It was already close to midnight when the carriage drove into Flea Bottom.
But this neighborhood was not shrouded in darkness; on the contrary, it was brightly lit.
Along both sides of the street, a wooden pole stood every ten paces. The lanterns did not burn expensive candles, but refined fish oil—it smelled a bit fishy, but it was bright enough.
This was Rorge's idea: cheap and durable.
Through the carriage window, Corleone could see the street scene very clearly. There were no beggars huddled in the shadows, no drunks passed out by the gutters, and no hollow-eyed prostitutes.
People were coming and going on the streets, but in an orderly fashion.
Children were playing in the streets, and an old man sat under a porch playing a worn-out violin. The music was severely out of tune, but the rhythm was very light and cheerful.
Many people gathered around the porridge shop, all lining up, as the aroma of bread wafted into the nose.
"Stop the carriage."
At his command, the carriage stopped one street away from the Place of Order.
Corleone lifted the curtain and stepped out, standing on the street and taking a deep breath.
The wheaty scent of toasted bread, the fatty aroma of stewed meat, the smell of burning wood smoke, and the pungent scent of fresh paint.
These scents mixed together to form a unique aura called "life."
A boy ran past holding several logs. When he saw him, he suddenly stopped and bowed clumsily: "Good evening, Lord Corleone!"
"Good evening." Corleone nodded. "Be careful not to fall."
The boy grinned, revealing a row of uneven teeth, then continued running toward a house at the end of the street.
Corleone continued walking forward, with Iggo following half a step behind him, looking very relaxed.
In Flea Bottom, no one could do anything against Corleone.
Everyone he met on the road would stop, greet him with "Good evening, Lord Corleone," and then continue with their business. He would also smile and respond to each one.
When he reached the small square in front of the Place of Order, Corleone stopped.
The square was filled with long tables covered with clean, coarse linen.
Candles were lit on every table, and food was laid out—not expensive, but plentiful. There were chunks of pork, fish, potato and turnip stew, fresh black bread, and several barrels of beer.
At least three or four hundred people sat at the tables, men and women, young and old.
They wore clean clothes, their hair was combed neatly, and smiles were on their faces.
Some were talking, some were sharing food, and children were chasing and laughing between the tables, but all maintained basic order.
In the center of the square, Rorge was directing several young people to distribute food. Seeing Corleone, he quickly walked over.
"Everything is prepared as you ordered, My Lord."
He bowed low, keeping a very humble posture. "Today is the big day for the completion of the Place of Order. We have provided enough food for five hundred people, some wine, and even hired a band."
Hearing this, Corleone did not speak, but stood by the edge of the square, watching the crowd sitting at the tables eating and drinking to their hearts' content for a long time.
"Well done."
After a long while, he finally spoke slowly.
It was only a few short words, but Rorge proudly straightened his slightly hunched back.
The third floor of the Place of Order.
The fire in the fireplace burned brightly, making the room warm. Heavy curtains were drawn, isolating the lights and noise from outside the window.
Corleone sat behind the desk, with ledgers and maps spread out on it. Hearing the faint music and laughter from outside, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.
He did not yearn for the bustle, but he very much liked this sense of everyday life; it meant that Flea Bottom was getting better day by day.
Knock, knock, knock...
Three soft knocks sounded.
"Come in."
The door pushed open, and a fierce-looking middle-aged man walked in. A hideous scar extended from his forehead to his chin, looking even more terrifying than the noseless Rorge.
But his expression was very nervous. Standing before the desk, his hands rubbed together uneasily: "Lord Corleone, you... you sent for me."
"Sit, Karl." Corleone didn't look up, speaking casually.
Hearing this, Karl swallowed and sat down, but his buttocks only dared to touch the edge of the chair, his mind constantly speculating why he had been called.
He used to be one of the most brutal moneylenders in Flea Bottom; those who couldn't pay back would have their fingers cut off by him. But since Corleone arrived, Karl had never engaged in his old business again.
After a moment, Corleone finally put down his work and looked up. A black-furred, notched-ear cat scurried from the shadows and jumped onto his lap.
The light from the fireplace illuminated half of Corleone's face, flickering in and out of shadow.
This made Karl even more nervous; he didn't even know where to put his hands and had to keep clutching his trousers.
"I heard that yesterday at the docks, you 'persuaded' a worker to give up his job to your nephew."
Corleone's voice rang out, and Karl's face instantly turned pale. "That... that was a misunderstanding, My Lord, please let me explain..."
"I understand you, Karl."
His defense was interrupted as Corleone stated calmly, "You are used to ruling with fear. Knives are more useful than reason, and blood is more persuasive than words. In the old Flea Bottom, that was the way of survival."
As he spoke, he leaned forward, the firelight dancing on his face, making those pitch-black eyes appear even deeper in the interplay of light and shadow.
"But this is no longer the old Flea Bottom. In my territory, there is only one rule: labor in exchange for pay, loyalty in exchange for protection."
"No exceptions, no privileges, no 'because of who I am'."
Hearing this, cold sweat broke out on Karl's forehead. "I understand, Lord Corleone. I will definitely give the job back to that worker."
"No." Corleone shook his head gently. "You don't understand."
"An apology is useless. The job belonged to that worker in the first place. Giving it 'back' is not a favor; it is merely correcting a mistake."
"And I want more."
As he spoke, Corleone looked up. "Starting tomorrow, you will go to the docks to work."
"As a porter. Do it for a full month, ten hours a day, for the same wages. If you can persevere without causing trouble or complaining, we will talk about what else you can do in a month."
As soon as these words came out, Karl's lips were trembling. "A porter?"
"No, Lord Corleone, please take it back. I have never been a porter; that work is too exhausting."
"Then learn."
Corleone just looked up and glanced at him lightly. That single glance made Karl's heart almost skip a beat.
"Either learn or leave. Flea Bottom can accommodate anyone, but it specifically does not welcome those who do not follow the rules."
"You may go."
Karl sat there blankly, seemingly unable to comprehend what had happened.
After a while, he stood up stiffly and walked toward the door.
"Oh, right."
Just as his hand touched the doorknob, Corleone's voice rang out again: "You may attend tonight's banquet."
"But remember, every bite of food you eat and every sip of wine you drink belongs to the Mafia. You must be grateful."
Karl took a deep breath and nodded.
The door opened and then closed.
The room was quiet for a moment, then the knock sounded again, and a second guest entered.
"I have a request, Lord Corleone."
When Corleone stepped out of the Place of Order again, the banquet had reached its climax.
The band was playing a cheerful dance tune, and a large group of young people were dancing in the center of the square, their steps clumsy but their smiles very sincere.
Seeing Corleone appear under the porch, the square instantly fell silent.
Everyone stood up, looking at him with respect, waiting for him to speak.
Corleone did not go to a high place; he simply walked to the nearest long table, picked up a cup of coarse beer, and raised it high above his head.
"Today."
He spoke, his voice not loud, but clear enough for everyone to hear.
"Is the first day of Flea Bottom's rebirth."
"Starting tomorrow, there will no longer be free food here, but there will be work, pay, and dignity."
"You are no longer beggars, no longer vagrants; you are laborers, members under the rule of the Corleone family."
"It won't be easy."
He continued, his voice steady yet revealing a hint of sincerity. "There will be difficulties, there will be setbacks, and there will be all sorts of people trying to break the rules."
"But as long as we stand together and abide by our common agreement, nothing can tear us down."
As he spoke, Corleone raised his cup even higher: "To labor! To dignity! To the reborn Flea Bottom!"
"To Corleone!"
The crowd erupted in enthusiastic cheers, and applause mixed together, echoing in the night sky.
Corleone took a sip of beer and then walked into the crowd.
He did not continue with a long speech but began to talk with people, asking Little Tommy if his leg injury was healed, asking workers if the dock work was tiring, and asking how business was at the blacksmith shop.
Every question was simple and direct, but those asked would answer seriously, as if reporting to a father.
After walking half a circle, he stopped at a slightly secluded table.
Only three people were sitting at this table.
Corleone walked to the table, picked up the pitcher, filled everyone's cup, and then raised his own.
"Iggo."
The Dothraki Warrior stood up.
"You followed me from the The Riverlands to King's Landing, serving me as a true Khal and obeying my orders."
"To loyalty."
He clinked cups with Iggo, and then both drank in one gulp.
"Rorge."
The noseless brute, upon hearing his name, hurriedly stood up, almost knocking over his chair.
"You were once a vicious dog of the Brave Companions, a bully of Flea Bottom, but now you have learned management, learned construction, and learned to rule with order instead of violence."
"You have made these people not fear you, but respect you. This is harder than making them fear."
Hearing this, Rorge's eyes actually turned a bit red.
Corleone clinked cups with him: "To rebirth."
Then he turned to the other person.
"Brienne."
The female knight stood up; she was taller than all the men at the table.
"When we first met, you were in the mud, bound by ropes."
"You thought I was a villain without honor, a man who lived on schemes and lies. Perhaps you were right."
"You can leave at any time, but if you stay, I need your sword—not to kill for me, but to protect these people and protect everything we have built."
Brienne's lips pressed tight, and she remained silent for a long time.
In the square, the music continued, laughter echoed, and children ran about.
"To knights."
Corleone clinked cups with her.
The liquor was harsh, but Brienne drained it in one go.
After three cups of wine, Corleone's expression didn't change. He continued to pour slowly, scanned the entire square, and raised his voice to everyone: "Remember tonight!"
"Remember how we rose from the mud, remember how we built all of this together. This is not my achievement alone; it belongs to all of us."
After speaking, he raised his cup: "To all of us!"
The entire square immediately erupted in a thunderous response: "To Lord Corleone!"
"To the Mafia!"
"To Flea Bottom!"
The banquet continued late into the night.
Corleone quietly left the crowd and went up to his office on the third floor of the Place of Order.
He did not light a lamp but walked straight to the window and pulled open the heavy curtains.
On the high ground in the distance, the Red Keep was bustling with activity as the great figures celebrated the wedding of Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark.
Every window of the castle emitted light, and fireworks occasionally soared into the sky, bursting into brilliant but brief blossoms in the night sky.
That was a night belonging to the nobility: magnificent and grand.
Lowering his head, the brightly lit streets of Flea Bottom came into view.
The buildings were still dilapidated, and the streets were still narrow, but there was a vigorous, upward vitality flowing through them.
This was a night belonging to them: grounded, warm, and full of hope.
Two sets of lights, two worlds.
Two worlds, the same night sky.
Corleone stood by the window and watched for a long time.
The lanterns in the square were extinguished one by one, but the streetlights on the road remained lit.
A few late-returning workers walked past together, talking in low voices about tomorrow's work.
Candlelight shone from a window, where a mother could be faintly seen coaxing her child to sleep.
The night breeze blew, bringing the damp scent of the Blackwater Rush, as well as the last sounds of wedding music drifting from the distant Red Keep.
From tonight onward, Flea Bottom would no longer be the scar of King's Landing, no longer the shadow of the nobility.
It was a seed.
A seed he had planted with his own hands that would eventually change everything.
And he, Vito Corleone, would be the one to let it take root and sprout.