It could be said that it wasn't that Oliver Chessted was too stupid to know to seek out the highest authority, but rather that the old grudges formed in their family history destined that Tywin could not help him.
Let alone helping; not taking this opportunity to stab him in the back was enough to be considered benevolent for the Hand.
After all, the vindictiveness and coldness of Tywin Lannister were common knowledge etched deep into the marrow of the nobles of The Seven Kingdoms. The broken ship that was the House Chessted could not withstand even a sideways glance from the Old Lion of Casterly Rock; even if that gaze was just an unintentional glance, it could bring about a tidal wave of destruction.
And Oliver Chessted's plight could not be considered particularly miserable; after all, war, banditry, and famine—when these words were combined, they formed the eternal backdrop of this continent.
A group of bandits entrenched nearby, leading to a bankrupt noble having nowhere to turn?
Nothing could be more normal.
However, Corleone keenly sensed a hint of something unusual in this matter.
Mainly because that place was truly too remote.
The hills on the northeastern edge of the Kingswood, upstream of a small tributary of the Blackwater Rush...
...He quickly recalled the detailed maps in his memory.
That place was far from the main trade routes, the land's output was limited, and the forest resources were not particularly rich—otherwise, the royal family would have enclosed it long ago. Aside from the increasingly decaying Castle Chessted, there were almost no decent villages or prosperous manors nearby.
And bandits also needed to eat.
They usually chose places near trade routes or prosperous villages to facilitate looting supplies and fencing stolen goods, or at the very least, they needed abundant water sources and terrain that was easy to defend.
The hills near Castle Chessted did meet the criteria of being easy to defend and hard to attack, but they had almost no looting value.
Rob Castle Chessted?
That was completely meaningless. After all, listening to Oliver Chessted's tone, he didn't dare to go suppress the bandits even with fifteen men, so the enemy's numbers were clearly greater than theirs.
A bandit group with so many people couldn't survive in those small hills; at the very least, obtaining food would be a major problem.
Unless they weren't entrenched there for the sake of looting.
Or, their target for looting wasn't Castle Chessted, or it wasn't limited to that meager prey.
Or perhaps...
...There was something else there that attracted them.
Corleone's mind raced, eliminating several possibilities.
Mineral deposits?
The possibility was extremely low. House Chessted had been there for centuries; they wouldn't have failed to notice it to the point of being this poor, and the royal family wouldn't have just let it be.
Smuggling route?
Perhaps, but that tributary was difficult even for small boats to navigate, and the land route was rugged and impassable, holding no utility value.
Then, the most reasonable explanation remained...
It was just a group of particularly stupid bandits, or bandits so desperate they had no choice but to select such a barren place.
And this explanation precisely confirmed from the side just how destitute House Chessted and its territory had become, to the point where even these kinds of bandits dared to come here to "start a business," because they knew there would be no decent resistance here.
Interesting.
The corners of Corleone's mouth curled up in a playful arc, barely perceptible.
Because he didn't think this explanation was all that "reasonable."
After all, a month ago, King's Landing was just emerging from the stage of war. Even if Castle Chessted wasn't within the scope of King's Landing, choosing to entrench themselves in such a place to loot during such a sensitive time really didn't make much sense.
It just so happened that although he had won the battle at the Small Council two days ago, given Tywin's discernment, it was impossible for him not to have noticed some flaws regarding his "immortal body."
He would use this opportunity to whet the Old Lion's appetite and see if he would make a move before the Free Fighting Arena opened.
Moreover, perhaps he could use this to observe the power vacuum on the edge of the Crownlands more deeply, and learn about those "wild" nobles in the blind spots of Tywin and the nobles of King's Landing.
Taking advantage of this gap, leaving the center of the vortex to go take a look at the peripheral areas might lead to different discoveries.
"The The Mafia will solve your trouble, Ser Chessted." After thinking for a long time, Corleone finally spoke.
Upon hearing this, Oliver Chessted looked up blankly, unable to react for a moment.
Just like that... he agreed so decisively?
"I have heard of your trouble."
Corleone stood up, walked to the window, and with his back to Oliver Chessted, looked out: "A group of bandits entrenched near your territory has cut off your means of surviving the winter, and you lack the strength to resolve it."
As he spoke, he turned around, his gaze landing on Oliver Chessted's face. Those black eyes appeared exceptionally deep against the backlight: "Tell me, if this group of bandits disappears, can Castle Chessted survive this winter on its own?"
"I mean, provided you get the normal supplement of prey."
Upon hearing this, Oliver Chessted hurriedly stood up and guaranteed ecstatically: "Yes! Ser!"
"As long as the traps and hunting routes in the mountains are restored, plus the little money we saved before, and then going to Duskendale to trade timber for some food, being frugal... we should be able to make it through!"
"At least, no one will starve to death!"
Great, after hitting walls repeatedly in King's Landing for so many days, he finally saw hope for survival!
"Very good." Corleone nodded: "Then, I will accompany you to Castle Chessted."
"What?"
Upon hearing this, Oliver Chessted was completely stunned again. He thought he would at most receive some financial aid, or the other party would send some men to suppress the bandits, or even be... politely refused.
But he never expected that this Ser Corleone, who was famous in King's Landing and whom even Duke Tywin had to treat with caution, would personally travel to his remote and dilapidated territory.
"What?" Corleone raised an eyebrow slightly and teased: "Don't believe I can handle a group of bandits?"
"No! Of course not!"
Oliver Chessted waved his hands hurriedly, a bit incoherent with excitement: "I just... this is too much trouble for you!"
"Castle Chessted is far and remote, the journey is arduous... I'm afraid we don't have anything good to entertain you with."
Corleone waved his hand to interrupt him, his tone brooking no argument: "My definition of 'arduous' might differ from that of ordinary people."
"Besides, I am used to seeing problems with my own eyes, rather than always staying in the office listening to reports."
Saying this, Corleone walked back to the table and pulled the summoning bell.
Soon, the tall and sturdy Dothraki Warrior pushed the door open and entered.
"You called me, blood of my blood."
"Your wounds should be mostly healed, let's go out for a spin."
Corleone looked at Iggo and smiled: "Prepare yourself, we're going to Castle Chessted tomorrow morning."
"Take ten men, make them elite, and wearing armor."
"Yes, blood of my blood!"
Hearing Corleone say this, a smile of excitement appeared on Iggo's face as well.
With Corleone's superb medical treatment, his wounds had long since healed completely. He had been recuperating at the The Hall of Order these days, and he felt his horsemanship was about to regress.
After all, as an elite Dothraki, Iggo had spent the first half of his life eating, drinking, and doing everything else almost entirely on horseback. For a Dothraki, not being able to ride a horse and hack at people was simply more unbearable than killing them.
He had no questions, agreed decisively, and turned to make arrangements.
And Oliver Chessted stood there, as if still in a dream. The development of events had completely exceeded his expectations.
"Go back to your lodging to rest first, or if you don't have a place to stay in King's Landing, the The Hall of Order has guest rooms."
After Iggo left, Corleone looked at Oliver Chessted and instructed: "At dawn tomorrow, we will rendezvous near the old flour mill outside the King's Gate."
"Yes... yes! Ser!"
Seeing that Corleone was not joking and was actually going to personally step in to help him, Oliver Chessted bowed deeply in a hurry.
This time, the angle of his bow was greater than any time before.
Night.
A different kind of game was underway.
The night color covered the hilly area on the northeastern edge of the Kingswood heavily. The air was filled with the smell of rotting leaves, damp soil, and... a certain fishy scent peculiar to indulgence.
A small campfire crackled in the clearing in the forest, the flames dancing and casting the surrounding twisted human shadows onto the gnarled tree trunks, as if demons were dancing in a frenzy.
The singing could not be called melodious; the tune was strange and excited, carrying a thick, inseparable Dorne accent. The lyrics were vulgar and explicit, mixed with wanton laughter and the intermittent coquettish cries of women.
Beside the campfire, several men wearing only thin shirts, or even half-naked, were embracing disheveled women and flirting wantonly. In the shadows further away, indescribable movements were heard incessantly. The scene was chaotic to the point of being barbaric, completely out of place with this silent and desolate mountain forest.
It was practically a large, open-air party.
Only one man stayed away from the center of this clamor.
He sat beside a whetstone, leaning against an old tree, turning a blind eye to the lascivious scene around him, only focused on sharpening the longsword in his hand, stroke by stroke.
The steel blade rubbed against the rough stone surface, emitting a steady and cold "shhh-shhh" sound, as if it were cutting through this uncomfortable merriment.
The firelight illuminated half of his face. It was a typical Dornish face, with a darker complexion and high cheekbones. His eyes appeared exceptionally calm, even somewhat gloomy, under the flickering firelight.
Before long, a lazy figure sauntered out from the deeper forest nearby, tying his belt as he walked, with a frivolous smile hanging on the corners of his mouth.
He was younger than the man, with curly hair and a somewhat lazy posture.
Walking to the campfire, he grabbed a wineskin and took a big gulp, then looked at the out-of-place sword sharpener.
"Hey, Andre!"
The youth shouted in a teasing tone: "I say, you really are a killjoy. Being out here is already hard enough—climbing mountains and crossing ridges, eating cold wind and drinking dirty water. Now that we've finally found some fun, can't you be nicer to yourself?"
Shhh... shhh...
The sound of sharpening stopped for a moment, and Andre raised his eyelids, glancing at the youth.
There was no warmth in that gaze, only a hint of imperceptible disgust.
"My body and loyalty."
"Will only be reserved for the Princess. Guys like you who think with your lower halves won't understand, Garin."
His voice was low and steady, forming a sharp contrast with the surrounding clamor.
"Ha!"
Upon hearing this, Garin acted as if he had heard the biggest joke in the world, slapping his thigh exaggeratedly, which caused a few nearby companions to look over: "Andre, your knightly demeanor of keeping yourself chaste is simply unlike a Dornish man!"
Shhh... shhh...
The sound of sharpening started again, the rhythm unchanged, but the force seemed to have deepened a bit.
Andre's gaze fell back onto the blade, as if Garin were just an annoying, buzzing insect.
"Whether I am like a Dornish man or not is not for you to judge, Garin."
His voice was still steady, but every word was cold and hard: "And I certainly don't need to be 'like' you, or like my brother."
"As for the Princess..."
He paused, the whetstone sliding across the middle of the blade, kicking up a trail of tiny sparks: "Her ambitions, her plans—people like you can't even touch the edge of them. If it weren't for the fact that you grew up with us, I wouldn't have brought you along this time at all."
"I must remind you, don't get too carried away. We are not here for you to find amusement. If you ruin the Princess's grand plans, I will make sure you never return to Dorne."
He said that last sentence very slowly, almost word by word, the warning tone quite obvious.
Upon hearing this, Garin looked like a cat whose tail had been stepped on; his face flushed red, whether from the alcohol or anger, it was unclear.
"Carried away? Finding amusement?"
He raised his voice, causing more people by the campfire to look over: "Andre, who the hell are you acting for?"
"Yes! We didn't swear on our swords to keep our virginity for the Princess like you did, but don't forget, we've done just as much work as you!"
"This month, in order to create panic, how many smallfolk in this area have we killed? And a few days ago, when that old thing scrambled away from our hands and fell down the hillside, weren't you there too?"
"Why didn't that shiny, precious longsword of yours stop him? Now that he's run away, we don't know if he's dead or alive. Is this what you call 'don't ruin the grand plans'?"
The two began to argue, and the surrounding singing and playfulness died down unconsciously.
Several men stopped their actions, looking over with flickering eyes. The commotion on the tent side also quieted down, leaving only the sound of the wind and the crackling of the firewood.
Andre finally stopped sharpening his sword.
He slowly raised the longsword, holding it level with his line of sight.
The leaping firelight flowed across the mirror-like surface of the blade, reflecting his eyes, which were devoid of ripples, and also Garin's face, twisted with excitement.
"Precisely because of that."
Without any warning, the sharp blade was laid directly against Garin's neck.
Andre's gaze was cold, and no emotional color could be heard in his tone: "I must remind you even more, Garin."
"Pointless slaughter is a flaw, and leaving survivors is an even bigger flaw. You enjoy this process, you enjoy this... feeling of role-playing, to the point that you've forgotten why we must do this, why we came here."
"If you still don't understand what I'm saying, then, let my sword tell you."
Feeling the sharpness of the blade against his neck, Garin's arrogant aura suddenly wilted.
Because he could see that Andre was not joking.
"Calm down, calm down, my brother."
He squeezed an ingratiating smile onto his face, tentatively extending a finger to push away Andre's blade, then explained: "It's actually good that the man escaped; this way we can achieve a better effect, isn't it?"
"Don't forget..."
Saying this, Garin slowly reached his hand into the inner pocket of his open shirt to fumble, and pulled out an object.
"...We are all..."
It was a sigil.
Iron, with edges somewhat worn, stained with sweat and grime, but the pattern of the black portcullis was clearly discernible under the light of the fire.
"...House Yronwood!"
more chapter available in p@tréøñ(Atoki_29)