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Fortunately, Jon hadn't given up on explaining, even after a long silence. Instead, he picked up the wine pitcher, walked around to the other side of the table, and humbly refilled the Imp's goblet. Then, he placed his hand over his heart and swore a solemn oath.
"In the name of the Seven and my family name, I swear: what happened with your sister was never my intention."
As he spoke, Jon's face was filled with sincerity, without a trace of falsehood. And what he was thinking aligned perfectly with his oath.
After all, back then, he was the victim controlled by the System, forced onto this irreversible path.
Seeing Jon's earnest demeanor, Tyrion, though still skeptical, couldn't really press the issue.
So, he raised his goblet and downed a large gulp of wine, accepting Jon's "apology."
But after hearing Jon's defense, a forbidden image instantly formed in the Imp's mind. His queenly sister began to grow horns and wield a leather whip in his imagination.
Moreover, from the Imp's perspective, a young, handsome noble like Jon shouldn't lack for women. He wouldn't be desperate enough to actively climb into Cersei's bed.
Unless he was someone like Petyr Baelish—a man who valued power over life itself—who might sacrifice his body to gain influence through Cersei.
But even then, the hardships of that path were beyond what most men could endure.
At the very least, between gaining profit and getting smashed by the Usurper's warhammer, the probability of the latter was significantly higher.
Only a fool would willingly walk such a thorny, dangerous path of no return!
Driven by his intense curiosity, Tyrion was about to ask for details to verify if Jon was lying.
But before he could speak, a red-cloaked guard strode in, bowing deeply with his hand on his chest.
"My Lords, Lord Janos requests an audience."
Hearing the announcement, the two exchanged a glance and nodded simultaneously.
Moments later, the Commander of the City Watch appeared before them, dressed in an ill-fitting silk doublet.
His bloated body threatened to burst the expensive fabric. He looked like a leech gorged on the blood and sweat of the Gold Cloaks—flabby, greasy, and sagging.
Layers of fat cascaded from his chin, neck, and belly down to his thighs. His enormous gut heaved like a bellows, sending ripples through his blubber.
However, in this ocean of grease, what truly betrayed his greedy nature were his beady eyes, deeply sunken amidst the fat of his eyelids and brow bone.
The glint in those eyes wasn't calculating how to manage the city's security; it was calculating how to scrape the last layer of oil from his new recruits.
Upon entering the room, his gaze shifted from the food and wine to Tyrion, and finally to Jon, his expression turning to surprise.
"Eh? Lord Jon? Why are you here?"
Looking at his prey, Jon's lips curled into a slight smile, reminiscent of Littlefinger.
He stood up warmly to greet the surprised Commander, offering an explanation.
"No need to be nervous, Lord Janos. There must be some misunderstanding between us, so I asked Lord Tyrion to invite you for dinner. I trust these wines and seafood from the Summer Isles will be to your liking."
As he spoke, Jon practicedly guided Janos by the shoulders, seating him in a high-backed chair.
Then, he personally poured a glass of brandy for him, thoughtfully adding a slice of lemon to the rim of the crystal glass, just as they did in Tampa.
Although Janos was suspicious of Jon's friendly gestures, he couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction.
While he hadn't openly clashed with the Baron of Tampa, the bald Commander had harbored some resentment over Jon's interference with the Gold Cloaks.
But seeing Jon treat him with such respect now, this rough man who had climbed up from being a butcher's son rationalized Jon's actions. He blindly assumed the previous slights were just collateral damage from power struggles, not personal attacks against him.
Having convinced himself, Janos downed the brandy in one gulp and began to flatter Jon.
"Lord Jon, you are too kind. Everyone in King's Landing knows the prestige of the Shadow Hand. Your taste in life is unmatched..."
As he spoke, Janos put down the crystal glass and slowly pushed it forward, clearly wanting more.
Seeing this, Jon immediately refilled it. But this time, the brandy was replaced by strong Braavosi spirits, filling the air with a potent aroma.
With fine wine in front of him and Jon's smiling face beside him, Janos's guard dropped significantly.
He drained the glass again, then looked around.
"My Lords, thank you for the wine. I must say, I've never even heard of such delicacies, let alone eaten them."
The expressions of the other two were surprisingly synchronized. Tyrion, after exchanging a look with Jon, pushed a platter full of crabs across the table to Janos.
"Try these. They're precious. Shipped from the Summer Sea, only a few in the whole boat survive the journey alive."
Hearing this, Janos didn't hesitate. He cracked open a shell and began feasting, mumbling polite nothings through a mouthful of meat.
"Mmm... thank you... thank you both for your hospitality. I assume you didn't invite me here just for dinner?"
With Janos bringing it up himself, Jon's smile widened. He casually dropped a question.
"Commander, you are indeed sharp. We invited you here to ask... do you have any constructive suggestions regarding the future security of King's Landing?"
"Specifically regarding what?"
"Like the beggars and refugees. We can't just let them parasite on the streets forever, can we?"
"Is that all? What's difficult about that? They're just scum anyway. If they won't leave, kill them all. Leave it to my men."
Hearing such a thoughtless answer, Jon, who had held a sliver of expectation for Janos, finally straightened up and returned to his seat. He nodded at the Imp.
The next moment, as Tyrion put down his wine cup, several sheets of parchment were slid in front of the Commander. With grease-covered hands, Janos looked up in surprise.
"Lord Tyrion, this is...?"