Morning.
Oliver Chester had been standing in front of the The Hall of Order for an entire morning.
Morning dew soaked his boots, and the sun made sweat bead on his forehead.
That once-decent dark blue velvet coat now looked old and wrinkled, and the elbows were even worn shiny.
He gripped the parchment scroll in his hand, his knuckles white from the effort, and craned his neck to look at the gate of the The Hall of Order. The flow of people entering and exiting was like an endless river.
Among them were commoners in coarse cloth, merchants with short swords at their waists, and even a few richly dressed minor nobles and knights. Oliver recognized one shop owner from Flour Street and a minor lord who dealt in shipping; he had some dealings with the Chester family, though not many.
When everyone went in, their faces were full of anxiety, anger, or despair, but when they walked out of the The Hall of Order, their expressions became calm and relieved, as if the stone pressing on their hearts had been lifted and their breathing had become easy again.
Watching all this, the hope that had almost been extinguished in Oliver's heart faintly sparked once more.
Maybe... maybe it really works.
He had been running around King's Landing for ten days. The guards at the Tower of the Hand wouldn't even announce him, saying Lord Tywin was very busy.
The clerk for the master of laws, Kevan Lannister, took his ten gold dragons and told him, "This is not our business."
In desperation, someone secretly told him to go to Flea Bottom and find Sir Corleone.
Vito Corleone?
That knight of Farmer origin?
Oliver had scoffed at the time. After all, Chester Castle was far from King's Landing, and he had only heard a few rumors about Corleone, not many.
But that person told him that nowadays in King's Landing, what the Gold Cloaks managed, the The Mafia could manage, and what the Gold Cloaks didn't manage, the The Mafia could also manage.
So Oliver came.
With his last shred of hope, and the remaining twenty gold dragons in his pocket.
This was all he had.
There were guards at the entrance of the The Hall of Order, all young men in uniform gray uniforms, wearing short batons at their waists. Everyone stood straight, their eyes vigilant but not malicious, just calmly maintaining order.
The line was long. When Oliver arrived early in the morning, at least twenty or thirty people were queuing, but no one cut in line, no one quarreled, and everyone waited quietly. Now, as time passed, there were fewer than ten people left in front, but it was approaching noon, and he was really too hungry to bear it.
Oliver tried to walk to the front of the line.
A man without a nose stopped him. Oliver didn't recognize him, but the other man's dress was more appropriate than the others, looking like a steward.
"Queue up." Rorge's voice was hoarse and unpleasant, with a business-like attitude.
"I... I have an urgent matter, my lord, please let me go in first." Oliver took out a Silver Stag and wanted to stuff it into Rorge's hand.
However, Rorge didn't even look at the Silver Stag, as if he were dismissing a beggar!
"I said, queue up."
He stared at Oliver's face, reminding him in a calm tone, but Oliver felt a chill rise from his spine.
That was the look of someone who had killed many people, had seen blood and death, and didn't care about life at all.
Hearing this, Oliver swallowed his saliva, took back the coin, and obediently walked back to the end of the line.
Looking at Oliver's cowardly appearance, Rorge shook his head and reminded him: "Don't think about playing tricks, my lord."
"Sir Corleone only sees people in order. Giving money is useless. Last week, a merchant wanted to cut the line and stuffed five gold dragons, but he was permanently banned from entering the The Hall of Order."
Upon hearing this, Oliver was stunned: "Five gold dragons... and he didn't want them?"
"Here, order is more important than gold dragons."
After Rorge finished speaking, he turned and went to maintain order elsewhere.
Oliver could only wait and observe his surroundings silently.
This was a three-story stone building with newly whitewashed outer walls, windows wiped bright, and a wooden sign hanging on the lintel, neatly written with "The Hall of Order, Flea Bottom Special Administrative Region Administration Center, affiliated with Sir Vito Corleone."
The handwriting was not beautiful, but it was upright and powerful.
Two rows of holly trees were planted on both sides of the entrance, neatly trimmed.
The street was cleaner than he imagined Flea Bottom to be. There was no garbage, no sewage, not even the feces that could be seen everywhere.
Several people in the same gray uniforms were patrolling. They didn't carry swords, only short batons, but when they walked, their backs were straight and their eyes were sharp, obviously trained.
Time passed slowly, and the line finally got shorter.
Oliver counted, and there were five people in front. His stomach was growling with hunger, but he dared not leave to buy food. After all, what if he missed his turn?
Just then, he saw a familiar face.
Hans Viswater, a leather merchant, was walking out of the The Hall of Order, his face still wearing a relieved expression like everyone else.
"Lord Hans!" Oliver couldn't help but call out.
Hans turned his head, saw Oliver, was stunned for a moment, and then walked over.
"Sir Oliver? You are here too?"
"I..." Oliver was a little embarrassed: "I have some things that need Sir Corleone's help..."
He spoke very vaguely. After all, as a member of an old noble family, coming to ask a knight of Farmer origin for help was really shameful to say.
However, unexpectedly, Hans didn't mean to mock him at all, but lowered his voice and said seriously: "Me too."
"My cargo ship was hijacked by pirates in Blackwater Bay, and I lost at least eight hundred gold dragons. The Gold Cloaks said they couldn't manage the sea, and the Royal Fleet said it was the merchant ship's own fault for not hiring guards. I had nowhere to go, so I came to ask Sir Corleone for help."
"And then?" Oliver asked eagerly: "What did Sir Corleone say?"
"Sir Corleone asked me to write down the pirate ship's flag, the location of the robbery, and the cargo list."
"Then he gave me a piece of paper and told me to go to Captain Plank in Blackwater Bay, saying that within a month, the goods would be returned intact."
Upon hearing this, Oliver widened his eyes in disbelief.
"Just that simple? How much money does he want?"
"Fifteen percent of the cargo's value." Hans said: "And pay after it's found. If it can't be found, he won't take a penny."
This price made Oliver's eyes widen even more.
Not because it was too high, but because... it was fucking fair!
"You really believe he can get the goods back?"
Hearing this, Hans was silent for a few seconds, then nodded heavily: "I believe it."
"Because last month, the Field family on Silk Street encountered a similar thing. Their goods were robbed by pirates. They came to Sir Corleone. Ten days later, all the goods were returned, and the pirates' heads were sent in a box together."
Upon hearing this, Oliver gasped.
"But... how did he do it? Pirates come and go in Blackwater Bay without a trace, even the Royal Fleet can't catch them..."
"I don't know." Hans shook his head: "I don't need to know these things. I only know that Sir Corleone can solve problems, and the fees are reasonable. Sometimes he doesn't even charge any fees, just asks the other party to owe him a favor. That's enough."
After speaking, Hans patted Oliver on the shoulder.
"Good luck, Sir."
"Remember, state your difficulties properly. Sir Corleone... he is different from other nobles. No matter what kind of troublesome things you encounter, he will patiently listen to you finish."
After the instructions, Hans left with light steps.
Oliver stood in place, gripping the parchment scroll tighter, and the anxiety in his heart relaxed a lot.
Finally, when the sun was overhead, the noseless man opened the door and shouted: "Next!"
Oliver took a deep breath and walked into the The Hall of Order.
The first floor was a wide hall with a dozen tables, each with a clerk-like person sitting behind it, processing documents.
The queuing people were diverted to various tables, and the order was orderly.
There were bulletin boards on the wall, posting various notices on tax standards, dispute resolution processes, newly promulgated Flea Bottom management regulations, etc., and even equipped with special personnel to explain, so that commoners who couldn't read could understand these policies.
Everything was methodical, even very thoughtful.
However, Oliver had no heart to care about these, just let Rorge lead him up the stairs.
The second floor was quieter, like an office area.
Several room doors were closed, and some maps were hanging on the corridor walls, including a full map of King's Landing, a nautical chart of Blackwater Bay, and even a rough version of the entire Westeros map.
There was only one door on the third floor.
A thick oak door without any decoration.
Rorge knocked on the door.
"Come in."
The voice came from inside, calm, gentle, and ageless.
Rorge opened the door, stepped aside to let Oliver in, then backed out and closed the door.
Oliver stood at the door, stunned.
The room was large, much larger than he imagined. Three walls were bookshelves from floor to ceiling, filled with books and scrolls. The quantity was comparable to the library of some minor nobles.
The fourth wall was a whole row of windows. At this moment, the afternoon sun slanted in, casting bright spots on the dark wooden floor.
In the center of the room was a huge oak desk.
A person was sitting behind the desk.
Vito Corleone.
Oliver saw him up close for the first time. This man, who was legendary in the rumors of King's Landing, only felt that the other party looked... unremarkable at first impression.
Definitely no more than thirty years old, with a regular but not handsome face, neatly trimmed black hair, wearing a simple dark gray linen robe, without a sword at his waist.
The most striking thing was that a cat was lying on his lap.
A black long-haired cat, large in size, with shiny fur, but half of its left ear was missing, as if it had been bitten off by something. The cat closed its eyes, purring with satisfaction in its throat, and one of Corleone's hands was gently stroking its back.
The sun shone in from the window, just falling on this side of the desk.
Corleone sat at the junction of light and shadow.
Half of his face was exposed to the sun, and the black cat curled up on his lap like a black ball of fluff. This scene had a strange sense of tranquility.
It didn't look like a center of power for handling disputes or ruling life and death, but rather like a scholar reading and resting in a study.
"Please sit."
Corleone looked up at Oliver.
His eyes were also pitch black, very calm, without any meaning of scrutiny or evaluation, just a simple gaze.
Hearing this, Oliver realized he was still standing at the door.
He hurried to the chair in front of the desk, but didn't sit down immediately. Noble etiquette told him that if the host didn't invite him a second time, he couldn't sit down rashly.
And Corleone didn't care at all, raising his hand to point at the chair, his voice still gentle.
"Sit down."
"You've waited a long time, your legs must be sore."
After getting the other party's permission, Oliver sat down cautiously, only sitting on half of his buttocks, his back straight, his hands on his knees, and the parchment scroll clenched in his hand.
Corleone glanced at him, not rushing to get to the point, but looked at Oliver and asked thoughtfully: "You haven't had lunch yet, right?"
"I... I'm not hungry." Oliver refused subconsciously, unwilling to show embarrassment in front of a stranger.
Hearing this, Corleone smiled. The smile was very faint, making people relax.
"I'm hungry."
"So, keep me company for a bit. We can talk again after lunch."
Oliver didn't know what to say, so he could only nod.
"Rorge."
The door opened immediately, and Rorge poked his head in.
"Prepare two lunches," Corleone said. "Standard meals will do. Also, bring a pitcher of water."
"Yes."
Corleone continued reading his documents, occasionally stroking the cat on his lap.
The cat stirred, lifted its head, glanced at Oliver with those amber eyes, and then lay back down to sleep.
Out of boredom, Oliver secretly observed the room using his peripheral vision.
On the bookshelves, besides books, there were some strange items: a brass object that looked like a navigational instrument, a set of surgical scalpels, several glass bottles filled with liquids of different colors, and even a small human skeletal model... placed on top of the bookshelf like an ornament.
There were no weapons hanging on the walls, nor were there any trophies like beast heads as other nobles might have. There was only a detailed map of King's Landing and its surrounding areas, with various locations marked by pins of different colors.
Before long, the door opened again.
Rorge came in carrying a tray and set it on the corner of the desk.
On the tray were two simple meals: black bread, stew, a few slices of roasted meat, a pitcher of water, and two wooden cups.
"Thank you."
Taking the tray, Oliver thanked him subconsciously, but Rorge still gave no response, simply placing the other portion on Corleone's desk.
"Eat," Corleone said without any superfluous words, and began to eat immediately.
His table manners were elegant—not the contrived elegance of the nobility, but something natural and composed.
He chewed slowly and carefully, making almost no sound.
Oliver hesitated for a moment, then picked up the bread.
He was indeed hungry.
"As for the Lion Gate..."
Just then, Corleone's voice suddenly rang out. Oliver subconsciously thought he was speaking to him and quickly put down the bread, but seeing Rorge lean in, he immediately realized the man was giving instructions to his subordinate.
"Master Tobho Mott came to see me this morning. The Gold Cloaks are harassing him again, claiming he's evading taxes and threatening to fine him two hundred gold dragons. Do you know who is leading this?"
Tobho Mott?
Oliver's chewing paused slightly, and surprise flooded his heart.
He certainly knew Tobho Mott!
The master blacksmith of Iron Street in King's Landing; his shop was located on the crest of Visenya's Hill, a symbol of strength and credibility.
When Oliver's father was alive, he had praised Mott's craftsmanship more than once, saying that the patterns on the swords forged under his hammer carried a "calm flame."
What left an even deeper impression on Oliver was that after Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, obtained that legendary Valyrian steel greatsword, "Ice," from House Stark, it was Tobho Mott he commissioned to melt it down and reforge it.
Such a master craftsman, whom even the top noble houses treated with respect and whose skills touched upon legend—did he really need to run to Flea Bottom to seek help from this "Farmer Knight" who had only risen to prominence a few months ago?
The Gold Cloaks dared to extort him?
Oliver felt a trace of absurdity, and then only an immense sense of desolation.
If even a figure like Tobho Mott needed to seek protection, to what extent had King's Landing and its laws rotted?
He subconsciously pricked up his ears, his heart beating a little faster.
Rorge bowed slightly: "Ser..."
"Two days ago at the 'Old Eel' tavern, I heard Sir Balman Bych mention it while chatting after drinking. It seems to be the captain of the Lion Gate patrol, Dickon Bywater."
"Lately, this fellow has been spending lavishly. He hired two high-class Lyseni girls at the 'Feather Pavilion' on Silk Street and threw money around at the horse market to buy a purebred Dornish sand steed, with a price tag of over three hundred gold dragons."
"Dickon Bywater?"
Hearing this, Corleone finished chewing his bread and took a sip of water. "The son of the former commander of the City Watch, Jacelyn Bywater?"
"Yes, my lord," Rorge nodded.
So it was him!
Once these words were spoken, Oliver understood immediately.
Sir Jacelyn Bywater had died heroically during the Battle of the Blackwater, and his death had saved face for the royal family. Therefore, as compensation and recognition, Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, had personally ordered that the young and undistinguished Dickon Bywater be placed in the lucrative position of captain at the Lion Gate.
This was both a reward and a political gesture to bring the remaining influence of House Bywater under his own control.
The Bywater family had been operating in King's Landing for generations; while they weren't a top-tier noble house, they were deeply rooted with tangled connections, far beyond what the nearly forgotten House Chester could compare to.
Dickon Bywater, relying on his father's legacy and Lord Tywin's favor, could practically do whatever he wanted around the Lion Gate.
Even if Tobho Mott was a master blacksmith, extorting a blacksmith was not something Dickon couldn't accomplish.
Thinking of this, Oliver secretly lifted his eyes and quickly glanced at Corleone's profile.
He saw the young Ser gently scratching the black cat's chin with his fingertips, and the cat tilted its head back, its purring growing louder.
What would he do?
Oliver speculated to himself.
Offending the Bywater family for the sake of a blacksmith was clearly unwise.
According to the customs of Westeros, the most reasonable course of action would be to send someone to mediate, have Tobho Mott pay a little, bribe Dickon, and simultaneously hint for the other party to stop before they went too far, giving Ser Corleone some face.
Use gold coins to lubricate the conflict and compromise to buy temporary peace.
Oliver could almost already foresee the ending.
However, just as his mind was wandering, Corleone spoke.
His voice remained steady, not even raised by a fraction. "Master Tobho Mott's craftsmanship deserves the respect of every knight in The Seven Kingdoms."
"The swords he forged for me and Ser Jaime Lannister were made with solid materials, precise workmanship, and fair pricing."
"A good craftsman's value lies in his skill and integrity. Such a person should not be extorted by parasites, nor should he be exploited by greed."
As he spoke, Corleone lifted his eyes, his gaze landing calmly on Rorge's face. "Find Dickon Bywater."
"Make it clear to him that Master Tobho Mott's forge and anvil are now under the protection of the The Mafia, and that the hand he reached out to demand gold dragons with needs to pay a price."
"Bring back his left little finger."
Hiss!!!
Once these words were spoken, Oliver Chester gasped.
He clamped his hand over his mouth, his eyes filled with unbelievable horror.
The left little finger!
And the target was Dickon Bywater!
This wasn't just punishing Dickon personally; it was an open slap in the face to the Bywater family, and even... the authority of the Hand was being challenged!
Did Corleone actually dare to do this?
He looked at Rorge in terror, expecting to see even a hint of hesitation or surprise on the scarred man's face.
However, there was none.
That noseless face was just calm to the point of numbness.
He even gave a slight nod, as if the master hadn't ordered him to take the finger of a well-connected captain, but instead asked him to go to the market to buy a fish for dinner.
"Yes, Ser, I guarantee it will be clean and swift."
Rorge agreed, then turned around, his hand already resting on the doorknob.
At this moment, Oliver's heart was beating so hard it felt like it would jump out of his throat, and his mind was blank.
He couldn't understand at all how the two men before hi
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