Wheels ground against the streets of King's Landing.
Corleone and Jaime shared a plain carriage, devoid of any noble crests.
Leaning against the side of the cabin, he gazed calmly at the streetscape passing by the window. The humid air of King's Landing flooded the carriage—the smell of baked bread, the stench of horses, the briny odor of the distant fish market, and the ever-present, lingering reek of excrement that permeated the air.
"At the Frey wedding, Robb Stark and his queen were struck by several arrows, and Lady Catelyn had her throat slit..."
"Edmure Tully was captured on his wedding night, but his uncle, the Blackfish, Brynden, escaped."
"The news spreads quickly; the entire Red Keep is celebrating now."
As Jaime spoke, Corleone nodded slightly.
The Red Wedding had happened after all, with almost no deviations from the original plot.
"News of death always travels fastest."
Corleone withdrew his gaze from the window and fixed it on Jaime's face: "Especially the death of a king."
He paused, seemingly observing Jaime's reaction. After a moment of thought, he said: "Jaime, you don't look... happy."
Speaking of which, it was Robb Stark who had imprisoned him at Riverrun for over a year, leading to the subsequent series of events—the severed hand, the near-death at the hands of Vargo Hoat.
Now, the young King in the North was dead, and he had died a gruesome death; it was said his corpse had been sewn with the head of his direwolf.
But Jaime looked miserable.
Upon hearing this, Jaime did not answer immediately.
His green eyes looked up at the carriage ceiling, as if he could pierce through the wooden planks to see the sky.
After a long while, he said, his voice somewhat hoarse: "Guest Right..."
"This is a tradition in Westeros that has lasted for thousands of years, far older than the history of the iron throne, yet they were killed at the dinner table, after enjoying the food provided by their host."
"So?"
"So, it is ugly."
Jaime turned his head to look directly at Corleone: "I asked my father. I asked him if he had known about this beforehand."
"He did not deny it. He said House Frey wanted compensation, House Bolton wanted the North, and we needed the war to end."
Jaime stopped, seemingly recalling Tywin's expression and tone at the time, and those cold, green eyes.
"A victory that isn't quite glorious is still a victory. History is written by the victors, and the blood will be washed away by the rain. What matters is that the lion of Lannister still stands on the mountain of corpses."
"I suppose that is how the Hand of the King answered you."
At these words, Jaime first widened his eyes, staring at Corleone. After a long while, he shook his head and let out a helpless laugh, though there was no joy in it.
"Sometimes I really think you are his son, Corleone. Seriously, neither I nor Cersei, nor even Tyrion, are as like him as you are, it's just..."
"Just what?"
"Just that his tools of rule are gold and armies, while you..."
Jaime studied Corleone's calm, unruffled face and said sincerely: "You are like a scalpel—precise, sharp, and always able to choose the most correct method."
The topic was heavy. Corleone did not take it further, instead leaning back in the carriage. As if suddenly remembering something, he pointed to Jaime's left hand and asked casually: "I heard you've started practicing swordsmanship again?"
Jaime was taken aback by the sudden change of subject, then flexed his left arm and smiled: "One has to find something to do."
"After all, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, it's inexcusable to not even be able to beat a squire, so I must train my left hand as soon as possible."
"If The Wall weren't so far away, I would really want to go to the Night's Watch and find that guy called 'Halfhand' Qhorin to train me."
"But fortunately, Tyrion lent someone to me."
"Bronn?"
Corleone's lips curled up slightly, and he said deliberately: "That guy who acted as Tyrion's champion in the trial by combat at the Eyrie?"
"That's him." Jaime nodded. It seemed this thick-skinned fellow still didn't know about the conflict between Corleone and his brother.
"That guy only recognizes money, which makes him a bit like you. He charges me ten gold dragons a day—truly greedy."
He patted his coin purse and joked: "But I have to admit, he's a good sparring partner."
"Ruthless, practical, never talks about knightly honor, and specializes in attacking my weaknesses. After these days, at least my left hand doesn't drop the sword at every turn anymore."
"Practical is good."
Corleone nodded: "In this world, flashy, good-looking moves are far less useful than practical skills that can save your life, especially for you."
As he spoke, he pointed to Jaime's right hand made of gold and joked lightly: "Perhaps one day, people will call you the 'Golden Hand' General."
"Hahaha..."
Hearing him say this, Jaime finally laughed happily.
He knew very well that the other party was reminding him that having lost his right hand for swordplay, he had to find a new way to establish himself.
There was no preaching, no encouragement, but this relaxed way of speaking made Jaime feel a tangible sense of support and warmth, more than any words of encouragement.
With the shift in topic, Jaime was noticeably more relaxed.
His tense expression began to soften, and he spoke of recent events in King's Landing.
For instance, how Queen Margaery was skillfully soothing Joffrey's volatile temper, and how the Queen Mother Cersei had had several major rows with her future daughter-in-law.
Tyrion was still crying poor every day, but seemed to have found a way to solve the financial crisis, and the Gold Cloaks had received their wages.
Their conversation was fluid and natural.
Jaime found it easy to talk to Corleone about these things, including some things he wouldn't usually say to outsiders, such as his worries about Cersei and his complicated feelings about his father's cold methods.
Corleone rarely expressed his own opinions directly; he mostly listened, occasionally posing a question or sharing an seemingly unrelated little story.
But strangely, after every conversation, Jaime felt his thoughts were clearer, and certain tangled knots seemed to be invisibly unraveled.
This feeling of being guided without realizing it made him increasingly trust and rely on Corleone.
In this place full of lies and betrayal, Corleone had become a rare, perhaps even the only person Jaime could relax and talk to.
The carriage slowed down gradually.
Through the carriage window, one could see the towering red walls gleaming with a dull luster in the sunlight.
The atmosphere in the cabin seemed to become heavier as well, and the relaxed conversation just now came to an abrupt end.
"Cersei..." Watching Corleone step out of the carriage, Jaime hesitated, then finally whispered: "She has been under a lot of pressure lately."
"Joffrey, Father, House Tyrell—a lot of things have been triggering her. No matter what she says, you..."
"I have my limits, Jaime."
Knowing the kid was concerned for him, Corleone grinned: "When it comes to dealing with people in high positions, I am more experienced than you."
The Maegor's Holdfast was located in the very center of Red Keep, and the royal bedchambers of successive Targaryen kings were located here.
Today, its opulence surpassed the past.
Heavy gold-embroidered tapestries woven with lion patterns, huge crystal chandeliers—even in the daytime, more than half of the hundreds of candles on them were lit, illuminating the entire hall in a brilliant golden glow.
It was a residence literally piled with gold, and even the air emitted an expensive scent.
Too exaggerated.
Looking at the surrounding decor, Corleone secretly felt it was a pity.
If these were exchanged for gold dragons, it would be at least hundreds of thousands!
It seemed that the heavy debts of the iron throne could not really be blamed entirely on Robert Baratheon; this couple was more capable of burning money than the other.
As he went deeper, three Kingsguard clad in white armor stood on either side of the oak doors.
Their helmet visors were lowered, leaving only eye slits, and their hands were always resting on their sword hilts.
As everyone knew, there were only seven Kingsguard, and usually, there were only one or two attendants by the king's side.
As the Queen Mother, Cersei actually had three guards at all times—perhaps Margaery's appearance had caused her extreme insecurity, or perhaps it was a show of authority.
When Corleone walked up to them, the outermost guard raised his arm, blocking the way.
Seeing this, he just opened his arms calmly and allowed the other party to search him thoroughly with practiced hands.
After confirming that he had nothing on him that could be called a weapon other than the gold dragon he never let go of, the Kingsguard took a step back and silently cleared the way.
After entering, the attendant who led the way had changed; it was a young man, about twenty years old, blond and blue-eyed, and quite handsome, with a bit of Jaime's demeanor.
Was it Kevan's eldest son, Lancel Lannister?
No, it shouldn't be.
It was said that the kid was seriously injured in the Battle of the Blackwater, later enfeoffed by Tywin as the Lord of Darry, and should not be in King's Landing now.
Corleone secretly thought, this was probably another distant Lannister relative Cersei had found from some obscure corner, right?
It had to be said that she really had a near-paranoid "cleanliness" regarding bloodlines.
Back then, to ensure all three children were Jaime's, she even went so far as to calculate the days precisely and use medicine to dispose of any embryos that might have belonged to Robert.
She was a ruthless person.
Passing through the increasingly luxurious corridor, the attendant stopped in front of an inner door inlaid with ivory and emeralds, knocked gently, and then pushed it open.
Corleone stepped inside, and a huge bed caught his eye first.
Cersei herself was leaning lazily on a soft couch covered with animal fur.
She was not wearing formal, heavy attire, but a light, pale gold silk robe that flowed along the curves of her body.
The neckline was cut extremely low, revealing a large expanse of white, dazzling skin and her collarbone.
Her long golden hair was draped loosely over her shoulders, with a few strands of hair hanging in front of her chest. Her figure was still slender; giving birth to three children had left almost no traces on her.
A beautiful face paired with green eyes was enough to make any man feel love and pity. If one didn't know her nature, it was feared that no one could harbor hostility because of Cersei's appearance.
Once hailed as the greatest beauty in The Seven Kingdoms, it was indeed well-deserved.
At this moment, she was toying with a crystal glass containing golden wine, and her gaze had been locked on him from the moment Corleone stepped into the room.
It was very sharp, even more unscrupulous than her father's, as if she were peeling a person layer by layer to scrutinize them.
"Your Grace."
Corleone stopped a few steps away from the soft couch and bowed slightly, his gaze merely sweeping over her without lingering on that graceful body for a moment.
Just as Corleone himself said, it was just a matter between men and women; there were plenty of women outside, not to mention that the other party was a lunatic like Cersei Lannister.
Making money was the top priority.
This reaction took Cersei by surprise.
Since she had matured, she had a very clear understanding of her appearance and was very good at utilizing it.
For so many years, apart from Barristan, Eddard Stark, and those few uninteresting fellows, few people had not coveted her.
"Vito Corleone."
Finally, Cersei spoke slowly, her voice even carrying a hint of mature charm.
She curiously looked up and down at this man; his dark gray clothes were unremarkable, and his appearance was plain.
But strangely, just by standing there, he exuded a strong aura of confidence that could not be ignored.
Especially those pitch-black eyes that pierced through appearances to the core, almost reminding her of her father, Lord Tywin Lannister.
Interesting.
After just a few glances, Cersei, who had not held much hope, curled the corners of her lips slightly.
"Jaime recommended you to me."
"Although you saved his life, I have never seen Jaime praise anyone so highly, except for his idol, the 'sword of the morning'."
As she spoke, she leaned forward slightly, a movement that made the already wide neckline droop further, exposing a patch of snow-white skin.
"He said you can solve problems, any problem."
Cersei's tone was like a lover's coquetry, and any man would have been unable to resist taking her into his arms to cherish her.
But Corleone knew very well that this posture was likely the other party's consistent negotiation technique, which had almost been integrated into her daily movements.
What a pity...
"Ser Jaime is too kind, Your Grace."
Corleone still kept his eyes lowered and answered modestly: "I am just an ordinary person trying to establish a little order in chaos."
This answer seemed to surprise Cersei somewhat.
"So... Jaime was wrong?"
She raised her eyebrows, and her tone suddenly turned cold: "You cannot solve 'any' problem."
Hearing this, Corleone shook his head inwardly.
Sure enough... this woman had some brains but not much, and her temper was unpredictable. She was quite difficult to fathom; you couldn't guess what she would do or say next.
Joffrey's jumpy and arrogant personality was exactly like hers.
"Your Grace."
For this kind of person, it was better to speak clearly, otherwise, she might not be able to understand.
Corleone took a small step forward, lowered his voice, and looked at Cersei with sincerity: "I have indeed solved specific troubles for many people, but the premise is that I must know what the specific content of this trouble is."
"After all, I am not a so-called god and cannot solve unknown things. What I am good at is finding 'cracks' in seemingly solid walls."
"So, you might as well say what your trouble is; perhaps I can share your burden."
"Of course... I hope Ser Jaime has already made it clear to you that this is not free."
Hearing Corleone say this, Cersei's expression finally softened again.
Her slender fingers tapped the soft cushion gently, as if weighing the weight of Corleone's words.
After a long while, perhaps out of trust in Jaime, she seemed to have decided and said slowly: "Then... Vito Corleone."
"Do you have a way to ruin the engagement between me and Ser Loras Tyrell?"