"Please, don't!"
Osney Kettleblack's voice cracked with panic. He hurried after Margaery in two quick steps but didn't dare actually grab the queen's sleeve. He just flailed his hands helplessly behind her.
"Your Grace! Your Grace!"
"You misunderstood me! What I said about Lady Olenna was… respect! Pure respect!"
Margaery stopped and turned around. Her smile was sweet, but her eyes sparkled with pure mischief.
"Oh? Really?"
Her voice was light, almost musical. "That's a shame. I was rather looking forward to having such a handsome knight as my grandfather."
Osney's face turned the color of raw liver.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Because he finally realized she had been playing him from the very first word.
And yet… somewhere under the embarrassment, he felt a strange, hollow disappointment.
After all, if you really thought about it… Olenna Redwyne might be old, white-haired, and wrinkled enough to trap flies in the creases…
…but she was also the richest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.
She had come from the wealthy island of the Arbor. When she married Luthor Tyrell, her dowry had supposedly included dozens of rich estates. Now she ran Highgarden from behind the scenes while her son Mace played at being lord.
If a man could attach himself to that kind of money…
He wouldn't have to work for decades.
No—centuries.
For a second Osney saw it clearly: himself in silk robes, lounging in Highgarden's gardens while servants waited on him hand and foot, chests of gold at his feet, and an ancient wife coughing her last breaths beside him.
The corners of his mouth started to curl upward before he could stop them.
"Ser? Ser Osney?"
Margaery's voice snapped him out of the daydream. She was watching him with open suspicion, clearly wondering what disgusting thought had just crossed his mind.
Osney jerked back to reality, face burning. "N-nothing! I was just… thinking how wonderfully witty you are, Your Grace! Haha! Hahaha!"
Under a nearby oak, Corleone watched the whole scene and nearly laughed out loud.
This idiot didn't stand a chance. Margaery was running circles around him and he was still daydreaming about gold.
Not that Corleone planned to get involved.
A young, beautiful queen being chased by knights was normal in the Red Keep. As long as it didn't go too far, most people just enjoyed the show. "Don't look back, Your Grace, I'm the king" was practically a sport around here.
But Osney was being stupidly obvious about it. No discretion at all.
Corleone turned to leave.
"Lord Corleone!"
A clear, bright voice called out to him.
He stopped mid-step.
When he looked back, Margaery was watching him with that same clever little smile, waving him over like they were old friends.
"You arrived at the perfect time!"
Corleone raised an eyebrow.
Perfect time? He had just been passing through.
Still, now that the queen had spoken to him in front of others, it would look bad if the new Master of Coin just walked away.
His boots crunched softly on the gravel path as he walked toward her. His shadow stretched across the stones until it touched the hem of her green gown.
"Your Grace."
He gave a small, correct bow. "You called for me?"
"Of course, Lord Corleone. I heard you've joined the Small Council as our new Master of Coin. I'm truly delighted."
"Tommen is lucky to have someone as capable as you advising him. The whole realm will benefit."
Margaery's smile was bright and warm, her brown eyes shining like she was genuinely happy to see him. It looked completely sincere.
Corleone's eyebrow stayed slightly raised.
He knew better.
This was the Tyrell family's oldest trick.
Sometimes he thought their real words should have been "Growing Strong" instead of something about roses and tea.
She turned slightly, remembering Osney was still standing there, and spoke with fake excitement.
"Oh! I almost forgot. Ser Osney was just telling me all about his heroic deeds during the Battle of the Blackwater."
She looked at the knight with wide, innocent eyes. "You said you killed fourteen of Stannis's men… or was it twenty-four? I can't quite remember."
Osney stood frozen for a second.
He had been happily boasting to the queen until he saw Corleone walking over. Now his stomach dropped.
Everyone in King's Landing knew who Vito Corleone was.
The man who had beaten Lyn Corbray in single combat. The one they called the Godfather of Flea Bottom. The one who now sat on the Small Council.
Osney's neck instinctively tried to shrink into his shoulders.
Then he forced himself to stand tall again.
What was he afraid of?
He was a Kettleblack. His older brother was in the Kingsguard. His middle brother was a gold cloak. The three of them had status in this city.
Besides…
He glanced at Corleone's face.
Plain. Forgettable. The kind of face that disappeared in a crowd.
Then he looked at himself—tall, handsome, with three dramatic scars across his cheek that gave him a dangerous edge.
Maybe Corleone had more power and money.
But when it came to looks? Osney was clearly winning.
What woman wouldn't prefer a man like him?
The thought straightened his spine.
"Your Grace is correct," he said, dropping his voice into what he thought was a deep, reflective tone. "The Battle of the Blackwater… it was the most unforgettable day of my life."
"Fire everywhere. Men screaming. Stannis's troops pouring in like a tide. My brothers and I fought side by side—cutting them down left and right."
His eyes flicked toward Corleone with a hint of challenge.
"Of course, someone like Lord Corleone here… only recently knighted… might not understand what real war is like. Fighting pits are one thing. A real battlefield is something else entirely."
Corleone looked at him.
Just looked.
Osney's neck tried to disappear again.
Coward. Still trying to puff himself up in front of the queen.
Corleone shook his head slightly.
The motion made Osney realize how pathetic he looked. He straightened up fast and kept talking, louder now.
"Everyone knows I fought bravely that day! My brother Osfryd and I were both knighted because of our deeds in that battle!"
He lifted his chin, smiling like he had just scored a point.
Corleone stared at him like he was watching a particularly stupid child.
He had no interest in playing this game.
"Your Grace, if you'll excuse me, I'm very busy," he said to Margaery, turning to leave.
Osney wasn't finished.
"Lord Corleone!" he called after him, sounding smug. "Leaving so soon? I was hoping to hear some of your fighting-pit stories!"
He put on a regretful tone that didn't hide his satisfaction at all. "After all, you're the finest knight in the crownlands now."
"Though as I said… experience in the pits and experience on a real battlefield are two very different things."
Corleone stopped.
He turned around slowly.
This idiot really didn't know when to quit.
He walked back until he stood right in front of Osney. The knight had one hand on his hip and the other resting on his sword hilt in what he clearly thought was a heroic pose. His eyes kept drifting back to Margaery.
The new queen stood there watching, eyes bright with barely hidden anticipation.
Corleone gave her a flat look.
He could practically hear her thinking: Fight. Fight.
She wanted him to get rid of Osney without her having to do it herself.
Using him as a weapon.
Still… Osney really did need to be put in his place.
"Ser Osney Kettleblack."
Corleone's voice was calm. "I have a question for you."
Osney, still riding high on his own bravado, threw another wink at Margaery before answering grandly. "Ask away."
"If I remember correctly, you've never actually served in the Red Keep," Corleone said. "So tell me—why are you here today?"
Osney blinked, caught off guard.
Then he recovered. "I… I came to see my brother! Ser Osmund Kettleblack of the Kingsguard. We're family. That's not against any rules, is it?"
Lying through his teeth.
"Not against the rules," Corleone agreed mildly.
Osney relaxed.
"But…"
Osney tensed again.
"I've been working on something recently," Corleone continued. "As Master of Coin, we're preparing to pay out the bonuses owed to the men who actually fought in the Battle of the Blackwater."
"Every single person who was there will receive something. Including the freeriders and the militia who were called up at the last minute. Every man who truly stood on those walls."
He looked Osney straight in the eye and smiled. "Every man who actually fought."
Osney felt sweat break out across his forehead.
He knew his name wasn't on any list. Neither was his brother's. They had never even climbed the city walls that day.
Still, he tried to bluff. "The lists must be incomplete! It was chaos! A lot of men were—"
"The lists are complete," Corleone cut him off. "I had them checked three times."
"And even if there was a mistake, it's very strange that the only two names missing would be yours and your brother's. Don't you think?"
Margaery was already looking at Osney with open doubt.
Osney's voice went high and panicked. "I fought! I swear it! I killed Stannis's men! These scars on my face—they're proof! I got them in battle! They're badges of honor!"
He pointed at the three ugly lines on his cheek like they were medals.
"Are they?"
Corleone's voice stayed quiet, but every word landed like a hammer.
"Because I was told those scars came from a whore on the Street of Silk. The one you tried to rape without paying. She fought you off and left those marks on your face."
Osney's eyes went wide. "You… you're lying!"
He spun toward Margaery, voice cracking. "He's slandering me, Your Grace! This is defamation!"
But his face had already lost all color. Even Margaery could see it.
"Last month," Corleone went on, calm as ever, "a whore from the Street of Silk came to me. She said a customer tried to force himself on her and refused to pay. She fought him, scratched his face three times, and ran. She asked me to make sure she wouldn't be punished for defending herself."
He took one slow step closer. The pressure around him seemed to thicken.
"I told her that since both sides were hurt, we'd call it even. And I promised her she could keep working without fear of retaliation."
Osney's legs started shaking.
He remembered now. He had gone to his gold-cloak brother asking for help finding the whore so he could punish her. His brother had refused flat-out.
Because the man standing behind her was someone they couldn't afford to cross.
Osney's voice came out small and broken. "N-no… it wasn't me…"
"Whether it was you or not doesn't matter right now, Ser Osney."
Corleone's eyes were cold.
"King's Landing is a fine city. People come here from everywhere chasing power, gold, and glory. They all think they'll make something of themselves."
He looked past Osney toward the distant gray walls.
"But the Blackwater is full of corpses."
"Every year hundreds arrive with dreams. And every year hundreds disappear."
He turned his gaze back to Osney. There was no anger in his voice. Only fact.
"No one remembers their names. It's like they were never here at all."
"So tell me, dear Ser Osney… who's to say the next body in the river won't be yours?"
Osney went white.
He looked into Corleone's dark, emotionless eyes and felt something break inside him.
Then he turned and ran.
He didn't even remember to bow to the queen. He just bolted like something was chasing him, stumbling over his own feet until he vanished at the far end of the garden.
Margaery watched him go, then looked at Corleone with open admiration.
Corleone didn't say anything.
He simply adjusted his coat, gave the queen a small nod, and walked away.
He really was busy.
And he had no interest in playing games with small men who lied about war.