The afterglow of the setting sun looked like diluted blood, spilling across the complex, winding streets of Flea Bottom.
The buildings here were constructed right up against the narrow alleys, leaning so close they almost touched. If an outsider were to wander in for the first time, they'd get lost in a heartbeat.
After pacing through a few alleys, Corleone noticed a change. Although the ground under his boots was still filthy, the mountains of garbage that usually clogged the path were noticeably smaller. Even the pungent stench of rot in the air seemed a little less aggressive.
"Looks like Rorge is actually getting things done," Corleone joked as he walked. "At least he knows to start where people can see."
Hearing this, Yigo, who was following close behind, let out a disdainful snort through his nose but didn't say a word. Back in the Brave Companions, he had always found Rorge annoying. Now? He found him even more annoying.
However, Corleone's praise hadn't hung in the air for long before a chaotic mix of arguing and crying drifted from up ahead.
Hearing the commotion, Corleone frowned and picked up his pace. As soon as he turned the street corner, he saw a crowd gathered around, clearly in the middle of a dispute.
He shot Yigo a look. The strong Dothraki immediately shoved his way forward, forcibly parting the crowd.
When the two of them stepped into the center, a truly absurd scene unfolded before their eyes.
Rorge, along with a dozen or so of his newly recruited men, was being blocked in a narrow alley by a group of "humanoid creatures."
Why put it that way? Because calling them people felt like a stretch; calling them walking trash heaps was far more accurate.
Most of them were hunched over, their skin covered in thick layers of grime and unidentified slime that formed a sort of "armor," making their original skin color impossible to determine.
Their hair was matted, greasy, and crawling with lice. Yet, their eyes were incredibly fierce, filled with a beast-like glint.
There were even several children of varying ages among them, skinny as skeletons with every rib clearly visible.
They were mostly armed with makeshift weapons: sharpened wooden sticks, pottery shards with jagged edges, and even dried, hard lumps that looked suspiciously like feces.
One boy, whose face was so dirty his features were blurred, was hugging the wheel of a cart freshly loaded with trash, crying and screaming, "That's mine! I saw that plank of wood first! You can't take it!"
His voice was piercing. Rorge, annoyed, stepped up and kicked him.
"Get the fuck out of here! What use are a few pieces of rotten wood? Don't block the way!"
The boy hit the muddy ground hard, gashing his head. Blood started to flow.
That kick was like lighting a fuse. The onlookers, who had been watching with numb expressions, suddenly turned angry. They pointed fingers at Rorge, cursing and blaming him.
"That was good wood! You can use it to block the wind at night!"
"Rorge, fuck you!"
"When Raff was here, he never fought us for scraps! Who do you think you are?"
The condemnation came from all sides. Rorge, enraged by the abuse, jumped onto the cart and roared, "I'm helping you clean up the trash, you ungrateful bastards!"
"Dare to block my way again, and I'll butcher the lot of you and throw you into the Bowl of Brown!"
Having thrived in Flea Bottom for over a decade, Rorge still held some sway. His threat worked; many people backed away in fear, and the cursing gradually died down.
"Peh!" Seeing this, Rorge spat on the ground and cursed, "Bunch of wild dogs begging for a beating. You never listen until you get hurt!"
"Alright, keep mov—"
But just as he was ordering his men to get back to work, a raspy voice drifted out from the shadows.
"You became a big shot real fast after leaving Flea Bottom, didn't you, Rorge?"
Everyone looked over to see a hunchbacked old man limping out of a dark corner.
Seeing him, a flicker of unnatural hesitation crossed Rorge's face, but he quickly covered it with disdain. "Don't meddle in this, Wes!"
"I'm cleaning up this hellhole on Lord Corleone's orders."
"We clear out the trash, the streets get clean, and you ungrateful mutts can finally live like human beings. Or do you want to live in shit and mud for the rest of your lives, huh?"
"Shit? Mud?"
The man called Wes let out a cold laugh. His voice was more grating than a night owl's screech.
He walked forward, patting the cart full of trash, and mocked, "Don't forget your roots, Rorge."
"Back in the day, you grew up digging through trash heaps for rotten food just like us. You got your nose bit off by a wild dog just for a mouthful of meat. I remember it all clearly!"
Wes raised his hand and pointed around him, shouting, "Every pile of junk here, every bone, even every pile of shit under your feet—it all has an owner!"
"You take away the trash, what do my children eat? What do they wear?"
"You sweep away the shit, what do the wild dogs eat? If the dogs don't come to Flea Bottom, do you expect us to run outside and risk getting beaten to death by Gold Cloaks just to catch a dog to eat?"
His logic was simple, and incredibly twisted, but one had to admit—this was the reality of Flea Bottom.
Even Rorge was stirred by memories at Wes's words, unconsciously taking half a step back.
However, Wes wasn't finished. He spread his arms as if embracing this kingdom of filth. "I know what you're thinking, Rorge!"
"You're working for the big shots now. You sweep the streets clean so the lords' carriages can come in. And then what?"
"The land value goes up, and we get kicked out to somewhere even stinkier and further away to wait for death!"
"Filth is our moat! Stench is our city wall! You want to tear down our walls and tell us it's for our own good?"
"You have betrayed Flea Bottom!"
He pointed right at Rorge's nose... scolding him loudly, instantly winning the approval of everyone around.
The thought of having no garbage to eat terrified the crowd, and they began to let out a unified roar.
"Ho! Ho! Ho!"
They banged their sharpened sticks and ceramic shards against the walls and the ground. The noise was terrifying.
Seeing this, Rorge's expression shifted rapidly between anger and uncertainty.
Wes wasn't wrong. Rorge grew up here; he knew the rules of survival. Honestly, he wasn't even optimistic about whether Corleone could actually change Flea Bottom.
But... he had no choice.
He couldn't disobey Lord Corleone's orders. That was his ticket to a life in King's Landing.
Seeing the sky getting darker and this last area still uncleared, Rorge gritted his teeth. A flash of ruthlessness crossed his eyes. He pointed at Wes and roared to his men, "Damn it! Get him!"
"Kill this old rambling fool first! Let's see who dares to block the road then!"
Hearing Rorge's order, his subordinates looked at each other, hesitating.
"Boss..."
One of them whispered, "Old Wes is the oldest in Flea Bottom. He watched most of us grow up. Besides... didn't we eat his food when we were kids?"
"Fuck you!"
Rorge slapped the man across the face and roared, "Even if he was my own father, I'd kill him today!"
"If you waste any more breath, I'll kill you first!"
Hearing this, the subordinates had to steel themselves. They drew their daggers and clubs, inching toward Wes.
A flicker of fear passed through Old Wes's eyes, but he held his ground, refusing to retreat.
Behind him, the roar of countless scavengers grew louder. Violence was about to erupt.
Just then.
"Looks like my people ran into a little trouble."
A calm voice drifted over, miraculously suppressing all the noise.
People looked toward the sound and saw two figures standing at the mouth of the alley.
The one in front had a well-proportioned build. The sunset's afterglow washed over him, outlining him in faint gold.
He was clean, upright, and composed—completely out of place in these surroundings.
But it was strange. He didn't shout, yet he carried a peculiar aura, instantly silencing the boiling scene. It was as if he were born to be the ruler here.
Under everyone's gaze, he simply walked forward. The tall, strong Dothraki warrior followed in his footsteps, right hand resting on his sword hilt.
Behind Corleone, his black cloak swayed. He walked through the crowd with an unhurried pace, his gaze finally landing calmly on Wes.
"Apologies, my Lord..."
Seeing him appear, Rorge tried to explain, but Corleone silenced him with a slight wave of his hand.
Wes swallowed hard, staring warily at this extraordinary stranger. "Who are you?"
Corleone didn't stop until he was just a few steps away from Wes.
"I am Vito Corleone."
His introduction was simple and direct, cutting the crap. "From today on, I make the rules in Flea Bottom."
"That's impos—"
Wes tried to retort, but a sharp blade was pressed against his neck before anyone could react.
"Let Wes go!"
"Let him go, outsider!"
The Dothraki warrior's move incited public anger. People shouted, demanding his release.
Seemingly emboldened by the support, Wes, despite the sword at his throat, puffed out his chest fearlessly and stared straight at Corleone.
However, the expected anger or scolding didn't come. Corleone just slowly swept his gaze over the crowd—over those numb, crazy, terrified eyes.
These people lived at the bottom of the cesspit, yet they viewed the cesspit as their home and swore to defend it to the death.
They didn't crave change; they feared it deep in their bones.
Because they had never seen a good life, they couldn't even imagine what "good" looked like. They thought "good" would bring greater disaster.
These people reminded Corleone of the ignorant farmers who had accused him when he first transmigrated to this world.
The same ignorance.
"Wes."
Finally, Corleone looked at Wes again, this pitiful king of the dung heap. "You are a pathetic manager. You've trained your people into maggots that rely on garbage to survive."
Hearing this, a flash of pain crossed Wes's eyes, but it was immediately replaced by stubbornness.
"People like you, you don't understand anything..."
"Two choices."
Corleone wasn't in the mood to listen to a long, tragic speech about how the world owed him.
He simply held up two fingers, speaking calmly. "I'll only say this once. Listen closely."
"One. Take your ownership of these maggots and this shit, and sink to the bottom of the Blackwater Rush forever."
"The warrior from the Dothraki Sea beside me will ensure you sink deep enough."
As his voice fell, Yigo applied a little pressure with the blade, drawing a line of blood on Wes's neck.
That indifference to life and death made Wes truly feel that the end was coming.
"Two."
Corleone continued, his tone remaining hard. "Forget your garbage. You and your people will work for me."
He looked around at the eyes still full of hostility and confusion, and announced loudly, "Work for my cleaning crew. You will have full bellies every day. And I guarantee, the bread won't be sour!"
As soon as these words came out, the hostility around them seemed to weaken instantly.
Full bellies every day?
And fresh bread?
To these chronically starving people, that description was heaven.
"I... Why should I believe you!"
Even Wes was moved. He licked his cracked lips, his eyes showing a mix of longing and suspicion. "Noble lords like you, high up above, are the best at lying."
Corleone didn't waste any more words. He made a gesture.
Seeing this, Yigo immediately withdrew his sword, unslung the heavy bundle from his back, and untied the opening.
Clatter!!!
Under everyone's gaze, countless Gold Dragons poured out like a waterfall, crashing onto the filthy ground.
The sunset reflected off the gold. That dazzling brilliance almost blinded eyes that had lived in darkness for years.
So much money!
Some people hadn't seen a Gold Dragon in their entire lives. Even exhausting all their imagination, they couldn't estimate how much money this was!
Their eyes widened to the limit, meaningless gurgling sounds coming from their throats.
Someone subconsciously reached out to touch it, then shrank back as if burned. Most people were just completely stunned.
Clearly, this impactful visual was too much for their brains to process.
The Gold Dragons lay quietly on the filth, but Corleone didn't spare them a glance.
Never reveal your wealth—that's common sense.
But for Corleone, who was about to establish absolute authority and credit, displaying unrivaled financial power at this moment was the most direct and effective way to gain trust and respect.
He scanned everyone's faces, knowing his goal had been achieved. He announced loudly, "Remember, from this moment on, you are no longer guarding garbage!"
"You will work for the Corleone Family. You will guard my streets, and my order!"
"Anyone who obstructs this is stealing my money, and is an enemy of mine!"
Then, he looked down at Wes, who had collapsed next to the gold, burying his head and weeping loudly. Corleone tilted his head and instructed Rorge, "Take them to get cleaned up, then get to work."
"Yes... Yes, my Lord!"
Rorge was clearly shocked by Corleone's grand gesture too. He froze for a moment before reacting.
It wasn't that he hadn't seen money, but dumping gold into shit and mud like it was trash? That scene was just too shocking.
"Wait."
Just as Rorge was about to follow orders, Corleone stopped him, pointing at the still-sobbing Wes on the ground.
"When this guy calms down, ask him clearly if there was anyone behind the scenes instructing him."
"Also..."
"Send someone to Gold Cloak headquarters. Find Herb Rykker, Old Moss, and Pock. Tell them... Corleone is calling in his favors."
With that, Corleone turned and left, not giving the crowd behind him another glance.
As he stepped through the gates of the Blood Cellar, the sun completely sank below the horizon, and night fell.
The old era had passed. And a new order, with Corleone's arrival, was taking root and sprouting in this darkest of lands.