Dawn mist wrapped the tall towers of the Red Keep like a thin veil.
Corleone slipped out through a hidden side door and pressed his back against the cold stone wall in the shadows. He took a deep breath.
Behind him, the castle was waking fast. Hurried footsteps echoed on stone, armor clanged, and windows lit up one by one like startled fireflies.
"The Hand was attacked!"
"The assassin might still be inside—seal every exit!"
"Hurry! Hurry!!"
Corleone listened for a moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
He glanced down at himself. The bloodstained white armor was gone, replaced by plain dark clothes and a plain gray cloak.
Thirty paces ahead, in the deep shadows at the wall's corner, a figure stood quietly in white armor. One foot was propped casually against the stone, and the morning light caught the golden shine of his right hand.
Corleone walked toward him, boots sinking softly into the wet mud.
Jaime turned at the sound. When Corleone stopped three paces away, the Lord Commander raised an eyebrow, his handsome face carrying that familiar teasing look.
"Looks like you stirred up quite a mess," Jaime said, voice hoarse from no sleep.
Corleone spread his hands. "The Hand lost four guards. Even with you rerouting the patrols, next time won't be this easy."
Jaime studied him, then smiled with a mix of self-mockery and relief. "As Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, helping an outsider sneak into the Red Keep just to threaten my own father… If this ever gets out, I might make history as the first Kingsguard executed for aiding an assassination attempt on his father."
Corleone smiled back. "A Lannister always pays his debts, right?"
A cool breeze carried the salty smell of the Blackwater. In the distance, the city was already coming alive again.
After a moment of silence, Jaime asked the question that had been hanging between them. "How did it go?"
"Pretty well," Corleone answered. "Tywin Lannister always puts profit first. Calm, rational, excellent at weighing costs and benefits. Even with a sword at his throat, he made the smartest choice possible."
"I laid out the numbers for him. Crushing Flea Bottom would cost lives, spark chaos in other districts, and ruin his image as Hand. Win and he's the Mad Hand. Lose and… well."
Jaime let out a low chuckle. He knew his father too well. Tywin could survive military defeats or financial hits, but he could never stomach losing his aura of invincibility.
"So he took your terms?" Jaime asked.
"He chose the smarter path," Corleone corrected. "The Gold Cloaks pull out by sunset. The king—or rather the Hand—will issue a decree making Flea Bottom a special autonomous district. New governance rules, three months tax-free, then one-third taxes after that."
He paused, a thoughtful note in his voice. "Remember what Roose Bolton said at Harrenhal? Peaceful lands and quiet people—that's real power. Your father is a brilliant ruler. He understands that. Better to let the wound scab over than keep it bleeding."
Jaime nodded, calm. He didn't care deeply about the smallfolk themselves, but Corleone was his friend. That was enough.
Corleone watched Jaime's face, seeing the weight he carried—his brother's trial, his sister's growing madness, and the fact that he'd just helped the man who threatened his father.
Then a wicked little idea crossed Corleone's mind. He grinned. "Be honest, Jaime. Weren't you even a little worried I might actually kill your father?"
"If I hadn't pulled back and really cut his throat, King's Landing would have no one left strong enough to stand in my way. The Hand dies, the Lannisters fall into chaos, Cersei goes completely mad, Kevan can't hold it together, the Tyrells start circling. I could've turned Flea Bottom into my own private kingdom in the mess."
Jaime stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing so hard a crow flew off the wall in alarm.
"If you'd actually done it, Cersei and Tyrion would probably thank you. Seriously. Cersei would knight you on the spot, and Tyrion would drink you under the table with every bottle in his cellar."
The joke was sharp, cutting right to the heart of their broken family. They both laughed like accomplices sharing a dark secret.
Jaime's smile faded. He stepped closer until they stood face to face.
"I knew you wouldn't," he said quietly.
Corleone raised an eyebrow. "That sure?"
"Don't forget—I'm the kind of man who'll do anything to get what he wants. You saw that in the Riverlands."
"I saw plenty," Jaime nodded. "I saw how you used medicine to survive, talked your way past Vargo Hoat, turned the Brave Companions against each other, and took control of Flea Bottom. But in the Riverlands, when you could've used my name for more power and everyone was against me, you still saved a kingslayer who'd lost his hand, his honor, and almost himself."
The alley went quiet.
Then heavy, stumbling footsteps echoed from the shadows at the far end.
Both men turned. Bronn appeared, staggering under the weight of a man slung over his shoulder. Sweat ran down the sellsword's face, soaking his dirty leather.
He took a few more steps, knees buckling, and dropped to one knee. The man on his shoulder slid off and hit the mud with a wet thud.
Bronn gasped for air, chest heaving. After a few seconds he looked up at Jaime, voice rough. "This Dothraki bastard is heavier than he looks."
The man was Iggo. The big warrior's black hair was matted with blood, his bare torso covered in fresh whip marks and cuts. Blood still trickled down his skin.
Jaime raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile returning. "Is the title of Lord of Stokeworth that heavy?"
Bronn blinked, then grinned. "Only if my sister and brother-in-law die before me. Falyse is dumb as a pig but tough as nails, and that husband of hers—Ser Balman—might be stripped of his command in Flea Bottom, but he's still healthy."
He spat. "Waiting for them to die naturally could take twenty or thirty years. I'm a sellsword, Jaime. I like gold I can hold tonight, women I can fuck tonight, and a sword I can still swing tomorrow. So the title sounds nice, but the wait's too long and the risks are too high."
Jaime crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "You don't want the title?"
"Hey now…" Bronn's grin turned sly. "I didn't say that. I just think… maybe there's a faster way."
While Jaime and Bronn talked, Corleone had already crouched beside Iggo. He checked the warrior's pulse, then his pupils, then started examining the wounds one by one.
The belly cut was dangerously close to the spleen. Cracked ribs might have punctured a lung. The left arm was sliced deep enough to see bone, tendons damaged. Several wounds were already festering.
Corleone's brow tightened. He pulled a small leather pouch from inside his cloak—his traveling medical kit—and began cleaning the worst cuts with strong wine.
Iggo's body jerked hard when the alcohol hit the open wounds. A low, pained growl escaped his throat even though he was unconscious.
"This bastard's tough as hell," Bronn said, walking over. "I've seen plenty of captured knights and so-called unbreakable men in twenty years as a sellsword. They all talk eventually. Maybe after a day, maybe after three, maybe after you break every bone and rip off every fingernail. Pain breaks everyone."
He glanced at Iggo. "But your man here held out longer than I expected. When I found him, that guard named Rogan was about to pour honey into his wounds to draw ants. At that point most men would've spilled everything, but he still kept his mouth shut."
Bronn looked at Corleone, genuinely curious. "How much gold are you paying this guy, anyway?"
Corleone didn't answer right away. He finished treating the worst wounds, then pulled off his own cloak and laid it over Iggo. Finally he reached into his coat and took out a heavy pouch of gold dragons—roughly two hundred coins, enough for a sellsword to live comfortably for half a year or buy a decent plot of land.
He tossed the pouch to Bronn.
The sellsword caught it, weighed it in his hand, and listened to the coins clink. Then, to everyone's surprise, he looked at the pouch, looked at Iggo on the ground, and looked back at Corleone.
Without a word, Bronn flicked his wrist and threw the pouch right back.