Meanwhile.
The Red Keep, Tower of the Hand.
Jaime stood before a large desk, a blazing fire burning in the fireplace behind him.
He had washed away the dust of the journey and put his signature white cloak and armor back on. His long golden hair was cut short, and his face was clean-shaven.
Except for his right arm appearing somewhat conspicuous, he seemed to have returned to being that handsome and dashing Kingsguard.
Only, at this moment, there was no joy on his face; instead, his jaw was tight, appearing very irritable.
All this stemmed from the middle-aged man sitting behind the desk opposite him.
He sat as straight as a pine, with broad shoulders and large knuckles full of strength.
His hair was typical Lannister gold, though somewhat balding, with some gray at the temples, combed meticulously.
He was dressed very properly in a dark velvet tunic with intricate patterns embroidered in gold thread on the collar and cuffs. A small golden lion head pin on his chest looked understated yet luxurious.
But under those calm, sharp emerald eyes that seemed capable of piercing all disguises, everything else became mere backdrop.
He was Jaime's father, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and current Hand of the King—Tywin Lannister.
However, the reunion between father and son after more than a year of hardships had no warm reminiscence; instead, the atmosphere appeared extremely discordant.
"If there's nothing else."
Jaime spoke coldly, breaking the silence first: "I think I should go fulfill my duty as a Kingsguard—protecting the King."
There was no respect for his father or the warmth expected of a long-awaited reunion in his tone, only estrangement and resistance.
To this, Tywin's answer was equally cold: "You are not my son."
"You say you are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; that is the meaning of your life. Very well, Ser, I won't delay you from performing your official duties."
Hearing this, Jaime was immensely resentful.
Just now, he stepped into this office with expectation and joy.
But his father showed not a shred of sympathy or concern for his experience in the Riverlands. The first thing he said was to demand forcefully that he resign from the Kingsguard, take off the white cloak, and return to Casterly Rock to inherit the family business.
From beginning to end, Tywin didn't offer a single greeting, as if his capture, imprisonment, and even the loss of his right hand were just trivial matters of no consequence!
"I should be able to take this away, right?"
But just as he wanted to leave in anger, he pointed to the newly forged Valyrian steel sword in front of him: "You said you'd give it to me."
"Of course."
Tywin didn't even look up, his tone flat but extremely mocking: "A handless Kingsguard, if without a sharp weapon, how can he protect the King?"
This naked mockery made Jaime's anger almost burst through his chest.
He grabbed the Valyrian steel sword, wanting to slam the door and leave in anger, but just then seemed to remember something and stopped.
"Before returning, I promised someone who helped me a bathtub full of Gold Dragons as a reward."
"A Lannister always pays his debts, right, Lord Tywin?"
Jaime raised his chin, a trace of emotion even he couldn't explain in his tone, as if provoking.
Hearing this, Tywin still didn't look up, but the mockery at the corner of his mouth became thicker: "That's right, 'A Lannister always pays his debts.'"
"But is your surname Lannister, Ser?"
"Oh~~~ seems so."
He patted his forehead exaggeratedly: "Look, if you didn't say, I almost forgot. I thought since you joined the Kingsguard, you were no longer a Lannister."
Facing such continuous mockery from his father, Jaime felt unprecedented humiliation. But thinking of his promise to Corleone, he forcibly suppressed the urge to slam the door and leave.
He just stood stiffly on the spot staring dead at Tywin, his left hand gripping the sword hilt tightly, looking determined not to give up until his goal was achieved.
After a while, Tywin seemed to finish processing the document at hand. He finally looked up at his son standing before him with a livid face, a trace of surprise flashing in his eyes for the first time.
He knew Jaime too well. Proud, impulsive, irritable. With this kid's temperament, he would have stormed off long ago facing such humiliation in the past.
But today, Jaime endured until now.
"He saved your life?" Tywin asked curiously.
"Yes, he saved my life."
Jaime took a deep breath, meeting his father's gaze: "But at the same time, he is also my friend!"
"Heh..." Tywin sneered, putting down the pen dismissively: "I remember you liked making 'friends' most when you were young, Jaime."
"Addam Marbrand, the Brax brothers, etc... You always enjoyed the feeling of being surrounded like the moon by stars."
"But you never understood that those flatteries, those fawning performances, were all because of your identity, because your surname is Lannister, because you are... my son."
"I understand!"
Looking at his father's disappointed eyes, Jaime gritted his teeth, raising his voice to refute.
Immediately, he stared tightly at Tywin, emphasizing word by word: "But, Vito Corleone, he is different!"
Tywin was stunned.
He seemed not to expect Jaime to be so certain.
"Go find Tyrion." After a good while, Tywin lowered his head to process documents again.
"He is the Master of Coin now. A bathtub of Gold Dragons is not a small amount."
"I'm worth that much money." Seeming to feel he had won, Jaime raised an eyebrow triumphantly, then turned to walk out the door.
Just as he was about to touch the door handle, Tywin's unquestionable order came from behind.
"Bring that Vito Corleone to me."
"I want to see him tonight."
---
"We won, Lord Corleone!!!"
Dead silence reigned in the fighting pit, except for Rorge jumping up excitedly from his seat, waving his arms and shouting loudly, appearing somewhat abrupt.
In the arena, "Butcher" Bod, who was menacing just now, lay on the ground covered in blood at this moment. Only the weak rise and fall of his chest proved he was still alive.
And Iggo was only panting slightly, wiping his blood-stained hands casually on his coarse trousers, as if killing a dog wasn't much tiring.
Just as Rorge boasted, even if Bod was the best fighter in Flea Bottom besides "Biter," even "Biter" himself couldn't last five rounds under Iggo back in the Brave Companions.
Sure enough, the battle ended quite fast, before people even had time to react.
"Five thousand Gold Dragons, Raff, you son of a bitch, come out and pay up!"
Rorge grinned widely, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth and laughing heartily, almost writing the words "schadenfreude" on his forehead.
Although he was once half the owner of this fighting pit, he had never handled such a huge sum of money!
According to his estimation, this was almost the total profit of the "Blood Cellar" for several months, or even longer.
And now, that damn traitor Raff was about to shoulder this huge debt of five thousand Gold Dragons.
This was enough to hollow out most of that guy's savings, or even bankrupt him!
Just thinking of Raff's pained and aggrieved face was enough to make Rorge laugh out loud happily.
Serves him right!
"Calm down."
Compared to Rorge's excitement, Corleone appeared quite calm.
Because he knew winning the bet was never the end of the matter; on the contrary, it would be the beginning of another trouble.
After all, for such a large sum of money, no one would be willing to hand it over obediently, especially when the opponent was someone like Raff.
But it didn't matter. A great man once said, fighting with people is endless fun.
Sure enough, as soon as Corleone's voice fell, he glimpsed from the corner of his eye that Raff, surrounded by several gloomy-faced subordinates, was walking towards them again.
Patting Rorge's shoulder lightly, Corleone stood up unhurriedly.
"After getting the money, remember to remind me to buy a cat first."