A thousand Gold Dragons!

At those words, Jaime froze completely.

Along the way, he had seen firsthand how calculating Corleone was, and how fixated he was on profit and Gold Dragons.

For a mere hundred Gold Dragons, Corleone had even gone so far as to lay a trap and play Stow and his companions to their deaths.

In Jaime's mind, Corleone was a profit-seeker with clear goals. He even felt that, in certain respects, Corleone bore an astonishing resemblance to his father, who placed profit above all else.

Yet with an enormous reward there for the taking, Corleone had shown such a gentle side.

He was even thinking of Jaime, urging him to return to his family first and enjoy the familial affection he had gone without for so long.

What breadth of vision and generosity of spirit!

Looking into those sincere, deep eyes, Jaime was shaken beyond measure. Corleone's image grew still more complex and imposing in his mind.

Yes, he was calculating, but he seemed to possess something Jaime's father lacked.

An indescribable... human warmth.

Recalling how Corleone had chosen to ransom Brienne at Harrenhal and forgo his reward, Jaime could not help feeling an indescribable warmth well up inside him.

The feeling of being understood, cared for, and even "guided" was exceedingly rare in his life of betrayal and scorn.

It even brought to Jaime's mind that imposing figure who had personally knighted him.

"Corleone..."

When Jaime emerged from his emotion, he found only that Corleone had already blended into the crowd, disappearing into the noise and confusion inside the Lion Gate.

Only one statement reached his ears clearly: "Don't worry, ser. I'll pay Lord Tywin a visit in person later."

"I hope you'll have my reward ready by then."

Flea Bottom.

The nauseating stench here had almost reached its utmost limit.

If King's Landing was a cesspit, then Flea Bottom could practically be called the place at its bottom where the sediment lay thickest, fermented longest, and bred countless maggots.

Inside the most notorious underground fighting pit, the Blood Pit.

The stink of sweat, blood, stale urine, and all manner of filth mingled together, almost suffocating.

Firelight twisted in the drifting smoke, illuminating every feverish face like some fiend from hell.

Among them were beggars, petty thieves, sellswords, and even some respectably dressed nobles, but here, everyone seemed to wear the same face.

In an inconspicuous corner, Corleone surveyed the entire place without expression.

[Insight Lv2] allowed him to pick up on many details.

The gamblers' trembling fingers as they placed their bets, the bookmaker's smug eyes, the winners' roars, and the losers' ashen faces.

Humanity's most primal emotions played out here, naked and unconcealed.

Indeed, after killing Stow and his companions, he had looted over a hundred Gold Dragons and raised his [Insight] skill to lv2.

He had to admit, the barbarians of the North really were poor. From more than twenty men, he had looted barely over a hundred Gold Dragons in total.

At that moment, a bloody "performance" was underway in the arena below.

A skeletal man, bare to the waist, was fighting three snarling wild dogs.

He had no weapons and appeared to have no training either, merely flailing his arms clumsily to fight back.

Such resistance was utterly futile against wild dogs that had gone hungry for who knew how many days.

Soon, one dog sank its teeth into his calf and dragged him to the ground. The other two immediately swarmed him and began tearing into him like mad.

The man screamed, but his cries were soon drowned out by the crowd's excited roars, which swallowed him along with the dogs.

Watching the bloody scene before him, Corleone remained expressionless and uttered a flat judgment: "Crude."

Yes, his assessment was "crude."

He knew perfectly well that, although this was called a beast-fighting arena, fights between beasts were merely appetizers. What truly excited the spectators and made them willingly part with their last copper was always a fight to the death between people, or between people and beasts.

In his previous life, while enrolled in a combined bachelor's and master's program, Corleone had gained some basic exposure to psychology.

Watching tense, thrilling fights to the death could trigger powerful physiological responses, allowing people to experience extreme tension and excitement.

When the number of spectators reached a certain point, those emotions would intensify further. Their shared frenzy allowed them to release the pressures of daily life without restraint.

On top of that, the spectators' pleasure in controlling another person's life or death gave ordinary people the illusion of possessing power, an immensely seductive psychological experience.

Thus, from ancient times to the present, this activity had almost never ceased to exist.

But to Corleone, the methods of the arena before him were simply too crude. If he were put in charge, its profits might grow hundreds or thousands of times over.

While thoughts raced through Corleone's mind, the commotion in the pit subsided.

The man had not lasted long before becoming the dogs' lunch.

The staff began using long hooked poles to roughly drive the still-unsatisfied dogs back into their cages. Then two men jumped into the pit, deftly dragged away the mangled corpse, and casually scattered a few shovelfuls of sand, barely covering the bloodstains.

The whole process was highly efficient, like waiters clearing a messy dining table.

Corleone tilted his head slightly, his gaze settling on the short, stocky man beside him.

"You've trained this place fairly well. Looks like you've been doing quite well for yourself in King's Landing, Rorge."

The words sounded like both praise and a probing question.

Hearing this, Rorge immediately forced an ugly smile. "Come now, Boss Corleone. If I'd been doing well in King's Landing, I wouldn't have been arrested and sentenced to death."

Indeed, the fellow had woken up back on the road and had very sensibly prostrated himself at Corleone's feet.

Corleone was not surprised. After all, people like Rorge, who had grown up at the very bottom, almost always had their own rules for survival.

He followed whoever had the hardest fists and the most ruthless methods, and felt not the slightest hesitation about backing down.

Otherwise, after being sentenced to death, he would not have immediately asked to take the black and join the Night's Watch.

"I don't like listening to flattering nonsense."

Corleone reacted to Rorge's flattery with complete indifference. He merely tilted his head. "Ten thousand flattering words aren't as effective as doing one solid piece of work."

Feeling Corleone's gaze on him, Rorge immediately understood.

"Understood, Boss Corleone!"

He grinned, pushed through the crowd with practiced ease, and headed toward a man sitting on a high stool at the edge of the arena.

The fellow had his head lowered and was quickly recording something on a rough scroll of paper with a charcoal pencil.

Three burly men stood around him, presumably protecting him.

Clearly, this was the man responsible for recording bets and managing the odds.

At least ten people were already lined up ahead of Rorge, waiting to place their bets, but that posed no difficulty for a local thug like him. After all, he was not the sort to wait his turn obediently.

Roughly shoving people aside, one with each hand, Rorge ignored their angry glares and walked up to the bookkeeper. He puffed out his chest and bellowed in a booming voice, "The next fight."

"I'm betting a thousand Gold Dragons!"