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The Red Keep.
This majestic fortress stood atop Aegon's High Hill, overlooking all of King's Landing.
Escorted by Jaime Lannister, Corleone paced slowly through the deep, shadowed corridors, admiring the magnificent decorations on either side with great interest.
The air was filled with the unique scent of ancient stone mixed with faint incense—the very smell of power.
"How does it feel?"
Seeing Corleone looking left and right, Jaime couldn't help but tease him. "It's quite a leap from the muddy shit-holes of the Riverlands to the most luxurious castle in the Seven Kingdoms, isn't it?"
Hearing this, Corleone's gaze calmly swept over the Lannister guards lining the path in their gilded armor. He took a deep breath.
Hiss—Haa—!
"It is... novel."
"The air here seems to carry a different weight. There is none of the foul stench found outside the castle walls. It makes one involuntarily straighten their spine, as if the whole body has been made new."
Hearing this unconventional answer, Jaime pursed his lips in a smile.
Of course, the Red Keep had no foul smell. When Aegon the Conqueror ordered its construction, he specifically chose the highest of the three hills in King's Landing.
Thus, it was named Aegon's High Hill.
Moreover, the Red Keep was surrounded by the sea on three sides and sat directly upwind of the city. The ceaseless sea breeze kept the stench of the streets outside the red brick walls, completely separating the world of the nobility from that of the smallfolk.
"That said, I thought you would insist on wearing those 'spoils of war' you looted from the Karstarks," Jaime teased over his shoulder as they walked.
By this time, Corleone had already changed out of his travel-worn rags and into a well-tailored, sturdy cotton doublet.
While not top-tier luxury, it was immaculately clean and neat, further enhancing his temperament.
"Clothes make the man, Jaime."
Corleone simply smoothed his collar. "Although I believe Lord Tywin is not a superficial man who judges solely by appearance, proper attire is the most basic respect one can offer for a meeting."
"After all, I am not here to beg."
Jaime nodded, accepting the answer.
The two continued forward, their boots making clear echoes on the stone floor.
After a moment of silence, Jaime seemed to remember something, and his tone hardened slightly.
"That Sven Rosby... how do you intend to deal with him?"
"He is a noble. A distant relation, perhaps, but a genuine noble nonetheless. He will certainly go through the trial process. It would be difficult to sentence him to death merely for arresting the wrong person and taking a little bribery."
"But this is war, Jaime. Countless people die every day."
Corleone smiled, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather. "Fate is fickle. Who can guarantee that our dear Captain Sven won't meet with some... accident?"
"You must remember, the Stranger is fair precisely because He grants no special treatment based on a man's surname or station."
These pointed words made Jaime pause slightly. He turned his head to give Corleone a deep look.
His chivalric spirit was gnawing at him; he felt that using such underhanded methods was dishonorable. Yet, remembering his own actions at Winterfell, he felt he had no right to judge Corleone.
After a brief silence, they finally arrived before the heavy wooden doors of the Tower of the Hand.
Clang—
With a crisp sound, two knights in bright crimson armor crossed their spears, blocking the path.
The sudden movement made Jaime look up sharply, frowning. "Move aside."
"This is Lord Vito Corleone, a guest of my father. My father personally ordered this meeting."
"We know, Ser Jaime."
But to Jaime's surprise, one of the knights spoke coldly. "We are not blocking Lord Corleone."
" The Hand of the King has ordered that only Lord Corleone is allowed inside. You are not permitted to enter!"
"What?!"
Jaime was stunned for a moment, then puffed out his chest in defiance. "I insist on accompanying my friend. Let me speak to Father!"
For some reason, Jaime felt a deep resistance to the idea of his father meeting Corleone alone. He had a sinking feeling that something bad was going to happen.
That feeling...
To use a phrase from Corleone's past life, it was the anxiety of secretly dating someone and bringing them home for the first time, only to be sent to the kitchen to help out while the parents grilled the partner.
"It is the Hand's command, Ser."
The two guards took a half-step forward, sandwiching Jaime between them with no intention of backing down.
The atmosphere grew tense. After a few seconds, one of them pleaded softly, "Please do not make this difficult for me, Cousin Jaime."
Hearing this, the look in Jaime's eyes began to waver.
Corleone knew him too well. Jaime was the type who could be coaxed but never forced. Corleone reached out, gently placing a hand on Jaime's tense shoulder. "It's alright, Jaime."
He understood perfectly. This was merely a power play by Tywin Lannister—a way to show him who was boss right from the start.
Perhaps it was just habit, or perhaps unintentional, but Tywin always prioritized establishing who held absolute dominance before any conversation began.
Even his eldest son could not sway his decisions.
Looking into Jaime's anxious eyes, Corleone offered a reassuring smile.
"Trust me. I will win the Hand's friendship, just as I won yours."
"I hear your relationship with him is already strained. Please, do not quarrel with your father again."
"It is not worth it for an outsider like me."
With that, Corleone straightened his tunic, calmly stepped under the crossed halberds, and pushed open the heavy wooden door that symbolized the pinnacle of power in the Seven Kingdoms.
As the door slowly closed, Jaime felt as though he and Corleone had been separated into two different worlds.
"He... he is still thinking of me at a time like this, while I was just resenting him for wanting to use underhanded tactics against Sven Rosby..."
"Corleone has done so much for me, yet I can do nothing to help him!"
Recalling Corleone's words, a wave of regret and self-loathing rose in Jaime's heart.
"I really deserve to be damned!"
He clenched his fists, barely restraining the urge to slap himself across the face.
Standing outside the Tower of the Hand for a long while, Jaime gritted his teeth. He hesitated, wrestling with his thoughts, until he finally seemed to make a decision.
His left hand gripped the hilt of the Valyrian steel sword, Oathkeeper. His white cloak cut a pure, bright streak through the night air as he turned angrily and strode out of the Red Keep!
---
There were quite a few stairs in the Tower of the Hand. Corleone climbed them one by one, counting silently in his heart.
After about two hundred steps, a half-open wooden door came into view.
Knock, knock, knock.
Three standard raps. Only after hearing "Enter" did Corleone gently push the door open.
Spacious.
That was Corleone's first impression.
Towering bookshelves reached all the way to the vaulted ceiling, like walls built of knowledge. Behind a massive carved desk, the Hand of the King was focused on the maps and documents spread out before him. His quill danced across the parchment, making a scratching sound.
He was wearing a dressing gown, yet the aura of composure and authority he exuded was as commanding as ever.
Corleone walked quietly to the carpet in the center of the room and stopped. He did not bow, nor did he speak to disturb the man. He simply stood there silently, like every other fixture in the room.
Tywin remained focused on his work, not looking up. It was as if the two shared a tacit understanding, remaining in this standoff for a full five minutes.
Finally, after the last annotation was written, Tywin set the quill aside.
He raised his head. His emerald eyes stared straight at Corleone, making no attempt to hide his scrutiny.
"You are late."
There was no comment on Corleone's attire, nor was there a tone of complaint or accusation. Tywin's voice was perfectly steady, yet it naturally exuded an intense sense of oppression.
"I told Jaime I would see you at the Hour of the Bat."
"But now, it is the Hour of the Eel."
He paused briefly. "You are fortunate. I am usually asleep by this time."
As expected of Tywin.
Hearing these words, which sounded so matter-of-fact, Corleone secretly admired him.
This imposing manner and art of speech felt completely different from his conversation with Roose Bolton at Harrenhal.
Tywin didn't accuse or complain. Instead, he proactively praised Corleone's "luck," while emphasizing the time discrepancy to induce guilt in the other party.
To pay such attention to detail when dealing with a nameless nobody... it could only be said that Tywin Lannister had completely integrated the art of negotiation into his everyday speech and conduct.
Good thing I have a cheat.
Under this intense pressure, Corleone silently activated [Presence Lv. 2].
His back straightened instantly. His face showed no sign of embarrassment or guilt, nor did he try to look around to hide any uneasiness.
Corleone simply offered an extremely elegant and standard bow. The angle was precise—showing respect without appearing servile.
"My apologies, Lord Tywin."
After speaking, he shut his mouth again.
This concise answer actually piqued Tywin's interest.
He had anticipated many reactions: excuses, fear, or even feigned calm and exaggeration. The only thing he hadn't expected was this... honesty?
"You do not intend to explain?"
Tywin pressed, his tone devoid of emotion.
"Explanations are merely a tool people use to mask their faults and seek forgiveness for their incompetence."
Corleone remained sincere. "I am late. That is an established fact, and time is something that can never be recovered."
"Therefore, I choose to bear the consequences rather than whitewash them with words. So, I simply apologize."
"As for whether you choose to forgive my transgression, the decision lies with you, my Lord."
As his voice fell, the solar plunged into silence.
Looking at the honest young man before him, a rare glint of satisfaction flashed across Tywin's emerald eyes.
Although it was fleeting, it was there. And Corleone's [Insight Lv. 2] keenly captured it.
This meant his judgment was correct.
Tywin Lannister was a man who valued results above all else. He appreciated efficiency, detested verbosity, and despised the shirking of responsibility even more.
At least in this moment, Corleone had displayed traits that aligned with Tywin's values.
"Sit."
Finally, Tywin gestured to the chair opposite him, extending the invitation.