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CaveLeather
The moment those words left Joffrey's mouth, the Kingsguard exchanged horrified glances, faces draining of color.
They'd been so focused on protecting the king that they'd completely forgotten about Margaery. If she turned up dead or ruined, the Queen of Thorns would never let it go. Even white cloaks wouldn't be enough to save them.
Corleone didn't bother getting angry at Joffrey. He knew the boy's brain folds were smoother than a baby's ass—whatever came out of that mouth was never worth taking personally.
Cersei, however, let out a perfectly timed sob that cut through the tension.
"Seven Hells!"
She covered her face, shoulders shaking, voice thick with fake tears.
But Corleone could see the corners of her mouth twitching upward through her fingers.
"Lady Margaery… she's probably already—"
"Oh, poor girl. She's only sixteen. What if she ends up like that simpleton from House Stokeworth?"
"Even if we find her, I doubt she'll ever be fit to be queen…"
She sounded so sincere, so heartbroken, that even Joffrey almost wondered if he'd imagined that shove.
Corleone just shook his head.
This stupid woman was willing to destroy Margaery's reputation—and possibly her life—just to settle a score. With Loras gone, Margaery was the only thread tying the Tyrells to the Lannisters. Cersei was basically shoving their strongest ally straight into the enemy camp.
It was almost as brain-dead as Robb Stark executing Lord Karstark.
Still, that wasn't his problem. Let Tywin and Olenna tear each other apart. He'd watch from the sidelines.
But today's riot might fool Joffrey. It wouldn't fool Tywin or Olenna Redwyne.
If anything happened to Margaery, Corleone knew he'd be the first one they strung up.
Luckily…
Just as Cersei was about to burst out laughing, footsteps echoed from the alley.
A stocky, noseless man stepped out with several others.
Rorge grinned, the expression somehow uglier than his usual scowl. It made a perfect contrast with Cersei's fake crying.
But none of that mattered.
Because cradled in his arms was a disheveled young woman.
Margaery Tyrell.
Her pale blue gown was torn and filthy, hair a tangled mess, face streaked with dirt and tears. Yet her clothes were still mostly intact. She clung tightly to Rorge's neck like he was the only safe thing left in the world.
Rorge carried her straight to Corleone, set her down carefully, then straightened his hunched back with ridiculous pride.
A kid from Flea Bottom never dreamed he'd one day hold the future queen in his arms.
His fingers twitched. The warm, soft feeling still lingered on his palms. For a second he almost didn't want to let go.
Margaery's legs wobbled, but she steadied herself.
She looked up—first at Corleone, then at Joffrey—before shooting Cersei a glare so venomous it could have killed.
Her lips trembled. She clearly wanted to say something, but held it back.
"Your Grace. Lord Corleone."
Rorge's voice boomed loud enough for everyone to hear. "We found Lady Margaery in the alley. Some men had her cornered, but we got there in time. She's unharmed."
Cersei's face twisted like she'd been slapped.
Corleone didn't even glance at her. He walked straight to Margaery, shrugged off his cloak, and draped it over her shaking shoulders.
"You're safe now, Lady Margaery. Don't worry."
Margaery's eyes flashed with rage for a split second—then she stumbled forward and threw herself into Joffrey's arms, sobbing.
"Oh, Your Grace! Thank the gods you're all right!"
Joffrey just nodded blankly. He was glad she was alive… but something felt off.
Cersei had already composed herself. She stepped forward with open arms, voice dripping honey.
"My dear, thank the Seven you're—"
Margaery dodged her.
Cersei's arms hung awkwardly in the air. Her smile froze.
She quickly recovered and turned to Corleone instead. "Thank you so much, Lord Corleone."
"It was nothing. Just doing my duty."
Corleone nodded, voice steady and sincere. "Protecting the king is every citizen of King's Landing's responsibility. Lady Margaery is our future queen. If anything had happened to her, I'm sure the Hand and Lord Tyrell would have been… extremely displeased."
He stressed the last two words. Even someone as thick as Cersei couldn't miss the warning.
She took a slow breath. Anger still burned in her chest, but she stayed silent.
"Your Grace."
Corleone turned to Joffrey. "Today's attack didn't happen in Flea Bottom, but as compensation, I'll take full responsibility for these rioters. Hand them over to me."
Joffrey's eyes lit up. "Kill them! Slaughter every last one of those scum! I want this whole street wiped out!"
The bound "rioters" turned red-faced with fury.
Corleone raised a hand. "Killing them would be too easy, Your Grace. I have a better idea."
"What idea?"
"Let them live," Corleone said. "But from this day forward, their lives belong to the crown."
"These men will work under my supervision until the day they die. Every drop of sweat, every ounce of strength—used to atone for their crime."
"Death is quick. Working until you drop… that's a lifetime of suffering. And it shows the Iron Throne's mercy. You gave them life, even if that life is worse than death."
Joffrey's face split into a cruel grin.
This was perfect.
No executions meant no bad reputation.
But these scum would suffer more than if they'd been killed.
And it sounded so wise—like something a real king would decide.
"Excellent!" Joffrey cleared his throat, trying to sound regal. "It's decided. They're yours, Corleone."
"I want them working until they drop—every single minute in agony!"
"As you command, Your Grace."
Corleone bowed.
The bound men nearly burst out laughing.
Work for Corleone until they died?
That wasn't punishment. That was a promotion.
Before Corleone arrived, most of them could barely feed themselves. Now they got free food, shelter, and good pay. This was a reward, not a sentence.
"Also," Corleone continued while Joffrey was still pleased, "to prevent incidents like this in the future, I request permission to strengthen security around Flea Bottom. I'll raise a hundred-man force at my own expense—to show the Iron Throne's strength."
"Done!" Joffrey agreed instantly. Every suggestion from Corleone felt like it was made with the king's best interests in mind.
If he weren't terrified of his grandfather, he'd have put Corleone on the Small Council right then and there.
"I'm going to reward you, Corleone!"
He clapped Corleone on the shoulder, beaming. "You deserve it! The Small Council needs men like—"
"Your Grace!"
"Joffrey!"
Both Corleone and Cersei cut him off at the same time.
The Small Council seats belonged to Tywin. If the old lion thought Corleone was scheming for one, things would get ugly fast.
Cersei, meanwhile, was feeling guilty. She'd already gotten rid of Loras. Almost getting Margaery killed too was pushing it.
"Lord Corleone saved us today," she said loudly, making sure everyone heard. "That kind of bravery deserves recognition. I believe he should be knighted!"
Joffrey nodded eagerly. "Yes! He should!"
"I'll knight you myself—"
"Impossible, Your Grace!"
Corleone cut him off again.
Joffrey looked confused. Corleone's expression was earnest.
"I'm lowborn, Your Grace. Just a farmer's son. How could I accept knighthood from someone as noble as you?"
"Exactly," Cersei added quickly. "Blood matters, but today's actions proved Lord Corleone's courage, wisdom, and loyalty. Let Ser Kevan Lannister perform the ceremony in the Great Sept tomorrow morning. It honors him without overstepping."
Joffrey, easily swayed, nodded. "Fine. It's settled. Uncle Kevan will knight you at dawn."
Corleone finally allowed himself a genuine smile.
As Tywin's hand in the dark, earning a knighthood directly from the old lion was nearly impossible. This roundabout way was the only option.
A few hiccups, but overall it had gone smoothly.
Cersei was only helping because Corleone had reminded her that Tywin could still marry her off whenever it suited him. She needed his permanent solution.
"Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace the Queen Regent."
Corleone bowed. "Allow me to escort you back to the Red Keep. The streets… are still not entirely safe."
He mounted his horse. Iggo raised the black-hand banner.
Three carriages rolled up. Joffrey climbed in and collapsed onto the cushions, completely drained.
He glanced out the window and saw Corleone riding alongside the column, back straight as a sword. For the first time all day, he felt truly safe.
The procession moved off.
The chaos faded behind them. The riot had been fast and strangely bloodless. Even the street where it started was already clean again.
Only one thing was missing.
Ser Meryn Trant's white-cloaked body.