mad and foolish was unprecedented.
If he later carried the Title of "Knight of the Mad-Fool King," Corleone felt a chill just thinking about it.
Despite his Internal Complaints, he still showed a perfectly appropriate look of Flattered Surprise on his face, bowing again, his voice utterly sincere.
"Thank you for your trust and generosity, Your Majesty."
"To be able to relieve the royal family of worries and contribute a little to your great cause is already my supreme honor. I would never dare ask for any other reward!"
This attitude of Gratitude greatly pleased Joffrey.
"Hahaha!!!"
He turned to Tywin and laughed heartily, like a child who had just received a desired toy, eager to show off: "Did you hear that, Grandfather!"
"I will be the greatest King in the history of the Seven Kingdoms!"
"I will surpass my father, and even Aegon the Conqueror. History will remember that moment. Perhaps in the future, people will call me Joffrey the Saint Baratheon!"
"Oh, right, I want to order men to tear down the statue of Baelor in the Great Sept and build a larger, grander statue of myself—preferably cast in gold!"
Watching Joffrey's smug appearance, Tywin felt a surge of annoyance.
Childish and Shallow, Arrogant and Conceited, easily swayed by a few empty words into forgetting himself, coupled with the bloodline that brought shame to the family... "I have never doubted your potential and determination, Your Majesty."
Taking a deep breath, Tywin, just like Corleone, maintained a calm exterior and slowly spoke while watching him with a placid tone.
No emotion could be discerned in it; it was neither approval nor disapproval, but rather a formulaic perfunctory response stemming from status and propriety.
However, he skillfully avoided the topic of the "Greatest King."
Perhaps even Tywin found that Title utterly repulsive.
Hearing praise even from the famous Tywin Lannister, Joffrey became even more smug, thinking to himself that occasionally raiding The Tower of the Hand on Miss Margaery's advice indeed yielded unexpected rewards.
Perhaps in the future, he could reduce those unnecessary "little games" and spend more time at The Tower of the Hand listening to matters of state.
Hmm... it's a pity it's so far; even riding in a sedan chair is somewhat tiring.
Why not just order people to tear this place down and build one near my bedchamber?
The King, whose brain folds were smooth, always approached problems simply and crudely, but just as he was seriously considering demolishing and rebuilding The Tower of the Hand, Tywin spoke again.
"But Your Majesty."
"While rebuilding order in Flea Bottom is important, I believe the most crucial duty of an excellent King, a ruler dedicated to establishing an eternal legacy, should be ensuring the continuation of the dynasty."
The Hand spoke at an unhurried pace, giving Joffrey no time to continue indulging in fantasy, directly shifting the topic.
He was truly sick of Joffrey's harassment; put plainly, his idiot-aversion syndrome was acting up.
"Your wedding to Miss Margaery is fast approaching. At this time, you should first find the Master of Coin to understand the various arrangements and budget details for the wedding."
"After all, this concerns the honor of the Royal Family."
He spoke very naturally, with a tone of lecturing a junior: "A grand, luxurious wedding befitting a King's status can demonstrate our strength to the Seven Kingdoms."
"The solid alliance of the Lannister, Baratheon, and Tyrell families will strike fear into our enemies, which benefits us in winning the war."
"Conversely, if it is held too meagerly, it will draw criticism from the nobles, who will assume our strength is beginning to decline."
What he said was entirely reasonable; even though the lecturing tone annoyed Joffrey somewhat, he could only grit his teeth and nod.
Corleone, meanwhile, silently took it all in, understanding immediately.
This old fox...
With just a few words, he cleverly tossed the hot potato of the "Mad and Stupid King" onto his dwarf son.
Although he had always disliked, or even refused to acknowledge, Tyrion as his son, this move was indeed a bit dishonorable.
It could be foreseen that the poor Tyrion would next face endless harassment from a King nitpicking wedding details and even having wild ideas.
After all, perhaps even the Gods could not predict what bizarre notion this unique, quick-tempered, and eccentric Emperor might conjure up next.
Indeed, the Great Emperor's train of thought was successfully diverted by Tywin's words.
"That makes sense, Lord Tywin."
He stood up, but a ferocious smile appeared on his face: "But it doesn't matter. If that damned dwarf cannot make the wedding unprecedentedly beautiful, I will order Ser Meryn Trant to execute him by drawing and quartering for treason!"
"Then the Half-man will become a half-Half-man!" Hahaha!
As Joffrey roared with unrestrained laughter, the joke didn't seem funny, as no one present laughed except him.
Although Tywin disliked his dwarf son, he never mocked him in front of outsiders for the sake of family honor.
If the Hand didn't laugh, who dared to laugh?
Even Meryn Trant clenched his teeth, looking like he was struggling intensely.
After a while, perhaps feeling awkward, Joffrey also lost interest and gradually suppressed his smile.
"The wedding is naturally important, but the construction of the Free Fighting Arena must also be expedited!"
He cleared his throat, trying to salvage his dignity as King, and commanded forcefully: "Lord Tywin, I want you to fully assist this..."
"Vito Corleone, Your Majesty."
"Ah... right!"
Joffrey pointed at Corleone: "Get it up and running in the shortest time possible. When it's done, I want to visit with my Queen and receive the adoration of my subjects!"
After speaking, the King seemed impatient to go 'plan' his wedding.
He ordered the servants to lower the sedan chair and sat down without ceremony: "Go, let's see if my uncle who is Half-man is currently racking his brains over the King's affairs or fooling around with prostitutes!"
Under the King's command, the sedan chair was slowly lifted, and the two servants turned to walk out the door.
It had to be said, their technique was excellent; as they passed the doorway, they deliberately bent down to avoid the doorframe hitting the noble King's 'Imperial Head'.
However, watching this scene, Corleone felt a sense of foreboding.
Why did it look more and more like carrying a coffin...
No wonder he died so early; it wasn't Stannis's fault, Your Majesty the Great Emperor.
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