The afternoon sun slanted through the windows of the Hall of Order. On the third floor, the door to Corleone's office stood slightly ajar.
Old John stood in the hallway, his hands fidgeting. He had no idea where to put them, so he finally clasped them in front of him. The clean coat his daughter Ally had forced on him before he left felt stiff and unfamiliar. She had insisted he couldn't show up in front of Lord Corleone wearing a grease-stained apron from the kitchen. It wouldn't look respectful.
The new clothes only made him feel more out of place.
"Go on in," Rolje said at last. The noseless man appeared in the doorway and gave Old John's shoulder a firm but not unkind squeeze.
Old John swallowed hard and stepped inside. His legs felt unsteady, like the floor might tilt beneath him at any moment.
The office was bright with afternoon light. In the center sat a massive oak desk. Behind it, Corleone lounged in his chair with the black cat Balerion curled on his lap. The cat's eyes were half-closed, purring contentedly as Corleone stroked its back in slow, absent motions.
Old John didn't dare look around. He kept his eyes low, throat tight, unable to force out a single word.
The silence stretched.
Finally, Corleone spoke without looking up. "I heard your tavern ran into some trouble, John."
The words broke something loose inside Old John. All the fear and helplessness he had bottled up overnight came pouring out at once.
"Lord Corleone… please, you have to help me!" His voice cracked. "I don't know what to do. Those soldiers… they died. Right there in my tavern. Blood everywhere…"
He was babbling, close to tears.
Corleone lifted one finger, and Old John's words died in his throat.
"I've been told," Corleone said calmly. His hand never stopped moving over the cat's fur. "Tell me—how is your daughter? Ally. Is she all right?"
Old John blinked, caught off guard. He had expected questions about the dead soldiers or whether this would drag the Black Hand into trouble. Instead, Corleone asked about Ally first.
"She… she's fine," he managed, voice still shaking but steadier now. "We found her in the back kitchen later. Just a little shaken up."
"Good." Corleone finally raised his head. Afternoon light cut across half his face, leaving the other half in shadow. His dark eyes met Old John's. "Your daughter works for me in the laundry. Sansa told me she's a good girl. Hard worker. Never complains."
Tears welled in Old John's eyes again, but this time they weren't born of fear.
"She is a good girl, my lord," he said hoarsely. "After her mother died it was just the two of us. She's always been sensible, always kept her troubles to herself…"
Corleone listened without interrupting. When Old John finally ran out of words, Corleone gently set Balerion on the floor. The cat gave an annoyed meow and jumped onto the windowsill, curling into a tight black ball.
Corleone stood and walked around the desk until he stood in front of Old John. He was shorter by half a head, yet Old John felt like he was looking up at a mountain.
"Your daughter works for me," Corleone said, voice steady and serious. "That makes her one of the Black Hand. And the Black Hand protects its own. Her family too."
Old John's knees nearly gave out. The weight that had been crushing his chest finally lifted. "Thank you, my lord. Truly…"
He started to bow, but Corleone caught his shoulders with both hands, firm and steady.
"Stand up, John."
Corleone looked him in the eye. "The world is uncertain. None of us know what tomorrow brings. But one thing I am sure of—a man's duty is to take care of his family. That isn't a choice. It's a responsibility."
"I'm never stingy with my friendship," he continued. "I like using it to help my friends. But remember this: when I need help in return, I expect the same. Even if I never ask."
"Can you do that, John?"
Old John nodded hard, tears streaming down his face. "I'll remember your kindness until the day I die, my lord!"
Corleone accepted the gratitude with a small nod, then raised his voice toward the door. "Rolje."
The door opened immediately. Rolje's scarred face appeared. "Yes, my lord."
"Send a few clean-handed men to John's tavern. Clean it up. Get rid of the bodies—quietly, no traces left behind. Have the place repainted and refurnished. Once the dust settles, it reopens."
"Understood."
"Until then, you and your daughter will stay in Flea Bottom. Rolje will find you somewhere quiet. No one will bother you."
Corleone's voice hardened slightly. "Listen carefully, John. In this city, all I need from you is the truth. I'll handle the rest. Your job—and your daughter's—is to live your lives and keep working for me."
"Now go. Get some sleep."
Old John bowed deeply, then followed Rolje out on unsteady legs.
When the door closed, the office fell quiet again.
Corleone leaned back in his chair and watched Balerion on the windowsill. The cat's tail flicked lazily. Afternoon light crept across the desk, illuminating the edge of a map of King's Landing spread open in front of him.
Pickled Meat Street was circled in red ink. Neat, cold handwriting filled the margins beside it.
A quiet voice came from the doorway.
"I never expected you to get involved in something like this."
Barristan Selmy stepped inside. His blue eyes studied Corleone with open surprise.
"That girl calling herself Ally told me to come to you for help. I almost laughed in her face."
Corleone didn't look up right away. He picked up a quill and wrote a few lines on the map in his precise, angular script.
"First," he said, almost to himself, "strive to realize your own value. Second, take care of your family with everything you have. Third, help good people whenever you can. Fourth, speak for your people. Fifth, bring honor to your name."
He set the quill down and raised his head. His dark eyes met Barristan's without a trace of boastfulness—only calm certainty.
"That's how I live, Ser Barristan."
Barristan was quiet for a long moment. He had served four kings. He had seen lords and ladies treat smallfolk as either invisible or disposable. A few might toss a few coppers and make sure a septon rang the bells so everyone knew how generous they were.
He had never seen anyone treat a tavern keeper and his daughter with this kind of care.
"You're a wise ruler," Barristan said at last, and meant it. "I believe you and Queen Daenerys would understand each other."
Corleone's mouth curved slightly. "Honestly, I don't have much in common with most women."
He turned back to the map and tapped two fingers on the red circle marking Pickled Meat Street.
"As a knight who's fought in more wars than most men have years," he said, "I assume you can read a battlefield map, Ser."
Barristan stepped closer. His eyes swept across the parchment—and his pupils tightened.
Lannister troop placements were marked in red along the route from Lion's Gate through Pickled Meat Street all the way to the Great Sept. Blue marks showed the thinner Black Hand defenses at key chokepoints.
Lannister soldiers had only been inside the city for a single day.
Barristan looked up sharply. "Why concentrate his strength here? If Tywin wanted to control King's Landing he should have spread his men across every gate and main road. This leaves gaps everywhere else. It's poor strategy."
Corleone's smile was faint, almost amused. "He's warning me."
His finger rested on the red circle. "Two thousand men aren't enough to hold the whole city. He doesn't need to. He only needs to make sure one thing happens—the Regent's coronation goes smoothly."
Barristan studied the map again, then nodded slowly.
Tywin wasn't launching an attack. He was drawing a line. Pickled Meat Street sat right on the edge of Flea Bottom—Corleone's territory. By parking his best troops there, Tywin was planting a shield right in front of Corleone's door.
He was saying: I won't come in. But you're not coming out either.
"He's testing your limits," Barristan said.
"Not just testing," Corleone replied. "He's applying pressure. Two thousand armed men camped on my doorstep, drilling and patrolling every day. My people will see them. They'll start to fear. Fear spreads. Once it takes root inside Flea Bottom, I won't need Tywin to break me—the order I built will crack from the inside."
Barristan took a slow breath. He had seen this kind of war before. Not every battle was fought with swords. Sometimes it was fought with patience and fear.
Tywin Lannister was a master at this game.
"How many men can you field?" he asked.
"Eight hundred," Corleone answered without hesitation. "Trained and armored. Ready to fight."
Barristan's brow furrowed. Eight hundred against two thousand. The numbers were ugly.
And those two thousand were professional soldiers who had survived the War of the Five Kings.
"You can't strike first," Barristan said.
"No," Corleone agreed. "If I do, the losses would be heavy. Worse, I'd hand Tywin exactly what he wants. The moment my people draw steel, he'll brand me a traitor trying to disrupt the Regent's coronation. Then every noble in the realm will side with him. No one protects a man who raises arms on the eve of a king's crowning."
Barristan was quiet again. He had seen too many commanders break under pressure like this. Yet Corleone spoke with the same calm certainty he had shown when reassuring Old John.
The old knight found himself asking the question before he realized he had decided.
"What do you need me to do?"
Corleone looked up. For the first time that afternoon, a genuine smile touched his mouth.
"I was hoping you'd ask."