Read my new story >>Marvel *Villain Points* (Evil MC)
CaveLeather
Corleone sat behind his desk on the third floor of the Hall of Order, several parchment ledgers spread out in front of him.
Rolje had brought them up that morning—monthly accounts from Flea Bottom, the latest fighter rankings from the Ring of Order, and a few business contracts that needed his signature.
He dipped his quill in the inkwell and was about to sign the last contract when the window was suddenly pushed open from the outside.
"I'm back!"
A woman's voice with a Dornish accent rang out. A moment later a figure in gray-white robes climbed through the window and dropped onto the stone floor with a solid thud.
Corleone's quill paused. He looked up, already feeling a headache forming.
Sure enough, it was Tyene Sand.
She wore the rough gray robes of a Silent Sister, the wide hood pushed back to reveal her pretty, distinctly unhappy face. She walked straight over to the chair across from his desk and dropped into it without any ceremony, slumping back against the carved wood.
Clearly, she didn't stand on ceremony here. She kicked off her boots and casually propped both bare feet up on the edge of his desk, wiggling her toes.
"That old bitch is about ready to lose her mind," Tyene said, sounding far too pleased with herself. "You should see her. The Silent Sisters drag her out of bed before dawn every single day and make her kneel in front of the statues of the Seven for hours. Her knees are already swollen."
"After praying she's not even allowed to eat properly. They say it's part of her penance. Two meals a day—thin porridge and a piece of black bread so hard it could kill a dog."
"First day she threw the bowl on the floor and screamed that she was the Queen Regent, not a prisoner. The Silent Sisters didn't even look at her. They just kept doing what they were doing. Can't talk, remember? So they acted like she wasn't even there."
Tyene kept going, clearly enjoying the retelling. "Oh, and every day they make her strip so they can check her body. They say they have to make sure she hasn't been seeded with anything unclean."
"After all, she spent the whole night rolling around in the grass with Osney Kettleblack. What if she actually got pregnant?"
"She's thirty-five, not some blushing girl. It's not that easy at her age."
Tyene's eyes sparkled with gossip as she recounted everything she had seen and heard while posing as a Silent Sister inside the Great Sept.
She really did have a gift for storytelling. Even Corleone found the corner of his mouth twitching at the image of Cersei's current misery.
Still… the view from where he was sitting was less than ideal.
"Feet down," he said, tapping the desk.
"Why?" Tyene looked down at her own feet, then back at him. "They're clean."
"This has nothing to do with whether they're clean. You're a woman, Tyene. Act like one."
Corleone took a slow breath. He could admit Tyene was beautiful—warm bronze skin, striking features, big bright eyes, and a full mouth. Her feet weren't ugly either. But that wasn't the point.
She was wearing a skirt.
"Feet. Down," he repeated, voice firmer this time. "They smell."
Tyene muttered something under her breath in Dornish but finally pulled her legs off the desk. Before she did, she made a point of wiggling her toes again. "See? Not a speck of dirt. Perfectly clean."
Corleone decided not to argue further on the subject. He folded his hands on the desk and looked at her calmly.
"Continue."
Tyene straightened up a little, pleased to have his attention again. "You have no idea how miserable that woman looks without her clothes. All those stretch marks from three children… Gods, it was awful. I'm never having kids."
"Enough."
Corleone raised a hand, cutting her off before she could go any further. "I don't need that much detail."
Tyene pouted but shrugged. "Fine. The point is, she's right on the edge. One good push and she'll snap completely. I give it a week before she does something truly stupid."
"I understand," Corleone said, nodding once.
Cersei's reaction was exactly what he had expected. She had grown up sitting on a golden toilet. She had never known real hardship. Combined with her personality…
If they pushed her hard enough, she was capable of anything.
"So you and your sisters have successfully infiltrated the Great Sept as Silent Sisters?" he asked, steering the conversation back on track.
At that, Tyene's expression immediately soured.
"You have the nerve to ask? Do you have any idea how awful it is being a Silent Sister?"
"First of all, you can't talk. Not one single word. I've never gone this long without speaking in my entire life. I've already replayed every conversation I've ever had inside my own head. In another few days I'll probably start talking to myself."
"And we have to handle dead bodies! Gutting them, draining the blood, stuffing them with spices and herbs, sewing them back up, and rubbing them down with oils. The smell stays with you forever."
Corleone's mouth twitched again. "I thought you Sand Snakes were used to dealing with corpses."
"It's not the same!" Tyene protested. "Killing someone takes a second. And Obara usually handles the bodies afterward. I never do that part. It stinks!"
She crossed her arms, looking genuinely offended. "The worst part is that nobody warned us the Silent Sisters have to be celibate! That's the most important thing in the world, and those dried-up old women have been living without it for decades. I bet there are actual spiderwebs down there by now."
She slumped back in the chair with a dramatic sigh, the very picture of someone who had lost all faith in the world.
This conversation was rapidly heading into dangerous territory.
Corleone was quiet for a few seconds before he spoke again. "The Silent Sisters never speak and they keep their faces covered. It's the perfect disguise. If the High Septon didn't owe me several favors, you wouldn't have gotten inside the Sept so easily."
Tyene opened her mouth, clearly ready to argue, but before she could say anything a loud commotion erupted outside in the corridor.
"I fought for the realm! I bled at the Blackwater! I demand to see Lord Corleone!"
Corleone's brow furrowed.
"Go back for now," he told Tyene. "Report anything important as soon as it happens."
Tyene stood up, brushed the wrinkles out of her gray robes, and pulled the hood back over her head. Only her bright eyes were visible in the shadow.
"You really do treat us like tools," she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.
She turned toward the window, one foot already on the sill, then paused and looked back.
"Oh, right. That queen you told me to watch—Margaery Tyrell—she's been coming to the Sept a lot lately."
"Oh?"
Tyene nodded. "She doesn't bring many people with her. Sometimes just one maid. She stays for an hour or two each time."
"But I don't think she's actually there to pray. Feels more like she's coming to watch the old bitch suffer."
"I see," Corleone said, nodding once.
The little rose of Highgarden apparently held a grudge.
"Next time I'll have someone bring you some Lysene perfume," he added. "It might help with the smell of corpses."
Tyene's eyes lit up. "I knew you looked boring but you're actually a decent person!"
With that, the gray-robed figure slipped out the window and vanished into the afternoon sunlight. Only a faint footprint on the windowsill and a few dry leaves remained.
The shouting in the corridor was getting louder. It sounded like someone was being shoved.
Corleone tapped his fingers on the desk. "Rolje!"
The door opened and Rolje stepped inside, looking slightly embarrassed.
"My lord, outside—"
"I heard," Corleone cut him off. "What happened?"
"It's Bronn. He brought someone with him and insists on seeing you. The men downstairs told him you weren't seeing anyone today, so he started a fight."
"A fight?"
Corleone was quiet for a moment, then sighed.
Word was that after inheriting the ruins of Stokeworth, Bronn's pockets had become even emptier than his face. Apparently that hadn't improved his temper. Causing trouble inside the Hall of Order?
Was he here to borrow money?
"Let him up," Corleone said after thinking it over.
"My lord, you said you weren't seeing anyone today," Rolje reminded him.
"I said I wasn't seeing people who want favors or connections," Corleone replied. "Bronn isn't a guest. He's a problem."
"And when problems show up, hiding doesn't help. Might as well let him in and see what he actually wants."
A short while later, several people entered the office.
Corleone's eyebrow twitched.
Bronn, sporting a black eye and a swollen cheek, was being marched in by the Hound. Walking beside them was a tall figure in a plain gray cloak with the hood pulled low.
The hooded man stopped just inside the doorway and stood perfectly still, hands at his sides. He didn't look around. He simply waited.
Corleone's gaze lingered on him for two seconds before moving to Bronn.
"What happened to you?"
Bronn immediately shook off the Hound's grip and hurried forward, looking more wronged than a whore who had just been stiffed.
"Lord Corleone, you have to give me justice!"
"I'm a lord now! Lord of Stokeworth! One of the oldest houses in the Crownlands!"
"I bled for the realm at the Blackwater! Ser Adam Marbrand himself knighted me! King Joff—"
"Fuck King Joffrey," the Hound growled from behind him.
Bronn's words died in his throat. He turned and glared at the Hound, lips trembling, but didn't dare say anything back.
Not because he didn't want to. Because he couldn't.
Everything hurt.
His left eye was swollen nearly shut. His right cheek was puffy and red. His lip was split and stung every time he spoke. The brand-new deep-blue velvet coat was wrinkled and torn at the sleeve. The silver embroidery was hanging by threads.
"Lord Corleone, look what he did to me! I'm a lord, for gods' sake—"
"You already said that," Corleone interrupted.
Bronn shut his mouth again. He swallowed and tried a more humble tone. "The point is, you have to do something."
Corleone didn't answer. He simply looked past Bronn to the Hound.
"He tried to force his way upstairs," the Hound said flatly. "Your rule. No one comes to the third floor without permission."
"He brought someone and said he needed to see you. The men downstairs told him to come back another day. He didn't listen. Tried to push through anyway."
The Hound's burned mouth twitched slightly. "So I helped him calm down."
Bronn looked like he wanted to cry.
Calm down?
He had been perfectly polite downstairs. He had explained that the old man with him had urgent business with Lord Corleone. He had asked nicely. They still refused to let them through.
Then this damned Hound had appeared out of nowhere and slapped the back of his head so hard he nearly face-planted.
Bronn had lost his temper. He was a knight of the Blackwater. He was Lord of Stokeworth, even if the castle was gone. He wasn't going to be treated like some common thug.
So he had swung at the Hound.
And then…
Bronn would swear to the Seven that if it had been anyone else in the Hall of Order—even the big Dothraki—he wouldn't have ended up like this.
But it had to be the Hound. The same man who had put the Mountain in the dirt.
And the worst part? That damned old man had just stood there the entire time, sword at his side, watching Bronn get beaten into the floor without lifting a finger to help.
"Good work," Corleone said after hearing the story. He didn't scold the Hound. Instead he nodded. "Next time something like this happens, break their legs and hand them over to the Gold Cloaks. Let them deal with it."
The Hound grinned. Bronn's face went pale. So the beating really had been for nothing.
"Well then…" Bronn forced a smile, already trying to edge toward the door. "I've delivered the man like you asked, so I'll just be going—"
"Sit."
Corleone's voice was quiet, but Bronn's ass hit the chair before he could stop himself.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again when he met those dark eyes.
The office finally went quiet.
Corleone leaned back in his chair and turned his attention to the hooded figure still standing by the door.
"You went through quite a lot of trouble to see me," he said calmly. "Don't tell me you don't even know how to introduce yourself."
The man stepped forward. He raised both hands and slowly pushed back his hood.
White hair. A weathered but still handsome face. Clear, sharp blue eyes that met Corleone's without flinching.
"I came from Slaver's Bay," the old knight said, voice low and steady. "By command of my queen, I have come to find you, Lord Vito Corleone."
"Queen…" Corleone's eyes narrowed slightly.
In the Common Tongue the words for "queen," "queen consort," and "queen mother" were the same, so the meaning could shift. But combined with "Slaver's Bay," he already had a strong suspicion.
Still, he asked. "Who is your queen?"
A flicker of pride appeared in those blue eyes.
"My queen," the old knight answered, each word deliberate and heavy with meaning, "is the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm…"
He paused.
"…Daenerys Targaryen."