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The carriage wheels rattled over the cobblestones of King's Landing.
Corleone and Jaime rode together in a plain, unmarked coach. No house sigils decorated its sides.
Corleone leaned against the padded wall, his gaze calm as it swept across the passing streets. Damp city air poured through the window—warm bread, horse sweat, the salty reek of the fish markets, and that permanent, sour undertone of shit that never quite left King's Landing.
"At the Frey feast, Robb Stark and his queen were shot full of arrows," Jaime said quietly. "Lady Catelyn had her throat cut."
"Edmure Tully was taken prisoner on his wedding night. His uncle, the Blackfish, got away."
The news spilled out as the carriage swayed. Corleone gave a small nod.
The Red Wedding had happened after all. The details matched the original timeline almost exactly.
"Bad news always travels fastest," Corleone said, pulling his eyes back from the window. "Especially when it's the death of a king."
He paused, studying Jaime's face. "You don't look particularly happy about it."
After all, Robb Stark had kept Jaime prisoner at Riverrun for over a year. That captivity had led to everything else—the loss of his sword hand, nearly dying at the hands of Vargo Hoat.
Now the Young Wolf was dead, and it was an ugly death. Word was his corpse had been sewn to the head of his direwolf.
Yet Jaime looked downright miserable.
Jaime didn't answer right away.
His green eyes drifted up toward the carriage roof, as if he could see through the wood to the sky beyond.
After a long silence, he spoke, his voice rough. "Guest right…"
"It's one of the oldest traditions in Westeros—older than the Iron Throne itself. And they killed him at the table, after he'd eaten their bread and salt."
"So?"
"So it's ugly," Jaime said, finally meeting Corleone's eyes. "I asked my father if he knew about it beforehand."
"He didn't deny it. He said the Freys wanted compensation, the Boltons wanted the North, and we needed the war to end."
Jaime stopped, remembering the cold look in Tywin's eyes.
"An ugly victory is still a victory. History is written by the victors, and the rain washes the blood away. What matters is that the Lannister lion still stands on top of the pile of corpses."
"I suppose that's pretty much what the Hand said to you," Corleone replied.
Jaime's eyes widened for a second, then he let out a short, humorless laugh and shook his head. "Sometimes I think you're more his son than I am, Corleone. Seriously. Neither Cersei nor Tyrion—not even me—comes as close to him as you do. It's just…"
"Just what?"
"It's just that his tools are gold and armies," Jaime said, looking Corleone over. "Yours feel more like a surgeon's scalpel. Precise. Sharp. And you always seem to choose the cleanest cut."
The conversation had grown heavy. Corleone didn't push it further. He simply leaned back and changed the subject, nodding toward Jaime's left hand with an easy tone.
"I hear you've started training with a sword again?"
Jaime blinked, then flexed his left arm and gave a small smile. "Have to do something."
"Being Lord Commander of the Kingsguard while losing to squires doesn't look good. So I'm working the left hand until it stops throwing the sword across the yard every other swing."
"If the Wall wasn't so damn far away, I'd go find that ranger they call the Halfhand and have him train me properly."
"Lucky for you, Tyrion loaned me someone."
"Brom?" Corleone's mouth twitched with amusement. "The same sellsword who fought for Tyrion in the Eyrie trial?"
"That's the one." Jaime nodded. He clearly had no idea about the tension between Corleone and his brother. "Greedy bastard charges me ten gold dragons a day, but I have to admit—he's a damn good sparring partner."
"Ruthless. Practical. No chivalry, just goes straight for the weak spots. After a few weeks, at least the left hand doesn't fling the sword anymore."
"Practical is what matters," Corleone said. "In this world, fancy flourishes won't keep you alive. Especially not for you."
He gestured lightly at Jaime's golden right hand. "Maybe one day they'll call you the Goldenhand."
Jaime barked a genuine laugh this time.
He understood what Corleone was doing—reminding him without preaching that he'd lost his sword hand and needed a new way to stand on his own.
No lectures, no empty encouragement. Just that easy way of talking that made Jaime feel genuinely supported.
The carriage slowed.
Through the window, the towering red walls of the Red Keep came into view, catching the light with a dull gleam.
The easy atmosphere inside the coach tightened.
"Cersei…" Jaime started, then hesitated. "She's under a lot of pressure lately."
"Joffrey, Father, the Tyrells—everything's getting to her. Whatever she says to you…"
"I know how to handle it, Jaime," Corleone said with a small grin as he stepped out of the carriage. "When it comes to dealing with powerful people, I'm better at it than you are."
Maegor's Holdfast stood at the very heart of the Red Keep. Every Targaryen king's bedchamber had been here.
Now it was more opulent than ever.
Heavy tapestries woven with roaring lions hung on the walls. Massive crystal chandeliers, lit with hundreds of candles even during the day, bathed the hall in golden light.
It was practically a palace built from solid gold. Even the air smelled expensive.
Too much, Corleone thought. If you melted all this down, you'd have hundreds of thousands of gold dragons.
No wonder the Iron Throne was drowning in debt. Robert Baratheon wasn't the only one who knew how to spend.
They moved deeper into the holdfast. The escort changed to a young man around twenty, with golden hair and green eyes—handsome in a way that faintly echoed Jaime.
Not Lancel, Corleone noted. That one had been wounded at the Blackwater and was now Lord of Darry. This was probably another distant Lannister cousin Cersei had pulled out of some corner.
She really did have a near-obsessive fixation on bloodlines.
The servant stopped before a set of inner doors inlaid with ivory and emeralds, knocked lightly, and pushed them open.
Corleone stepped inside.
A massive bed dominated the room first.
Cersei Lannister lounged on a couch draped in furs, looking languid.
She wasn't wearing heavy formal robes—just a thin, pale-gold silk gown that clung to every curve. The neckline plunged low, revealing generous pale skin and the line of her collarbones.
Her golden hair spilled loose over her shoulders, a few strands falling across her chest. Her figure remained slender despite bearing three children. The face was breathtaking, paired with those famous emerald eyes. She was still called the beauty of the Seven Kingdoms for good reason.
She toyed with a crystal goblet of golden wine, her gaze locking onto Corleone the moment he entered the room.
Sharp. Calculating. More brazen than her father's.
"Your Grace," Corleone said, stopping a few respectful paces from the couch. His eyes flicked over her once, then away. He didn't linger.
He knew exactly what kind of woman she was. Plenty of women were available outside these walls, and none of them came with the kind of crazy Cersei Lannister carried.
Making money came first.
Cersei's reaction was one of mild surprise.
Since puberty she'd understood the power of her appearance and used it ruthlessly.
Very few men—aside from boring prudes like Barristan Selmy or Ned Stark—had ever looked at her without hunger.
"Vito Corleone."
Cersei finally spoke, her voice carrying a rich, mature timbre.
She studied him openly, up and down. Plain dark-gray clothing. Ordinary features.
Yet the man stood there radiating unshakable confidence. It was impossible to ignore.
Especially those black eyes that seemed to see straight through surfaces and into the core. They reminded her uncomfortably of her father.
Interesting.
After a few seconds, the corner of Cersei's mouth curved upward. She had expected less.
"Jaime spoke very highly of you."
"Even though you saved his life, I've never seen him praise anyone this much—except maybe the Sword of the Morning back when he was a boy."
She leaned forward slightly. The motion made the already loose neckline slip lower, revealing more pale skin.
"He says you can solve problems. Any problems."
Her tone was almost intimate, like a lover's murmur. Any other man would have been tempted to pull her into his arms.
But Corleone knew better. This was simply how Cersei negotiated—perhaps how she moved through the world.
Pity.
"Your Grace," Corleone said, eyes lowered respectfully. "Ser Jaime flatters me. I'm only an ordinary man trying to create a little order out of chaos."
Cersei's expression cooled.
"So Jaime was wrong?"
Her eyebrow rose, voice turning sharp. "You cannot solve any problem?"
Corleone shook his head inwardly. Typical. The woman was clever but impulsive, with a temper that could swing wildly. You could never predict her next move.
Joffrey's erratic personality clearly came from her.
"Your Grace," he said carefully, taking one small step forward, voice low and sincere. "I have solved specific problems for many people. But I need to know what the problem actually is."
"After all, I'm not a god. I can't fix what I don't understand. My skill lies in finding the cracks in seemingly solid walls."
"So perhaps you should tell me your troubles. I may be able to ease them for you."
"Of course…" He added with a small smile, "I assume Ser Jaime already made it clear that my help is not free."
Cersei's face softened again.
Her slender fingers tapped lightly against the cushion as she weighed his words.
After a long moment—perhaps trusting Jaime's judgment—she finally decided.
"Very well… Vito Corleone."
Her voice took on a new edge.
"Can you find a way to break off my betrothal to Ser Loras Tyrell?"