Greedy Golden Robe

The chainmail worn by the capital's garrison was actually black.

Even officers only wore a plate armor decorated with four gold plates on their chests.

He was called the Golden Robe because his thick wool cloak, dyed gold, was too eye-catching.

Especially when they were carrying long spears and swords, moving through the streets and alleys.

As the standing force of the kingdom's capital, this force is overwhelmingly larger than the guards of other castles.

There were a full two thousand people.

Their combat power is also extremely strong.

Now, under the wise leadership of Lord Genos Slint, the ranks are filled with all sorts of talented individuals who have emerged from the flea nest.

Thieves, villains, or desperate criminals with nowhere to turn and a mountain of debt.

As long as you pay an enlistment fee, you can transform into a glorious member who directly obeys the king's orders.

So when Joffrey wanted to get involved in some less respectable professions...

The commander-in-chief of the Golden Robe was naturally a very capable candidate.

Genos, sitting opposite, licked his thick lips and glanced at the Hound standing beside him with his sword at his side.

He forced an extremely fawning smile onto his face.

"Your Highness, what are your instructions for summoning me?"

Joffrey simply picked up the carved silver pot on the table and poured a glass of Summer Red for each of them.

"You must be thirsty after the journey. Let's moisten your throat first."

Genos was flattered and extended his hand.

After seeing that Joffrey had already drunk his share, he took a big gulp of his own.

"The tournament will begin soon," Joffrey said, setting down his glass with a long, drawn-out tone.

"In addition to the usual knight duels, there are also team tournaments, the Seven Sons team battles, and other smaller events, totaling over a hundred matches."

"It's exciting, but after sitting in the stands for a long time, just eating pies and drinking beer, the audience will feel like they're missing something."

He looked up at Genos: "That's why I asked you to come here to talk about how we can work together."

The hand that was pouring wine for himself froze in mid-air.

"Your Highness...the kind of thing you're talking about, has always been done by people in King's Landing." Genos's voice was strained.

"In the alley and in the tavern, everyone knew the unspoken agreement."

"I know," Joffrey smiled, "and the one who does the biggest and most reliable job."

"It's the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lord Petyr Baelish, whom everyone loves, isn't it?"

"Plop—"

A loud swallowing sound was particularly clear in the room.

Fine beads of sweat appeared on Genos's forehead, glistening slightly in the candlelight.

"Lord Petyr does have some business dealings. Everyone knows a little about it." He tried to keep his words vague.

“But you are the Commander-in-Chief of the Golden Robes,” Joffrey said, taking a sip of his drink. “So you must know more than ‘everyone’ does.”

"But Your Highness!" Genos's voice rose involuntarily, "Lord Petyr seems very kind, and he always speaks with a smile."

"But if he finds out someone touched his cake, the consequences..." The fat on his neck swayed with his head, "I don't want to think about it."

"Consequences?" Joffrey scoffed, slamming the empty glass onto the table.

"Lord Genos, I ask you, who pays the salaries of the two thousand people in the Golden Robe every month?"

Genos opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"It's Lord Petyr, isn't it?"

Joffrey answered for him.

Then he pressed further, "So where did the money they paid you come from?"

"From...from the Iron Throne's treasury," Genos stammered.

"That settles it, doesn't it?" Joffrey spread his hands.

"I, Joffrey, just wanted to add a little fun to my nameday celebration."

"To ensure safety and order, I would like to ask your capital garrison to help maintain order and prevent any petty thieves."

His smile deepened, but his eyes remained cold: "Then tell me, why would our dear Lord Petyr bother with you or me?"

"Every gold dragon he paid out came from my family's money."

Genos sat there, his expression shifting.

After a few breaths, he suddenly picked up his wine glass and gulped down a large mouthful.

The alcohol quickly rushed to his cheeks, giving him a bit of courage.

"Then why don't you go directly to Lord Petyr?" Genos asked tentatively.

"He would definitely be happy to set up a private betting platform for you, so that whatever you earn, it's all yours, both worry-free and safe."

Joffrey shrugged. "It's no fun if you just have someone else do everything."

He said no more, and pushed a roll of parchment on the table in front of Genos: "These are some simple rules I've drafted, and some tips for attracting customers. Take a look."

Genos clumsily unfolded the parchment, squinted, and leaned closer.

Just look at that embarrassed and trying-to-hide look.

Joffrey knew that this was probably another illiterate person who only knew his own name.

"It seems Lord Genos is too busy with official duties to examine it closely." He considerately put the parchment away, his tone completely calm.

"How about this, when you go back to see Lord Petyr..."

"I'm young and impulsive, and I've come up with some ideas, but I'm afraid there might be some oversights. I'd like to ask him, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, for his advice."

Genos nodded blankly, then denied it outright as if he had been burned.

"Why would I go to Lord Petyr?"

"Your Highness is wise. I only have some business dealings with him, and we don't have any personal relationship."

"Yes, you have nothing to do with him." Joffrey nodded readily. "And I certainly have nothing to do with 'that person' either."

Genos blinked his small eyes, clearly trying hard to think with his limited brain capacity.

Who exactly is "that person" referring to?

Joffrey didn't give him much time to be confused, and leaned back in a relaxed posture.

"The curfew will be extended during the martial arts tournament."

"The gold-robed athletes are responsible for maintaining order on the streets and at the stadiums during the day."

"But whether we need to work overtime somewhere else tonight is up to Lord Genos to decide."

"As for the profits," Joffrey gestured slowly with his finger, "are you planning to split them between two people or three?"

"It's up to you to decide."

Genos glanced at Joffrey's calm, expressionless face for a moment, then looked down and rubbed his sweat-dampened hands.

Finally, he grabbed the wine jug and took a big gulp straight from the spout.

Deep red wine flowed down the corners of his mouth, running from his double chin straight down to the brocade coat on his chest.

"Your Highness," a reckless greed gleamed in his small eyes, "during the martial arts tournament, you can do whatever you want."

"I guarantee that no one will dare to cause you any trouble."

Genos puffed out his obese chest, trying to project an air of conviction: "The primary duty of the capital's garrison is to ensure the royal celebrations proceed smoothly and successfully!"

Joffrey smiled and nodded, saying nothing more.

It was just a signal that he could leave.

Genos bowed in an awkward, inappropriate manner.

Then he reached out and grabbed the parchment, and hurried out the door.

The room fell silent again.

Joffrey glanced at the somewhat thirsty hound and silently drank the remaining liquid in the silver pot.

He didn't want to accidentally harm this loyal guard and friend.

As for the little finger...

His infiltration and control over the capital's garrison seemed to be deeper than Joffrey had anticipated.