No way. They really sent this loser to hit on the Little Rose?
Corleone watched Osney Kettleblack bolt after a couple of words and felt a sharp wave of disbelief. The guy had barely opened his mouth before Margaery shut him down and he ran like a kicked dog.
Once Osney was gone the garden went quiet. Only the wind moved through the leaves.
Margaery stood right beside him, those big brown eyes locked on his face like she was trying to read something written there. The look was warm enough to feel sticky. Corleone knew it was classic Tyrell family business, but he still cleared his throat.
"Your Grace?"
She blinked, snapped out of whatever she'd been thinking, and lifted her head to meet his eyes. A perfect little flush of embarrassment appeared on her cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Lord Corleone," she said, voice soft and full of self-reproach. "I never meant for you and Ser Osney to clash. I just thought… you're both brave knights. Maybe you'd find something to talk about. I didn't expect it to turn out like this."
She lowered her head, lashes trembling just enough to look sincere.
Corleone stared at that innocent, self-blaming expression and mentally rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt.
Classic Tyrell move. The tea was practically spilling over the table.
What was that line about "both brave knights"? Osney Kettleblack, the useless prick who got his face scratched up by a whore when he tried to skip payment, was supposed to be in the same league as him?
He didn't call her on it.
He knew exactly what she was doing. Using him as a weapon to swat away an annoying fly. Normally he would've made her pay for trying to pull his strings, but he still owed the Tyrells a little something after shipping her brother Loras across the Narrow Sea for political reasons. Loras had been thrilled to go, but still. Call it compensation.
"Your Grace," Corleone said, keeping his voice calm and even. "Beautiful women always attract men with bad intentions. That's not their fault. It's just the price of beauty. A real knight protects them from that kind of trouble instead of blaming them for drawing flies."
Margaery froze. She lifted her head and stared at him with wide brown eyes. Something bright and startled flashed behind them.
She had never heard anyone say that before.
Her grandmother had taught her that beauty was a weapon. A tool. Something you used to get what you wanted or to defend yourself in a world that wanted to use you first. But never this. Never that it was a burden a true knight should help carry.
The words settled in her chest like warm stones.
She looked at his plain face and those bottomless black eyes. He wasn't handsome like Loras. Nothing about him stood out in a crowd. But those eyes saw straight through people.
If he were king…
The thought hit her so hard she almost flinched. If Corleone sat the Iron Throne he would be the kind of ruler the realm actually needed. Steady. Sharp. Strong without cruelty. He would listen. He would choose the right people. He would fix what was broken.
And if she stood beside him…
She could almost see it. The two of them reshaping the realm together. Making it better. Making it matter.
"Your Grace?"
Corleone's voice pulled her back. She blinked and found him watching her with quiet curiosity.
Her face warmed. She didn't look away.
"I'm sorry, my lord," she said, letting just the right amount of shyness into her voice. "I caused you trouble."
She met his eyes again, sincere now. "My grandmother always says I'm not very good at handling these situations. A woman has to survive in this court somehow. It isn't easy."
Corleone nodded once. "Lady Olenna is a wise woman. Like good Arbor wine. The older it gets, the better it tastes."
Margaery's eyes lit up. She took a small step closer.
"Lord Corleone," she said, softer now, "next time something like this happens and you're not here… what should I do?"
He went still for a second, then his expression turned serious.
"Your Grace," he said, voice low and direct. "Next time, just order the man to leave. You're the queen. You don't have to smile at everyone. You don't need everyone to like you. Sometimes that costs you something more important than popularity."
He held her gaze. "It costs you respect. From me, too. Next time you're in trouble, give the order. Tell me to handle it or tell the man to get out. Don't play games to make it happen."
Margaery went quiet. She stood there realizing he had seen every move she made and still stepped in anyway.
Something warm and dangerous bloomed in her chest.
She didn't hide. She didn't look down. She straightened her shoulders, met his eyes without flinching, and smiled.
"You really are an upright knight, Lord Corleone."
He studied her for a moment, then smiled back, small and real.
"Upright knights are everywhere," he said. "Most of them swear to the Iron Throne. But the person sitting on it right now doesn't just have a wife."
He paused. "He also has a mother."
Margaery's eyes widened. She followed his slight nod toward Maegor's Holdfast and felt her stomach drop.
That bitch.
The words slipped out before she could stop them. She never lost control like that. Not in public. Not ever.
Corleone didn't react. He just waited.
When she looked at him again his face was calm.
"It isn't easy being a woman in this court," he said quietly. "So keep your eyes open, Your Grace. They're beautiful. They just need to be sharper."
He turned to go.
"Lord Corleone!"
She called after him. When he stopped and looked back she walked straight to him, sunlight catching in her hair, and slipped her arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"It's been too long since I visited Flea Bottom," she said, smiling up at him like nothing in the world could touch her. "Take me for a walk, my lord."
She winked. Playful. Dangerous. Completely herself.
Corleone looked at the arm linked with his, then at her bright, unapologetic face.
He laughed once, low and short.
"As you command, Your Grace."
They walked out of the garden together, shadows close on the gravel path.
From a window in Maegor's Holdfast, Cersei Lannister watched them go.
A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face.
The rose and the godfather. How convenient.
She turned to the man behind her.
"Follow them," she said. "I want to know every word they say."