Read my new story :
American Fast & Furious NSFW
America's #1 Scumbag NSFW
"A hand in the dark..."
Tywin slowly repeated the phrase, chewing on it as if tasting the risks and value it contained. A flicker of concession passed through his emerald eyes.
Seeing this, Corleone knew the time was right. He struck while the iron was hot. "Yes, my Lord. A hand in the dark."
"A hand that can, when necessary, clear obstacles for you without staining your honor."
"And I... Vito Corleone, am more than willing to be that hand you need."
As these words fell, the solar plunged into total silence.
The air was still, save for the tireless dancing of the flames in the hearth. The faint popping of burning wood was amplified in the profound quiet.
Corleone could almost hear his own heartbeat.
Tywin remained expressionless, his face betraying no emotion, yet his eyes were locked onto Corleone as if trying to see through him.
It was peculiar.
This obscure, unknown commoner had saved the most important heir of House Lannister, yet when facing the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, he asked for nothing. He hadn't even mentioned the bathtub full of gold dragons Jaime had originally promised him.
But this did not mean he was cowardly.
On the contrary, in Tywin's eyes, this boy was audaciously bold.
For he dared to propose such an overstepping suggestion: demanding the privilege to control the dark underbelly of King's Landing.
This daring to bind his own ambition with Tywin's interests, coupled with extraordinary negotiation skills, made even Tywin Lannister—who had served as Hand of the King for twenty years—look at him with new eyes.
"Interesting."
After a silence that felt like a century, Tywin looked Corleone in the eye again, his tone serious. "I am the Hand of the King, yet you wish to be my hands. A unique notion."
"But how can I ensure..."
"That these hands will always serve me, and not draw a knife to stab me in the back at a critical moment?"
As his voice fell, a heavy pressure settled onto Corleone's shoulders like a physical weight.
He knew very well that Tywin had basically agreed to his proposal, for this sentence was not a question, but a test.
But if his answer failed to satisfy Tywin, all his previous efforts would fall short at the final hurdle.
Meeting that gaze which would make ordinary men tremble, Corleone's face remained perfectly calm.
He offered no solemn vows or sworn oaths of loyalty. Instead, with great tranquility, he gave an answer that was unexpected yet entirely logical to Tywin: "Because you are Tywin Lannister."
A short sentence, accompanied by a candid gaze, caused Tywin's pupils to contract slightly.
It conveyed a wealth of information: Because you are Tywin Lannister. Because you are invincible. Because the price of betraying you is one no man can bear. And because our interests are aligned in this moment.
No one would dare attempt to challenge your authority.
The two locked eyes. Only they could read the meaning in each other's gaze. Finally, Tywin gave a slight nod, seeming to reach a silent consensus with Corleone.
But just then, a rather noisy commotion approached from the distance, breaking the solemn silence of the Tower of the Hand.
"Faster!"
"You lazy bones, you useless waste! Would you have your King climb these two hundred steps with his own noble legs?"
A shrill, impatient voice rang out from the corridor, accompanied by messy, hurried footsteps.
Hearing this voice, a flash of irritation passed through the eyes of Tywin, a man who rarely showed his emotions.
Although it was fleeting, Corleone caught the subtle expression with precision.
He understood instantly and had a fair guess at the visitor's identity.
Sure enough, as the heavy, chaotic footsteps drew near, the thick door of the Hand's office was pushed open once again.
A boy of about fourteen or fifteen, draped in a velvet tunic embroidered with the Crowned Stag of House Baratheon, entered.
He had golden hair and emerald eyes, his features handsome enough, but his brow was marred by a perverse and violent expression. At this moment, he was sitting grandly on a simple litter, being carried in by two servants!
The stairs of the Tower of the Hand were numerous; the two servants were clearly overburdened and panting heavily.
Beside the boy walked a Kingsguard in white armor.
Only when they had fully entered the room did the Lannister guard who had stopped Jaime earlier peek half his body nervously through the door, terrified. "I apologize, my Lord!"
"His Grace... he..."
Before he could finish, he was silenced by Tywin's cold glare and quickly bowed his head, retreating from the room.
"Your Grace."
Tywin stood up. His movements were steady as ever, but his tone carried a faint trace of helplessness.
Seeing the Hand stand, Corleone naturally dared not remain seated. He stood up immediately and bowed to the boy.
An Emperor for the Ages!
Head bowed, Corleone snarked inwardly.
The legendary Joffrey Baratheon the Great lived up to his reputation!
Entering the Hand's office in a litter, like being carried up a mountain in a sedan chair... who else could pull this off?
"Put me down, fools!"
Joffrey was quite rude—or rather, completely lacking in manners. Seeing the litter-bearers hesitate, he raised his hand and gave one a crisp slap across the face.
The servant didn't dare show even a hint of anger, hurriedly lowering the litter with his companion.
Smoothing his tunic, Joffrey stepped down with a frivolous expression, bobbing his head in a manner that made him look like an overgrown child.
He strode to Tywin's desk, barely sparing a glance for Corleone.
"Lord Tywin."
The King tilted his head back, questioning in a voice he thought was full of majesty, "I told you once that every decision of the Small Council must be reported to me beforehand. Have you forgotten?"
Hearing this, Tywin's face betrayed neither joy nor anger. He simply replied with patience, "I remember clearly, Your Grace."
"The next Small Council meeting is scheduled for tomorrow after the midday meal. You may take this litter here again at that time."
saying this, his gaze calmly swept over Corleone as he added, "But now, I am merely receiving a guest, discussing matters of little importance."
"These matters are trivial and tedious. I do not believe there is any need for you to waste your precious time on them."
But given the smooth contours of Joffrey's brain, he seemingly failed to understand the subtle dismissal in Tywin's words.
Not only did he not leave tactfully, but a glint of curiosity flashed in those emerald eyes inherited from the Lannister bloodline.
Under Tywin's gaze, the young King smirked and swaggered over to the chair Corleone had just occupied. He shook out the hem of his tunic and sat down as if he were the master of this room.
"Discussing matters?"
Joffrey lifted his chin, speaking arrogantly in a childish tone that tried too hard to sound adult. "Lady Margaery tells me that even a King burdened with a myriad of duties should occasionally take time to observe the affairs of his subjects. As it happens, I am rarely free today."
"Talk. I shall listen from here. Let me see what my Hand labours over for the realm on a daily basis."
These self-righteous words cast a shadow over Tywin's brow.
He took a deep breath, as if forcibly suppressing the frustration in his chest. As the Lord of Casterly Rock, he had been wise all his life, yet he always felt inexplicably irritable when facing this grandson.
In Tywin's eyes, Joffrey was foolish, cruel, and unpredictable. Moreover, he would always appear at the most inappropriate times, in the most headache-inducing ways, to do the most unexpected things.
Like chopping off Ned Stark's head...
But the King had given his command. As Hand, Tywin had no choice but to sit back down.
"Vito Corleone."
Tywin spoke, returning to the conversation that had been interrupted. "Regarding the matter we discussed earlier, what are your specific concepts?"
His posture remained majestic, but as he turned his gaze to Corleone, he sent an extremely subtle signal with his eyes.
Seeing this, Corleone understood instantly. He bowed respectfully to Joffrey. "Your Grace, my Lord."
"As I mentioned to Lord Tywin earlier, King's Landing is a great city, but it also gathers a multitude of idle commoners."
"As everyone knows, idleness breeds trouble and drains the energy of the City Watch. Therefore, I have decided to open a... free fighting arena."
In front of Joffrey, he deliberately chose this relatively neutral and entertainment-oriented term.
"Fighting arena?"
Sure enough, hearing this term, Joffrey instantly showed intense interest.
Previously bored, he leaned forward, a cruel, excited light bursting from his eyes.
"Yes, Your Grace."
The corner of Corleone's mouth curled into a perfectly measured smile.
He understood Joffrey too well. This child, spoiled by power, inwardly yearned to be a powerful warrior like his "father" and gain the approval of others.
Only unlike Robert, Joffrey was cowardly yet extremely temperamental, jealous, and obsessed with violence and blood—a walking contradiction.
"This will be more than just a simple fighting venue."
Meeting Joffrey's excited gaze, Corleone continued in a highly provocative tone, "In my vision, it will be a stage to display courage, strength, and martial skill. Warriors from all over the Seven Kingdoms, and even from across the Narrow Sea, can compete fairly here. The victors win honor and rewards."
"Like a tourney?" Joffrey pressed.
"Similar, Your Grace."
Corleone nodded slightly. "But tourneys can be a bit monotonous. Even with swordsmanship, archery, jousting, and melees, there are always restrictions."
"But the free fighting arena I intend to open will have no rules whatsoever!"
"As long as one has the guts to participate—be they commoner, wildling, or even a condemned criminal—they may join. And the only rule is to survive the fight!!!"
Corleone made this bold declaration while observing Joffrey's reaction. Seeing the boy's breathing quicken, he immediately extended an invitation at just the right moment. "When the time comes, if Your Grace is interested..."
"Perhaps you could spare some time from your busy schedule to grace the arena with your presence."
"It is well known that your late father, King Robert Baratheon, was a fierce warrior unmatched in the Seven Kingdoms. He killed Rhaegar Targaryen single-handedly!"
"And you, having perfectly inherited his great bloodline, have the blood of a warrior flowing in your veins!"
"We could arrange an absolutely safe exhibition match. You could personally enter the arena and let your subjects witness their King's fearless heroism with their own eyes!"
"I have no doubt that everyone would go mad for it, offering their most enthusiastic cheers for your valor!"
These words were incredibly inciting, striking precisely at the point Joffrey most desired to satisfy.
Ascending the throne at a young age, dogged by "slander" regarding the purity of his bloodline, and faced with an incredibly domineering Hand like Tywin...
Even if Joffrey was stupid to the core, he knew he had to prove he was not a puppet, but a true ruler!
"That is a brilliant idea!"
Joffrey's cheeks flushed slightly with excitement, and he almost jumped out of his chair.
Forgetting his kingly image, he shouted loudly, "Where? Where are you going to build this arena?"
"It must be near the Red Keep, so I can go anytime!"
Seeing this, Corleone maintained his smile.
That's it?
Just a little sweetness and you're this impatient? If I were to whip out a few classics on ruling or tell you the history of a real 'Emperor for the Ages', wouldn't you just fly away?
But even so, Corleone hadn't forgotten who really called the shots in King's Landing.
His gaze swept over the eager Joffrey and finally landed on the silent Tywin, seemingly seeking his opinion.
After receiving a nod from the Hand, Corleone spoke calmly.
"Flea Bottom."
"Huh????"
This name was like a bucket of cold water dumped over the excited Joffrey. The flush on his face faded instantly, turning pale, and even revealing a trace of fear.
Not long ago, it was in Flea Bottom that he had been attacked by a mob.
In that chaos, stones and dung had rained down like hail. His proud Kingsguard had been thrown into disarray.
He had even seen with his own eyes the Red Keep's master-at-arms, Ser Aron Santagar, and Kingsguard Ser Preston Greenfield being swallowed by the crazed mob. When their bodies were recovered later, they had been gnawed until they were incomplete.
That fear of death looming over him, and the naked humiliation, were branded deep in his memory like a nightmare.
At this moment, the Kingsguard standing aside stepped forward, pointing at Corleone's nose and cursing, "You treacherous schemer!"
"His Grace Joffrey is the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, of incomparable nobility. How could he go to a filthy, stinking place like Flea Bottom?"
"This not only damages the royal dignity but also places His Grace in unpredictable danger!"
Looking at his righteous indignation, Corleone countered with a question, "Danger?"
"If I recall correctly, whether His Grace is in danger should depend on you, Ser Kingsguard."
"Or perhaps... you are so unconfident in your martial arts that you believe you cannot protect the King's safety?"
"You..." The Kingsguard stepped forward angrily.
However, before he could lash out, Tywin called out his name directly.
"Ser Meryn Trant."
Hearing Tywin's voice, Meryn froze in place.
He turned around to see the Hand staring straight at him. Cold sweat instantly beaded on his forehead.
"Lord Corleone is correct. If a Kingsguard believes he cannot protect the King, then you may take off that armor and leave the Red Keep now."
"Or, in the intervals between helping the Queen Regent run amok, you could spare some time to practice your swordsmanship."
Faced with such a humiliating rebuke, the usually arrogant Meryn Trant only swallowed hard, daring not to speak.
After all, though he was cruel and enjoyed bullying women and children for fun, he knew very well where his power came from.
From Tywin's words, Meryn could hear that the Hand was already very dissatisfied with his indulgence of the Queen Regent's reckless behavior recently.
Seeing him fall silent, Tywin nodded in satisfaction, then turned to Corleone. "Continue."
"Yes, my Lord."
Corleone bowed slightly, then raised his voice a little, sounding very forceful. "Please rest assured, Your Grace."
"Since I have the confidence to invite you, naturally, I will make perfect preparations!"
"Two months!"
Under Joffrey's gaze, he held up two fingers. "I swear to the Seven, in two months at most, Flea Bottom will be completely transformed!"