The carriage stopped at the corner of a Flea Bottom street.
Corleone pushed open the door, jumped down first, then turned and offered his hand.
Margaery lifted her skirts, stepped onto the running board, took his hand, and climbed out. She looked around at the busy street.
People moved in every direction. Porters in rough tunics carried loads past them. Middle-aged women with headscarves haggled at stalls. Barefoot children weaved through the crowd, chasing each other and laughing. The air smelled of fresh bread, salted fish, cheap wine, and that particular mix of sweat and smoke that always clung to poor neighborhoods.
But the street was clean. The cobblestones had been swept. Stalls were lined up neatly. No one was blocking the road, and the corners weren't piled with trash.
"Lord Corleone!"
A surprised voice called out from nearby.
Margaery turned. A middle-aged man selling bread stood up from behind his stall, grinning as he waved at Corleone. His apron was covered in flour and he had a white streak across his face.
"My lord! What brings you here today?"
He quickly grabbed a fresh loaf still warm from the oven and held it out with both hands.
"Try it! Just came out. Still hot."
Corleone glanced at the loaf. It was golden-brown with a few sesame seeds on top. It looked good.
He didn't take it.
"Old Tom, didn't you say last time your daughter was getting married?"
The man blinked, then his grin widened.
"That's right! The wedding's next month. Thanks to the work you set up for me, I finally saved enough for a proper dowry."
Corleone nodded.
In most of the Seven Kingdoms, the bride's family was expected to provide the dowry, even among nobles. Margaery herself had been married three times, and each time House Tyrell had paid a heavy price.
He reached into his coat, flipped a silver stag into the man's palm with a soft clink, and patted him on the shoulder.
"Save a little more. Make sure that boy treats her right."
Then he kept walking.
Margaery hurried to stay beside him. She glanced back at the baker. The man was still smiling like he'd been handed the moon.
"Lord Corleone!"
Another voice. This time a woman selling fruit, maybe forty, skin weathered and hands rough with calluses. She brightened when she saw him and grabbed several bright red apples from her stall, trying to press them into his hands.
"My lord! Take some! Fresh this morning!"
Corleone accepted them, smelled one, and nodded. "Good."
The woman beamed. "I always save the best ones for you!"
This time he didn't pay. He handed one of the apples to Margaery.
"Eat. These are from the Order's own orchards."
She took it and bit in. Sweet.
They kept walking. More people noticed him.
A fishmonger put down his knife and waved. Even the porters stopped and stepped aside with respectful nods.
A barefoot little boy pushed through the crowd, clutching a small bunch of wildflowers. Only five or six blooms, already starting to wilt at the edges. He ran straight up to Corleone and held them up high.
"My lord! These are for you!"
Margaery looked down at him. The boy was maybe seven or eight, thin, dirt on his face, but his eyes were bright.
"What are they?" she asked.
"Flowers!" the boy said proudly. "I picked them myself!"
Corleone took the bouquet, looked at the drooping petals, then reached out and gently ruffled the boy's hair.
"Don't go too far next time."
"I won't, my lord!" the boy shouted, then turned and disappeared back into the crowd.
Margaery watched the whole exchange with a small smile, but something complicated moved behind her eyes.
She was used to being the one people loved and cheered for. This felt different.
"You've done a good job here," she said after a moment, voice sincere.
"I came through Flea Bottom several times after the Battle of the Blackwater. Back then I visited war orphans, brought food and clothes. I wore my favorite dress and shoes and they got filthy after just a few steps."
She looked around at the clean street.
"Now I don't have to worry about that."
Corleone was quiet for a few seconds. Then he raised a hand and pointed at her fine leather boots.
"A good pair of shoes shouldn't get ruined." He pointed farther down the street. "Flea Bottom used to be like a stain on the expensive shoes of King's Landing. I didn't really do anything special. I just wiped the dirt off so the city could show what it was supposed to look like. That's all."
Margaery looked at him.
He said it so casually, like it was nothing.
They kept walking until the street narrowed into a smaller lane lined with low houses. Clothes hung on lines between the buildings, catching the sunlight. This was Laundry Lane. Corleone had organized the washerwomen here into a proper system so they could work faster and get paid fairly.
Suddenly they heard shouting ahead.
A woman's voice, sharp and angry, cracking with tears.
"It's not fair! This isn't fair!"
"I worked a whole month! Why aren't you paying me?"
Another voice joined in, younger and just as loud.
"Exactly! You're not being fair! Why are you bullying people?"
Margaery's eyes lit up. Drama.
She gathered her skirts and hurried forward without waiting.
Corleone shook his head and followed.
They reached a small open space where a crowd had gathered. In the middle stood three women.
One was older, maybe forty, in a rough gray dress, face lined and tear-streaked. She was crying loudly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
"I worked my fingers to the bone for a month! I came every single day! I worked harder than anyone! Why won't you pay me?"
Beside her stood a younger woman, early twenties, strikingly pretty with long golden hair and bright blue eyes. Her skin was a warm bronze, clearly Dornish. She looked furious on the older woman's behalf.
"That's right! She did the work, so she gets paid!"
The Dornish woman gestured angrily. "You're taking advantage of poor people! This isn't right!"
Margaery watched with interest. The Dornish woman seemed genuinely outraged, but something about her felt… off. Too loud. Too quick to take sides.
Facing them was a tall, slender girl of fifteen or sixteen with long auburn hair. Sansa Stark.
She stood calmly, arms at her sides, looking at the crying woman without anger or pity. Just steady.
Margaery blinked in surprise and glanced at Corleone.
He nodded. "That's her. After the divorce she stayed in Flea Bottom. She didn't want to live for free, so I gave her responsibility over the washerwomen."
Margaery looked back at Sansa. The girl she remembered had been sweet and naïve. This version looked older. Sharper. She wore a simple gray dress and a plain belt, but she carried herself like someone who had learned to stand her ground.
Sansa spoke, voice calm and clear.
"Have you finished crying?"
The older woman—Lyla—stopped mid-sob and stared.
Sansa continued. "Lyla. How much work did you actually do this month?"
Lyla wiped her face. "I… I came every day!"
"You came," Sansa said. "But you left early. Multiple times."
She pulled a small notebook from her pocket and opened it.
"On the seventeenth you left an hour early. On the nineteenth you left an hour early again. On the twenty-second you didn't come in the morning at all and left early in the afternoon…"
"Enough!" Lyla snapped, but her voice shook.
Sansa closed the book. "You left early because your son was sick. No one blames you for that. But when you came back, you never said a word. You never thanked the women who finished your work. You just acted like nothing happened."
She stepped closer. "Lyla, those extra days of work had to be done by someone else. So I gave them your pay. That's fair."
The Dornish woman bristled. "That's not fair! She had a reason! Her son was sick! The others helped because they wanted to!"
Sansa turned to her. "Did you ask them? Did they tell you they were happy to work for free?"
The Dornish woman faltered.
Sansa looked back at Lyla. "You needed help. That's human. But you took it without asking and without thanks. That's not how things work here."
She held Lyla's gaze. "This is fair."
Margaery watched the whole exchange in silence.
Sansa Stark had changed. She wasn't the frightened little bird anymore.
She was learning how to run things.
And she was doing it Corleone's way.