Too arrogant.
When Corleone spoke like that, Grand Maester Pycelle—who had been pretending to doze off—nearly slammed his forehead into the table.
Pycelle had entered royal service at forty-two and served six kings: Aegon V, Jaehaerys II, the Mad King, Robert, Joffrey, and now Tommen. He had every right to call himself a veteran of six reigns.
But ever since Tywin became Hand, he had never seen anyone speak to the old lion this way inside the Tower of the Hand.
Still, when he glanced at Corleone standing tall and straight, Pycelle felt his own back hunch a little more, as if some invisible weight were pressing down on him.
He had noticed it for a while now—this young man from the Riverlands carried a quiet, growing pressure that made people instinctively lower their eyes. Pycelle had only felt something similar twice before: once when Robert Baratheon first took the throne, drunk on victory and radiating raw power.
Ah, what did it matter to him?
At nearly ninety, Pycelle had seen enough kings rise and fall. The less he involved himself in power struggles, the longer he lived. He had his whores, his books, and his quiet little vices. Why risk any of that?
So he kept his head down, eyes fixed on the tabletop, and said nothing.
Interesting. The table seemed especially flat today.
"You're being rude, Lord Corleone."
Pycelle might have stayed silent, but someone else wasn't willing to let it slide.
Kevan Lannister, Tywin's loyal brother, was the first to stand. His voice was sharp with outrage. "While the rest of us on the Small Council have been working ourselves to the bone to keep the Seven Kingdoms from falling apart, you—"
"Lord Mace Tyrell rode out last night to put down a rebellion in the Reach. Lord Varys has been up all night sorting intelligence from every corner of the realm. Grand Maester Pycelle rises before dawn to tutor the king. And I spend every day buried under stacks of cases and petitions!"
He jabbed a finger at Corleone. "If you're too busy, then get out. There are plenty of men who would kill for your seat as Master of Coin!"
"Is your time somehow more valuable than everyone else's?"
Kevan's face had gone red. "If you don't have time, then leave!"
Corleone looked at him, genuinely surprised for half a second. Then he smiled, turned on his heel, and walked straight toward the door.
Everyone stared.
He actually left.
He was already reaching for the handle when Tywin's voice cut through the room.
"Wait."
Corleone stopped and turned back, one hand still on the door.
"Sit down, Kevan," Tywin said quietly.
Kevan opened his mouth, but one look from his brother shut it. He dropped back into his chair, fuming but obedient.
Tywin turned his green eyes on Corleone. His tone was cooler, but measured. "Take a seat, Lord Corleone. The meeting hasn't started yet."
Corleone didn't move. His hand stayed on the door.
"Lord Kevan told me to leave," he said evenly. "And I don't like causing trouble for people. If the Master of Laws thinks I don't belong here, then I'll go."
He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Tywin's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair, but he kept his voice calm. "Lord Kevan is the Master of Laws. You are the Master of Coin. Both of you sit on this council. No one leaves this room without my say-so."
Corleone still didn't sit. He just watched Tywin, waiting.
After a moment, Tywin glanced around the table. "Lord Corleone's fighting pits bring in gold by the wagonload every day. We all know that. His time is valuable—that's exactly why we put his name forward to the king as Master of Coin."
No one argued. They had all seen the numbers.
Corleone listened without changing expression, but inside he was laughing.
Valuable because he makes money? How polite.
What they really meant was: the treasury is empty, the Lannister gold mines are running dry, and we need someone who can actually fill the hole.
He didn't call it out.
Instead he nodded once. "That almost sounded like a compliment."
He still didn't move toward the chair.
"So," he said, voice flat, "if that's all, I'll be going. I've got stew waiting at home and I'm in a hurry."
He turned again.
This time Tywin let him reach the door before speaking.
"The Iron Bank has sent envoys," Tywin said. "They want the debts Robert Baratheon owed them paid. Immediately."
Corleone paused with his hand on the door. He had been expecting this.
He turned back around, calm as ever. "I'll handle it. Tell them to come see me at the Hall of Order tomorrow."
He didn't sound worried. He sounded like someone who had already done the math and knew exactly how he was going to pay.
Tywin studied him for a long second, then gave a short nod. "Very well."
Corleone didn't thank him. He just opened the door.
Before he stepped through, he looked back one last time, eyes sweeping the table.
Pycelle. Varys. Kevan. Finally landing on Tywin.
"I expect the next Small Council meeting to be held in the throne room," he said. "Not here."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because I hate walking," Corleone answered with a lazy shrug. "The Tower of the Hand is too far. If the next meeting isn't in the throne room, don't bother sending anyone to fetch me."
He walked out laughing.
The door shut behind him.
Inside the room, silence stretched.
Varys was the first to speak, his voice light and poisonous. "Our new Master of Coin is certainly full of himself."
Kevan's scowl eased slightly. Even he had to admit the fat eunuch had a point for once.
Tywin didn't look at either of them. He simply tapped the table once with his fingers.
"Let him deal with the Iron Bank first," he said. "We'll see how long that confidence lasts."
Corleone stepped out of the Tower of the Hand into the cold morning light. The mist was starting to burn off, and the air smelled like salt from Blackwater Bay mixed with the last dying flowers in the Red Keep gardens.
Six million dragons in debt.
The number was insane, but his steps stayed light.
Half of it was Lannister debt. As long as Tywin was still Hand, that part could be dragged out forever.
The Faith's ninety thousand? He had the High Septon and most of the Most Devout in his pocket for now.
The Tyrells? Margaery had just become queen. They weren't going to press too hard while their girl sat on the throne.
That left the Iron Bank's hundred-and-fifty thousand as the real problem.
Still, Corleone wasn't worried.
It wasn't his debt. It was the Iron Throne's.
He was already thinking about how to handle the Braavosi envoys when a loud, theatrical voice drifted over from the gardens.
"Ohhh, Your Grace the Queen!"
"Your dress and these gardens are a perfect match. I swear, even the finest roses of Highgarden pale next to you!"
The voice was so exaggerated it made Corleone's mouth twitch in distaste.
He turned his head.
In a small pavilion nearby stood Margaery Tyrell—now Margaery Baratheon, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She wore a deep green gown embroidered with golden vines and roses, her hair arranged in an elegant knot with a few soft curls framing her face.
In front of her stood Osney Kettleblack, leaning in with that same cocky grin Corleone had seen on too many second-rate knights. Three ugly scars ran down one cheek, ruining what might have once been a handsome face.
His eyes were all over Margaery like he was already undressing her in his head.
Margaery's smile stayed perfectly polite, sweet as honey.
"You flatter me, Ser Osney," she said, laughing lightly. "But I seem to recall you telling my grandmother the exact same thing at my wedding feast. That she looked younger than me."
Osney's smile froze for a split second.
Margaery tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mock innocence. "Does that mean you're also interested in my grandmother? She's been a widow for many years now. I'm sure she'd be delighted to receive such a charming young knight."
She started to turn as if she were actually going to fetch Olenna right then.
"I'll go speak with her at once! You should prepare yourself, Ser Osney. In a few weeks you might find yourself calling me 'Granddaughter'!"
Corleone watched from a distance, arms crossed, a small smirk on his face.
Smart girl.
Osney Kettleblack looked like he'd just swallowed a live frog.
Margaery didn't even glance Corleone's way as she walked off, skirts swaying, leaving the scarred knight standing there red-faced and speechless.
Corleone shook his head and kept walking.
He really was in a hurry.
Stew was waiting.