This woman was indeed sharp-tongued.
Corleone thought to himself; she had just finished mocking Petyr Baelish, and now she turned her sights on him, a total indiscriminate attack.
But he could understand.
After all, in the game of thrones, this was a negotiation tactic: deliberately provoke the opponent first, then react based on their response.
Like a hunter's first spear; not meant to kill in one hit, but to see which way the prey runs and what weaknesses it reveals.
An old trick.
Besides, not long ago, he had conspired with Cersei to spirit her grandson Loras Tyrell away to the other side of the Narrow Sea.
The old woman had anger in her heart and needed somewhere to vent it.
But... then again, did Olenna really care that much about this marriage?
Not necessarily.
House Tyrell needed an alliance with the royal family; they needed a future queen to give birth to a king with Tyrell blood.
And Cersei... a Queen Mother nearly forty, who had already borne three children and was mentally unstable?
That was definitely not Olenna's ideal match.
"Thank you for your high regard, My Lady."
Under Olenna's gaze, Corleone bowed slightly—respectful but not subservient, showing no sign of being provoked: "It is an honor to be noticed by the renowned 'Queen of Thorns'."
Well-spoken, but Olenna didn't plan to let him off, continuing relentlessly: "But generally speaking, knights of common birth don't live very long."
"They either get cut down in their first real battle, or die on a mission for their liege lord. I've even heard of some who lose their footing on the stairs and fall to their deaths."
Her words were merciless, implying Corleone's common birth and that he might fall while climbing the ladder of power.
Hearing this, Corleone smiled.
Not a forced smile, nor a mocking one, but a calm smile from the heart.
"At least I'm the one still alive, and living quite well."
"And... I very much like the words of House Tyrell—Growing Strong, My Lady."
Olenna was stunned for a moment.
In her expectations, Corleone might argue, strike back, or try to prove his worth.
But this fellow suddenly praised the Tyrell house words?
What was he thinking?
Olenna narrowed her eyes, saying self-deprecatingly: "'Growing Strong' isn't all that."
"It lacks the momentum of the Lannisters' 'Hear Me Roar', and the... weight of the Baratheons' 'Ours is the Fury'."
She was baiting him.
She wanted to see what this knight of Farmer origin could make of these seemingly plain words.
Hearing this, Corleone folded his hands in front of him and praised calmly and sincerely: "But it is... resilient."
"My Lady, growth cannot be completely stopped."
"You can cut down a rose, burn its leaves, and dig up its roots."
"But as long as a single seed remains in the soil—even the most barren and hard earth—it will sprout again with just a bit of rain and sunlight."
Olenna said nothing, just stared at him.
Margaery beside her was intrigued by this novel perspective, her large eyes blinking, her gaze almost entirely on Corleone.
"The roses of Highgarden didn't occupy the gardens of The Reach by roaring, nor were they so cruel as to burn other flowers with fury."
Corleone turned his head, looking into Margaery's eyes. His voice was soft but powerful: "They simply... kept growing."
"Growing in spring, growing in summer, seeding in autumn, sleeping in winter, and then continuing to grow the following year. For ten years, a hundred years, a thousand years."
"Finally, when people look up, they find the entire land covered in roses."
"Not because it defeated anyone, but because other flowers came and went, while only the roses remained."
Silence fell over the hall.
Even the sound of a servant pouring wine in the distance was clearly audible.
Olenna looked at Corleone, her eyes shifting from scrutiny to a hint of surprise.
Such wise words coming from someone of Farmer stock was indeed hard to believe.
After a moment, she laughed.
The grand Queen of Thorns laughed until her shoulders shook and her wrinkles deepened, like an ordinary old woman hearing an excellent joke.
"Heh... Hahahaha..."
"Good."
The laughter echoed in the hall, and everyone looked over.
When she had laughed enough, she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the tears from her eyes.
"You are indeed an interesting person, Sir Corleone."
She stepped forward, approaching Corleone and taking his hand, like an elder showing concern for a junior.
But she whispered in his ear, her voice extremely low: "I don't care what you did, or who you conspired with. I only care about results."
"I know it was a setup by you and that madwoman Cersei. Even though you sent Loras across the Narrow Sea, at least he didn't marry her."
She sneered, saying something shocking: "That woman is poison. Whoever marries her, their house will rot from within."
"The Old Lion wanted to use her to trap House Tyrell, heh..."
"95"
"He doesn't understand his daughter well enough, nor me, or... he understands but doesn't care."
Having finished speaking calmly, Olenna stepped back to regain her distance.
"But as for you, Sir Corleone, being targeted by a madwoman, your future days won't be easy."
Hearing this, Corleone's expression didn't change, his eyes remaining calm.
"I only ask if something should be done, not if it is easy."
Olenna stared at him for three seconds, then slowly nodded.
"Good."
Then, she leaned on her cane and walked toward the main seat, but as she passed Corleone, she whispered: "But remember, boy."
"When you provoke a nest of vipers, the best way is not to kill them one by one; if you do, you'll be bitten by each one before it dies."
"Throw in a rat—a fat, bloody rat."
"Then retreat to a safe place and watch them tear, coil, and sink their fangs into each other for the prey. Wait quietly for the last snake to breathe its last."
Having said that, she gave Corleone a deep look and walked away.
Heh, this old woman.
Watching Olenna's shuffling back, Corleone laughed to himself.
Although the two families were allies on the same front, she really never missed a chance to trip up the Lannisters.
But it was normal; the situation had mostly stabilized. If the Lannisters became dominant, the Tyrells would inevitably become vassals.
Even if her granddaughter was clever enough to keep the King under control, she couldn't reach into the Small Council ruled by Tywin.
However...
Roses are indeed resilient and thorny, but they always need a pair of hands to pick them.
Especially a pair of hands in the dark.
"Oho ho~ forgive me, Hand of the King!" Olenna sat down to Tywin's right, deliberately rubbing her old back.
"You know, generally when people get old, their legs don't work so well, and they walk very slowly."
Hearing this, Tywin showed no dissatisfaction, only nodding slightly: "I didn't expect you to attend in person,"
My Lady.
"6"
"It seems you have a good relationship with Sir Corleone. I observed that you two spoke for a long time."
Seeing Tywin's questioning gaze, Olenna didn't answer directly but turned to scold the servant beside her: "Don't pour me juice, you fool! Do you think an old person my age can't drink wine?"
"I want wine! That 'Cocktail' Sir Corleone created, right?"
She shouted loudly on purpose, ensuring many could hear, acting like an unreasonable old woman: "Make it strong!"
"Don't think of watering it down. My tongue has tasted more wine than you've seen Golden Dragons. I can tell which year had more rain or less sun for the grapes on the banks of the Mander just by a taste!"
The servant hurried to prepare it.
A moment later, a glass of amber liquid was brought, with lemon slices and mint leaves floating in it.
Olenna took a sip, closed her eyes, and her throat moved.
Then she opened her eyes, looking surprised: "Oh, not bad!"
"Although the quality of the wine isn't top-tier, the sweetness covers the acidity, and the fruitiness dilutes the astringency."
After evaluating it for a long time, Olenna finally seemed to remember something and turned to look at Tywin.
AI Model: gemini-3.1-flash-lite
"Oh, my lord, what was it you were just asking me?"
She patted her wrinkled forehead, feigning the confusion of an old woman: "My apologies, I am truly too old. Sometimes, things that just happened are wiped completely from my memory the moment I turn around."
"Take the day before yesterday, for instance. I intended to settle the final payment for the royal wedding with the master of coin... that adorable little fellow who isn't even as tall as I am when I'm sitting down."
"But after my nap, I forgot it entirely. Sigh."
She rambled on, complaining about the hardships of an old woman's life, while conveniently absolving herself of all responsibility for not paying on time.
Seeing this, Tywin raised his wine glass, deciding not to press the matter further.
After all, playing the fool was a woman's prerogative; as hand of the king, he certainly couldn't behave like Olenna.
But it seemed the Queen of Thorns was acting particularly senile today. Not only did she not stop talking, she looked Tywin up and down with that peculiar, elderly affection reserved for "young people."
"How old are you this year, hand of the king? Sixty?"
This was clearly a question she already knew the answer to.
As one of the few dukes in The Seven Kingdoms, Tywin Lannister's age was an open secret.
"Fifty-four."
Tywin showed no expression. He raised his glass, took a sip, and set it down.
His voice was as calm as if he were stating a detached fact, also conveying confidence.
After all, for a ruler, one's fifties were the peak age of experience and energy.
"Fifty-four, what a fine age..."
Olenna repeated exaggeratedly, leaning back in her chair and letting out a long "Oh," as if she had heard something unbelievable.
She narrowed her eyes, her gaze drifting into the distance as if recalling the past: "When I was your age, my husband had already been dead for ten years."
"Back then, Mace had just inherited the dukedom. He was so foolish, knowing only how to fuss over flowers and plants all day, writing nonsensical poetry, skipping knight training whenever he could, and falling asleep after flipping through two pages of ledgers."
"I always regret not using a wooden spoon to rap him on the head when he was young, to knock some sense into that fat skull of his."
"But fortunately, after inheriting the family, he has managed the lands quite well, hmm... better and better."
She rambled on like an ordinary, gossipy old woman, recalling old stories.
But Tywin could clearly hear what she was implying.
She was showing off.
I am old, but I have managed the family well.
The prosperity of a family does not rely on the exceptional talent of one or two individuals, but on the careful cultivation and management of generations.
And you, Tywin Lannister.
Your family seems to hold power over the court, but what of the foundation? The future?
These words were truly venomous. It seemed... she was still holding a grudge over Tywin forcing Cersei to marry Loras.
However, as hand of the king, Tywin wouldn't lower himself to get angry with her.
He merely rubbed his fingertips against the rim of his glass and replied coldly: "My health is good, very good."
"Grand Maester Pycelle says it would be no problem for me to serve as hand of the king for at least another twenty years."
As soon as these words were spoken, the smile on Olenna's face stiffened for a moment.
She understood the counterattack in his words: You boast about your success in raising descendants, but the one currently sitting on the throne flows with Lannister blood.
As long as this fact remained true, the power of the Small Council would remain firmly in Tywin's hands.
After a moment of silence, Olenna cackled, picked up her Cocktail, downed a large gulp, her throat bobbing, and then slammed the glass down with a dull thud.
"That would be truly wonderful."
She wiped the corner of her mouth, her eyes crinkling into slits.
While the two old foxes clashed in secret, on Corleone's side, Margaery was not accompanying her grandmother, but instead flashed him a perfect smile.
It must be said, as the younger generation carefully cultivated by House Tyrell, she was indeed quite capable.
The angle of her upturned lips, the curve of her slightly bent eyes, and even the shadow of her drooping eyelashes were all just right, maximizing her advantages and beauty to the extreme.
"My grandmother speaks quite directly, please forgive her, Sir Corleone."
Her voice was gentle and melodious, like a spring breeze blowing through wind chimes: "She is old, and sometimes... she doesn't pay much attention to those tedious formalities, but please believe that her heart is in the right place."
Upon hearing this, Corleone merely nodded slightly and replied politely: "Lady Olenna is very wise, and speaking with her was very pleasant."
"Sometimes, I also envy having such a grandmother who cares for me."
This was half-true, half-false.
In his original world, he had never met his grandmother, and it was the same here.
More importantly, this would make the other party comfortable.
When people hear others envy what they possess, they always unconsciously lower their guard.
"Heh."
However, the little rose pursed her lips and smiled. She seemed relaxed, but her eyes constantly revealed a hint of vigilance: "...You certainly know how to talk, Ser."
"I remember when Loras was here, he would always say that every time he stood before our grandmother, he had the urge to jump off a cliff."
"He even suspected that our grandfather jumped off the cliff to his death because he couldn't stand her vicious verbal attacks."
This was a small joke, but also a probe.
She was testing Corleone's attitude regarding Loras's "disappearance," using a lighthearted tone to bring up a sensitive topic to see his reaction.
Corleone laughed along, his smile gentle and natural: "I think that is because Lady Olenna is always able to hit the nail on the head regarding the true nature of things."
"And most people... are not quite brave enough to face their true selves, especially the less glorious parts."
His answer was near perfect; he neither denied nor admitted to the matter of Loras, and he elevated the topic to the level of human nature.
Everyone is afraid of being seen through; this was not just Loras's feeling, but everyone's.
Therefore, that Loras was able to bravely pursue love could also be considered his courage.
Looking at Corleone, a flash of admiration passed through Margaery's eyes.
This man's response was watertight; he had given her a way out while holding his own ground. It was a pity his background was a bit low.
She was silent for a moment, as if weighing her words.
Then she took a deep breath, as if shedding a mask to reveal her true self, even carrying a hint of a reckless girl's aura.
"Sir Corleone!"
"I want to ask you a question, please... please answer me honestly."
Her wording was very careful.
"Answer honestly," rather than "tell me the truth."
The former is a request, representing her trust; the latter is a demand, carrying a sense of interrogation and detachment.
As expected of the little rose of Highgarden.
Corleone sighed inwardly, but still nodded, his expression becoming serious: "Please, go ahead."
Immediately after, Margaery raised her head, staring at Corleone with her large, pitiful brown eyes, her moist lips parting slightly: "The attack the day before yesterday... was that arranged by you?"
No buildup, no beating around the bush, straight to the core.
This was Margaery Tyrell's style: gentle and lovely on the surface, understanding, but actually sharp and exposed.
Their gazes met in the air.
She might have already known the answer, but she decided to confirm it with Corleone personally.
This attitude was not for revenge or threats, but to test whether this person was worth cooperating with.
Clever.
Corleone thought to himself.
Using the most direct method to obtain the most critical information.
Not playing those duplicitous games, because she knew that in front of someone who truly understood the rules of the game, those tricks would only be a waste of time.
"Lady Margaery."
Corleone looked directly at her, his eyes devoid of any panic or evasion, only incomparably calm.
As if he had long expected her to ask this, the question was as ordinary to him as asking if it would rain tomorrow.
"In this city, the answers to some questions..."
He didn't finish his sentence.
Just then, a fierce argument erupted at the entrance of the hall.
It was very heated, and one could vaguely hear greetings directed at family members, though the accent was somewhat unique—not a Westerlands accent—yet it still demonstrated a beautiful linguistic charm.
Corleone frowned, then turned to Margaery and bowed slightly: "My apologies, my lady, excuse me for a moment."
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