This woman really was vicious.
Corleone thought to himself. She had just finished needling Petyr Baelish, and now she had turned her attention to him. A complete broadside attack with no discrimination.
Still, he understood.
In the game of thrones, this was a classic negotiation tactic. First, provoke your opponent to see how they react and what weaknesses they reveal.
Like a hunter throwing the first spear—not to kill, but to see which way the prey runs and what openings it leaves.
An old trick.
Besides, he and Cersei had recently conspired to spirit her grandson Loras across the Narrow Sea. The old woman was understandably angry and needed somewhere to vent.
But… did Olenna truly care that much about the marriage?
Probably not.
House Tyrell needed a royal marriage. They needed a future queen who would give birth to a king with Tyrell blood.
And Cersei? A woman who had already borne three children, was nearly forty, and had a famously unstable temperament?
That was never Olenna's ideal match.
"Thank you for the kind words, my lady."
Under Olenna's gaze, Corleone bowed slightly—respectful but not servile, with no trace of irritation. "To be noticed by the famous Queen of Thorns is an honor."
The reply was clever, but Olenna wasn't finished.
"Generally speaking, knights of common birth don't live very long," she continued mercilessly. "They either get cut down in their first real battle, or they're sent on a mission by the lord they serve and die on the way. I've even heard of some who tripped on the stairs and fell to their deaths."
Her words were a clear jab at his lowborn origins, implying that one wrong step on the climb to power could end him.
Corleone smiled.
It wasn't a forced smile or a mocking one. It was a calm, genuine expression of confidence.
"At least I'm still one of the ones who's alive," he said. "And doing quite well."
"Besides… I'm very fond of House Tyrell's words—Growing Strong, my lady."
Olenna paused.
She had expected him to argue, fight back, or try to prove his worth.
Instead, this man had suddenly started praising House Tyrell's motto?
What was he playing at?
Olenna narrowed her eyes. "Growing Strong isn't much of a motto, is it?"
"It doesn't have the power of Hear Me Roar, and it certainly lacks the weight of Ours Is the Fury."
She was fishing, trying to see what this farmer-turned-knight would say about such a seemingly plain house words.
Corleone folded his hands in front of him and spoke with calm sincerity. "But it's… resilient."
"My lady, growth cannot be stopped completely."
"You can cut down a rose, burn its branches, tear out its roots. But as long as one seed falls into the soil—even the poorest, hardest soil—and there's a single rain, a single ray of sunlight, it will sprout again."
Olenna didn't speak. She simply stared at him.
Beside her, Margaery looked genuinely curious, her large eyes fixed on Corleone.
"Highgarden's roses didn't conquer the Reach by roaring or by burning every other flower," Corleone continued, turning to meet Margaery's gaze. His voice was soft but carried strength. "They simply… kept growing."
"Spring, summer, autumn they set seed, winter they sleep. Then the next year they grow again. Ten years. A hundred. A thousand."
"Eventually, people look up and realize the entire land is covered in roses."
"Not because they defeated anyone, but because every other flower came and went. Only the roses remained."
The hall fell silent.
Even the sound of servants pouring wine could be heard clearly.
Olenna looked at Corleone. The surprise in her eyes was unmistakable.
Such insightful words, coming from a man born a farmer… it was hard to believe.
After a moment, she laughed.
The Queen of Thorns laughed so hard her shoulders shook, wrinkles piling together like an ordinary old woman who had just heard a wonderful joke.
"Heh… hahahaha!"
Her laughter echoed through the hall. Everyone turned to look.
When she finally stopped, she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.
"You really are an interesting man, Ser Corleone."
She stepped forward and took his hand, like an elder showing concern for a younger man.
But her voice dropped to a whisper only he could hear.
"I don't care what you did or who you conspired with. I only care about results."
"I know it was you and that madwoman Cersei. You got Loras out of the way across the Narrow Sea, but at least he didn't marry her."
She gave a cold laugh. "That woman is poison. Whoever marries her, their house will rot from the inside out."
"The Old Lion wanted to use her to trap the Tyrells. Hah…"
"He doesn't understand his own daughter. He doesn't understand me. Or maybe he does… and simply doesn't care."
She finished and stepped back, restoring the distance between them.
"Still, you've been noticed by a madwoman, Ser Corleone. Your future won't be easy."
Corleone's expression didn't change. His eyes remained perfectly calm.
"I only ask whether something should be done," he said. "I don't ask whether it's easy."
Olenna studied him for three seconds, then slowly nodded.
"Good."
She turned and began walking toward the main table, leaning on her cane. As she passed him, she spoke one last time, voice low.
"But remember, boy… when you've stirred up a nest of vipers, the best way isn't to kill them one by one. You'll get bitten by every last one before they die."
"Throw in a rat instead. A fat, bleeding rat."
"Then step back to a safe distance and watch them tear each other apart for the prize. Wait quietly until the last snake stops moving."
She gave him one final, deep look and walked away.
Hah. This old woman.
Corleone watched her retreating back and chuckled inwardly.
Even though their houses were technically allies, she never missed a chance to trip up the Lannisters.
Still, it made sense. The situation had mostly stabilized. If House Lannister became too dominant, House Tyrell would be reduced to mere vassals.
Even if her granddaughter was clever enough to keep the king wrapped around her finger, she would never reach into the Small Council while Tywin ruled it.
But roses were resilient and thorny… and they still needed hands to pluck them.
Especially hands that worked in the dark.
"Oh ho ho~ Forgive me, Lord Hand!"
Olenna reached the main table and sat to Tywin's right, dramatically rubbing her lower back.
"You know how it is—when you get old, the legs don't work like they used to. I walk so slowly."
Tywin showed no irritation. He simply gave a small nod. "I didn't expect you to attend in person, my lady."
"It seems your relationship with Ser Corleone is quite good. I noticed the two of you talking for quite some time."
Instead of answering directly, Olenna turned and snapped at the servant beside her. "Don't give me juice, you fool. Do you think someone my age can't drink anymore?"
"I want wine! One of those cocktails Ser Corleone invented. Yes, that's it!"
She spoke loudly on purpose so half the hall could hear, sounding like a cranky old woman. "And make it strong!"
"Don't even think about watering it down. My tongue has tasted more wine than you've seen gold dragons. I can tell by one sip which year's grapes from the Mander had too much rain and which had too much sun!"
The servant hurried off.
A moment later he returned with an amber drink floating with lemon slices and mint leaves.
Olenna took a sip, closed her eyes, and swallowed.
Then she opened them, looking almost surprised. "Well now… not bad!"
"The wine itself isn't particularly fine, but the sweetness covers the sourness, and the fruit aroma cuts through the bitterness."
She spent a long time critiquing the drink before suddenly seeming to remember something and turning to Tywin.
"Oh, my lord, what were you asking me earlier?"
She tapped her wrinkled forehead, playing the forgetful old woman. "I'm so sorry. I'm just too old. Sometimes I forget what just happened the moment I turn around."
"Take the other day, for example. I meant to pay the final installment for the king's wedding to the Master of Coin… that adorable little fellow who's not even as tall as I am when I'm sitting down."
"But I took a nap and forgot all about it. Alas."
She rambled on about the hardships of old age and completely absolved herself of responsibility for the late payment.
Tywin picked up his cup but didn't press the matter.
After all, playing the fool was a woman's privilege. As Hand of the King, he wasn't about to match Olenna in pettiness.
But the Queen of Thorns didn't seem finished. She looked Tywin up and down with the fond, slightly condescending gaze old people sometimes gave the young.
"How old are you now, Lord Hand? Sixty?"
She knew the answer perfectly well.
As one of the few dukes in the Seven Kingdoms, Tywin Lannister's age was no secret.
"Fifty-four."
Tywin's expression didn't change. He took a sip of wine, then set the cup down.
His voice was calm, as if stating a simple fact—and also a quiet declaration of confidence.
For a man in power, the mid-fifties were the peak of experience and vitality.
"Fifty-four… that's a good age," Olenna said, drawing the words out dramatically as she leaned back in her chair with a long sigh, as if she had just heard something unbelievable.
She squinted, gaze drifting into the distance as if remembering. "When I was your age, my husband had already been dead for ten years."
"Mace had just inherited the lordship. He was so stupid back then—spent all his time playing with flowers, writing terrible poetry, skipping knight training whenever he could, and falling asleep after two pages of the accounts."
"I always regretted not taking a wooden spoon to his head when he was young and pounding some sense into that fat skull of his."
"But at least after he took over, he's managed the Reach quite well. Mm… better and better every year."
She chattered on like an ordinary gossipy old woman reminiscing about the past.
But Tywin heard exactly what she was really saying.
She was boasting.
I'm old, but I've kept my house strong.
A house's prosperity doesn't come from one or two gifted individuals. It comes from generations of careful cultivation.
And you, Tywin Lannister—your house may look all-powerful right now, but what about its foundation? What about its future?
The words were poisonous. Clearly, she was still bitter about Tywin forcing Cersei onto Loras.
Still, as Hand of the King, Tywin wasn't going to lower himself to her level.
He simply drummed his fingers lightly on the rim of his cup and replied coldly, "My health is excellent. Very excellent."
"Grand Maester Pycelle says I could easily serve another twenty years as Hand without any trouble."
Olenna's smile froze for a split second.
She had heard the counter perfectly.
You brag about raising the next generation, but the man sitting on the Iron Throne carries Lannister blood.
As long as that remains true, the Small Council stays firmly under my control.
After a moment of silence, Olenna let out a short laugh. She raised her cocktail and took a large swallow, throat working, then set the cup down with a loud thud.
"Well, that's wonderful news."
She wiped her mouth, eyes crinkling with amusement.
The two old foxes had finished their silent duel.
Meanwhile, Margaery had not followed her grandmother to the main table. Instead, she smiled at Corleone—a perfect, practiced smile.
He had to admit, the Tyrells had trained their young well.
The angle of her smile, the slight curve of her eyes, even the way her lashes cast shadows—it was all calculated to highlight her beauty to maximum effect.
"Please forgive my grandmother, Ser Corleone," she said gently. "She's old and sometimes… forgets the finer points of etiquette. But please believe me—her heart is in the right place."
Corleone gave a small nod. "Lady Olenna is very wise. Speaking with her was quite pleasant."
"Sometimes I even envy those who have such a caring grandmother."
The words were half true, half false.
In his original world, he had never met his grandmother. The same was true here.
More importantly, the comment would make her feel good.
People always relaxed a little when someone envied something they possessed.
"Heh."
Margaery covered her mouth with a small laugh, but her eyes remained watchful. "You really do know how to speak, Ser."
"Loras used to say that every time he stood in front of Grandmother, he felt like jumping off a cliff."
"He even suspected Grandfather threw himself off one because he couldn't take any more of her venomous tongue."
It was a light joke—and a test.
She was probing Corleone's attitude toward Loras's "disappearance" by casually bringing up a sensitive topic and watching his reaction.
Corleone played along with a warm, natural smile. "I think that's because Lady Olenna has a gift for seeing things exactly as they are."
"And most people… aren't very brave about facing the truth—especially the less flattering parts."
His answer was nearly perfect. He neither denied nor confirmed anything about Loras, while elevating the conversation to something about human nature.
Everyone feared being seen through. It wasn't just Loras. It was everyone.
Therefore, Loras had shown courage by pursuing love.
Margaery looked at Corleone with a flicker of genuine admiration in her eyes.
This man's replies were flawless—he gave her an exit while protecting his own position. It was a shame his birth was so low.
She fell silent for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully.
Then she took a deep breath, as if shedding her mask and revealing something more genuine—almost reckless, like a girl her age.
"Ser Corleone!"
"I want to ask you a question. Please… please answer me honestly."
Her wording was deliberate.
"Answer me honestly," not "tell me the truth."
The first was a request, showing trust. The second was a demand, carrying distance.
She really was the Rose of Highgarden.
Corleone felt a flicker of respect, but he nodded, his expression turning serious. "Please ask."
Margaery lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes with her large, doe-like brown eyes. Her soft lips parted.
"The attack the other day… on Pickled Meat Street. Was that your doing?"
No preamble. No circling. Straight to the heart.
That was Margaery Tyrell's style—sweet and understanding on the surface, but sharp as a blade underneath.
Their eyes met.
She probably already knew the answer. But she had chosen to ask Corleone directly.
This wasn't about revenge or threats. It was about testing whether this man was worth working with.
Clever.
Corleone thought.
The most direct way to get the most important information.
No games. No false politeness. Because she knew that with someone who truly understood the game, those things only wasted time.
"Lady Margaery."
Corleone met her gaze without the slightest panic or evasion. Only perfect calm.
As if he had been expecting this question all along—as ordinary as asking if it might rain tomorrow.
"In this city, some questions…"
He never finished.
At that moment, a loud argument erupted at the hall doors.
It was heated. Snatches of greetings to family members could be heard, though the accent was unusual—not the King's Landing dialect, but still carrying a refined, elegant charm.
Corleone frowned and turned to Margaery with a small bow. "Forgive me, my lady. I'll be right back."