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Lyla sat on the ground, wailing like someone had died.
Her cries were loud and ugly, the kind that scraped against your ears and made people wince. Tears poured down her face and soaked into her dirty apron.
"It's not fair… it's not fair!"
She kept sobbing between words. "I worked a whole month! My son got sick… I had no choice! Why is she taking my money?"
The Dornish woman standing beside her had started out looking righteously angry. Now her expression had shifted into something more uncertain. She glanced between the sobbing Lyla and Sansa Stark's calm, unreadable face.
Lyla was clearly in the wrong, but watching her cry like that still tugged at something. The girl running the washhouse looked no older than fifteen or sixteen — about the same age as her little sister Illyria. How could someone that young be this cold?
She couldn't just stand there and do nothing.
The Dornish woman took a breath and stepped forward again.
"Hey."
She planted herself in front of Sansa, hands on her hips, using every inch of her height to look down at the younger girl. Her voice carried that loud, self-righteous edge people get when they think they're saving someone.
"You're really heartless, you know that?"
"Her son was sick. Sick! Do you even understand what that means? People die from that! She had to go take care of him. What's wrong with that? If it was your own mother, wouldn't you go back too?"
Sansa's blue eyes narrowed slightly.
The Dornish woman kept going, louder now. "She's a woman alone with a child. It's hard enough already. You couldn't just let it slide? You had to make an example out of her in front of everyone?"
People in the crowd started murmuring. No one jumped in to back her up — everyone knew the rules here. You worked, you got paid. Break the rules and you were stealing from everyone else.
But Sansa's hands had curled into fists at her sides.
She wanted to snap back. She wanted to say that Lyla had been lying through her teeth, that she was using her own son as an excuse while she gambled away her wages. She wanted to tell this loud Dornish woman to mind her own damn business.
The words were right there.
Then she caught sight of Corleone at the edge of the crowd.
Those dark eyes watched everything without giving anything away.
Sansa forced herself to breathe.
Don't let your emotions run the show. That's what he would do.
She stepped around the Dornish woman and walked straight to Lyla. The older woman's crying hiccuped when she saw Sansa coming. Sansa crouched down and took her by the arm.
"Get up," Sansa said quietly. "The ground's cold. Your knees will hurt if you stay down there too long."
Lyla blinked through her tears, confused, but let Sansa pull her to her feet.
"You made a mistake this month," Sansa said. "But I made one too. I should have asked about your situation instead of just looking at the numbers. I didn't know your son was sick."
She reached into her own pocket and pulled out a few silver stags, pressing them into Lyla's hand.
"This is from my own wages. It's not much, but it should help you get your boy something decent to eat while he recovers."
Lyla stared at the coins like she couldn't believe they were real.
Sansa's voice stayed calm but firm. "From now on, show up on time. Do the work you're supposed to do. Don't leave it for other people. You get paid for what you actually do. That's the rule Lord Corleone set. Everyone follows it. It's how we all keep eating."
Lyla looked down at the silver in her palm, then at Sansa. Her face twisted with something that might have been shame. She didn't say thank you. She just turned and walked away fast, almost running, shoulders hunched like she wanted to disappear.
The crowd started drifting off once the show was over.
The Dornish woman stayed where she was, looking conflicted. She watched Sansa for a long moment, then muttered, almost grudgingly, "You're… not as bad as I thought."
Sansa didn't answer. She just turned and walked toward Corleone and Margaery.
The Dornish woman frowned, then hurried after her. "Hey! I'm talking to you!"
Sansa ignored her and stopped in front of Corleone and Margaery, dipping her head respectfully.
"Your Grace. Lord Corleone."
Margaery looked like she wanted to say something, but Corleone spoke first.
"Sansa. You handled that well."
A small, real smile touched Sansa's face — the first one since the argument started.
"Thank you, my lord."
"But it was still incomplete."
Sansa's smile faded. "My lord?"
"Lyla's son wasn't sick," Corleone said plainly. "Those days she left early, she was at the underground gambling dens. Rolje told me she's been losing badly and trying to win it back. That's why she was rushing off every chance she got."
Sansa went very still. The color drained from her face.
She had given the woman her own money. She had defended her in front of everyone.
And she had been lied to.
Before she could say anything, the Dornish woman pushed forward again.
"How do you know that?" she demanded, glaring at Corleone. "You're just making things up! You don't have proof!"
Corleone turned to look at her. The Dornish woman faltered for half a second under that flat stare, then squared her shoulders.
"Lyla's not the type to lie like that! She was crying her eyes out! You're just slandering her because she's poor!"
Corleone studied her for a moment.
"This is internal business of the Order. You don't have the right to interfere, and I don't owe you an explanation."
He paused. "What's your name?"
The woman straightened up, chest out, proud and loud.
"Trene!"
Before she could say anything else, another voice called out from the end of the lane.
A younger girl with the same bronze skin and darker features came running toward them, long braid swinging behind her. She grabbed Trene's arm.
"There you are! Big sister's been looking everywhere for you! She said this was supposed to be a secret operation and you weren't supposed to wander off!"
Trene tried to pull away. "But I was—"
"No buts! Come on!"
The younger girl started dragging her down the lane. Trene twisted around one last time and shouted back at Corleone.
"I'm going to prove you're wrong, Vito Corleone! Lyla's not like that! You'll see!"
Her voice echoed down the narrow alley until the two of them disappeared around the corner.
Corleone watched them go, eyes thoughtful.
Trene.
He knew that name from somewhere.
And what was this "secret operation" they kept mentioning?
He turned to Rorge, who had just arrived looking out of breath.
"Rorge. Keep eyes on those two Dornish women. Find out where they're staying, who they're meeting, and why they're really in King's Landing."
Rorge nodded once, then leaned in. "My lord, there's an Iron Bank man waiting at the Hall of Order. Says he needs to see you right away. Something about money the crown owes."
Corleone's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes cooled.
"They were supposed to arrive tomorrow."
Rorge shrugged. "He's early. And he's being an ass about it. Complained that our tea was cheap and said he wasn't here to wait around."
Corleone glanced at Margaery.
"Your Grace, I'm afraid something urgent has come up. I'll have to cut this short."
Margaery smiled, graceful as ever. "Of course. Go handle your business. I'll catch up with Sansa."
Corleone gave her a small nod, then followed Rorge out of the lane.
Behind him, Margaery watched him go with a thoughtful look in her eyes.