The silence in the Throne Room was almost palpable, the cold light reflecting off the jagged blades of the iron throne under the flickering candlelight.
Aegon sat upon the iron throne, his violet eyes downcast.
He did not speak immediately, letting the silence linger for several breaths; it weighed on Margaery's shoulders, heavy as iron.
She maintained her curtsy, the lines of her neck slightly stiff from holding the same position for so long, but her back remained straight.
He finally spoke slowly, his voice not loud but every word clear, carrying the unique chill of the iron throne:
"The widow of Renly Baratheon."
Margaery's fingertips suddenly tightened under her wide sleeves, her nails digging into her palms. But on her uplifted face, her expression remained calm, with only a nearly imperceptible tremor in her eyelashes.
"Baratheon is the family of the usurper, a rebel faction that stole the Targaryen throne." Aegon leaned forward slightly, shadows cloaking half his face, his violet eyes flashing with an inhuman cold light in the candlelight. "And you, as the primary wife of the rebel leader, stand here as the envoy of Highgarden."
He paused, his voice devoid of anger, only indifference—an indifference more chilling than any rage.
"Tell me, Margaery Tyrell. According to the law, how should rebels and their kin be punished?"
The air froze. Margaery felt her throat tighten, and a fine cold sweat broke out on her palms.
But she took a breath, a subtle and steady one that calmed her racing heart. She looked up, her gaze calmly meeting those violet eyes:
"Your Highness is wise."
Her voice was soft yet exceptionally clear, echoing through the hollow hall:
"I shared only the name of a betrothal with Renly Baratheon; the wedding was never completed, and there was no consummation of the marriage. Margaery remains a maiden to this day, with no substantial connection to House Baratheon."
She paused briefly, her tone becoming even more respectful, each word seemingly polished with care:
"Standing before you now is Margaery Tyrell, daughter of Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden. I have come by the order of my father and Highgarden to seek an audience with the true and only heir of the Seven Kingdoms, His Highness Aegon Targaryen."
"The legitimacy of House Tyrell originally stems from the grace of the Targaryens. Since the day we heard of Your Highness's return upon your dragon, everyone in Highgarden has been overjoyed. My father immediately ordered me to King's Landing to express the loyalty and submission of The Reach."
Aegon listened quietly, a hint of amusement flickering in the depths of his violet eyes.
Just as Margaery was about to continue, he suddenly spoke:
"Loyalty?"
His tone rose slightly, carrying unabashed mockery, like a cold slap to the face.
"Is the loyalty you speak of the same kind shown seventeen years ago, when the Royalists were fighting a bloody battle against the usurper at the Trident, while your father led a hundred thousand men of The Reach to camp and picnic outside Storms End, watching as the Targaryens fell?"
The color instantly drained from Margaery's face.
She felt a chill run down her spine but forced herself to maintain a calm expression. She slowly raised her eyes, her gaze clear but tinged with a perfectly measured weight:
"What Your Highness says is indeed the truth. My father... did indeed fail to reinforce Prince Rhaegar in time."
Her voice grew softer, as if stating a regrettable but unavoidable fact, though her fingers inside her sleeves were clenched white:
"But I beg Your Highness to investigate. When Highgarden received the raven from King's Landing for aid, my father had already mobilized the entire army of The Reach to march north. But the distance was great, and news was delayed... By the time the army finally arrived outside Storms End, the news from the Trident was already the tragic word of Prince Rhaegar's fall and the passing of His Majesty King Aerys."
She lowered her eyelids slightly, her thick lashes casting faint shadows on her pale cheeks, her voice carrying a perfectly measured sense of grief:
"At that time, the Targaryens' momentum was gone, and the rebel forces of Robert Baratheon were at their peak. Although my father had a hundred thousand sons of The Reach under his command, Storms End's walls were thick and strong, and Stannis Baratheon was famous for his tenacity."
"If we had forced a siege, even if we had conquered it, it would have resulted in a bloodbath where both sides suffered. And by then... the Targaryen throne had already collapsed."
She looked up again, her gaze earnest, but a hidden tension lurked deep in her eyes. She knew every word she spoke was like walking on a blade's edge:
"It wasn't that my father was unwilling to fight for the Targaryens; it was just that by the time he finally arrived, the war... was already over."
"My father had to be cautious with the lives of a hundred thousand soldiers of The Reach."
"To continue shedding blood for a fallen dynasty at that time, causing countless families in The Reach to lose their fathers, husbands, and sons... my father could not bear such a cost."
Aegon listened without any expression on his face, only those violet eyes remained bottomless, as if he could see through all her carefully woven words.
Margaery felt her heart thundering in her ears, but she forced herself to keep her breathing steady, letting not a single tremor escape.
After a long time, Aegon finally spoke slowly:
"Let the past be the past." He stopped dwelling on it, but his tone shifted, becoming as cold and hard as Valyrian Steel. "I only ask Highgarden... regarding the new policies I will implement in the Seven Kingdoms, the abolition of noble hereditary privileges and fiefs, what are your intentions?"
Margaery's heart tightened suddenly. Here it was, the most lethal question.
She felt her throat go dry, but her tongue quickly moistened her lips. She fell silent for a moment, making that brief silence seem like careful consideration rather than panic.
Then she raised her eyes, her gaze frank:
"Your Highness's new policies aim to eliminate long-standing abuses and establish a new order. The hereditary succession of the old nobility has indeed created problems that hinder the Seven Kingdoms. Highgarden... understands Your Highness's determination."
She paused, feeling her voice tighten, but quickly adjusted, making her tone more earnest:
"But The Reach is the granary of the Seven Kingdoms, crucial for the entire food supply of Westeros. Highgarden has been managed for many years to achieve today's stability. This stability belongs not only to the Tyrells but is the foundation of the Seven Kingdoms' stability. If The Reach is in turmoil, it could destabilize the lifeblood of the food supply, which would not benefit the expedition Your Highness is about to undertake."
The corner of Aegon's mouth moved almost imperceptibly—not a smile, but more like a cold evaluation. Margaery felt her back stiffen even more.
"Granary? Foundation?" he repeated, the coldness in his violet eyes suddenly deepening, the temperature in the entire Throne Room seemingly dropping with it. "If Highgarden does not submit to the new order, no matter how fertile the land, it will be nothing but scorched earth under dragonfire."
"My dragons do not need a granary; they only need submission."
He leaned forward slightly, shadows completely cloaking his face, only his violet eyes glowing brightly in the darkness like dragon pupils:
"Submit, or be destroyed. Highgarden has only these two choices. Tell me, Margaery Tyrell, which one does Tyrell choose?"
The final ultimatum.
Margaery's breath hitched for a moment. She felt a cold fear rising from the soles of her feet, but it was immediately suppressed by a stronger will.
Her face turned slightly pale, but she recovered quickly, even forcing herself to take a shallow breath that was surprisingly steady.
She slowly raised her head, no longer just submissive; her gaze now held a calm scrutiny, as if evaluating her opponent as well as the chips in her own hand:
"Your Highness has returned with dragons and is peerless. The walls of Highgarden are no different from the walls of King's Landing before a dragon."
She suddenly changed her tone, her voice still soft but carrying an unprecedented certainty:
"But Your Highness wants to rebuild the glory of the Targaryens; you want the Seven Kingdoms, not scorched earth. By burning Highgarden, Your Highness would only gain a wasteland that cannot be farmed or supplied, and millions of displaced, resentful people of The Reach."
"This would not benefit Your Highness's great cause; instead, it would only add hidden dangers."
She carefully observed Aegon's reaction. His expression didn't change, but she noticed his fingers resting on the armrest of the throne had stopped their unconscious tapping.
This subtle change gave her a spark of courage, and she continued slowly, each word like walking carefully on ice:
"Highgarden is willing to assist Your Highness with sincerity. For a great army's expedition, supplies are paramount. Transporting grain across the Narrow Sea is a journey of thousands of miles, fraught with peril. If Your Highness permits, Highgarden is willing to open its granaries to provide supplies for Your Highness's army, ensuring you have no concerns about the rear."
"The prosperity of The Reach was not achieved in a day. Its fields, taxes, and the hearts of the people are all deeply intertwined. The new order is like a seed; it needs the right soil to take root."
"If granted Your Highness's permission and given time, letting The Reach slowly adapt to the changes, allowing the new laws to soak into the land like spring rain, would be far better than a downpour that washes everything away and shakes the foundation."
"Highgarden knows every inch of land and every subject in The Reach. If we can proceed gradually, it will surely lead to the sincere submission of everyone in The Reach, making it Your Highness's most solid foundation, rather than a burden due to hasty changes."
She bowed her head deeply, her posture extremely submissive, but her back remained straight:
"I implore Your Highness... give Highgarden time. This is not hesitation, but to ensure Your Highness's new policies can truly take root in The Reach and bear the most fruitful results."
A deeper silence fell within the Throne Room. Only the occasional soft crackle of the wall lamp flames could be heard. Margaery maintained her bowed posture, feeling a fine cold sweat break out on her forehead and slowly slide down her temples.
She could hear her heart beating heavily in her chest, each throb like a reminder of the being she was gambling against.
After a long time, she heard the sound of Aegon leaning back into the throne, followed by his calm, emotionless voice:
"It seems that not everyone in House Tyrell is like Mace Tyrell..." He paused, the omitted title more sarcastic than any insult. "You certainly have much more courage than your father."
Margaery's heart leaped, nearly jumping out of her throat, but she forced herself to remain still, not even changing the rhythm of her breathing.
"Your request is granted. Highgarden may delay its oath. But as the envoy, you will remain in King's Landing. The first batch of supplies from The Reach must arrive in King's Landing before the next full moon. As for the implementation of the new policies in The Reach... you and Highgarden shall provide a proposal."
The sword hanging over her head had been temporarily moved aside.
Margaery felt a wave of dizziness as if she were about to collapse, but she immediately steadied herself, curtsied deeply, her voice remaining steady:
"Thank you for your grace, Your Highness. Margaery will not fail your trust."
Aegon no longer looked at her, his gaze turning toward the gloomy sky outside the high window, as if the conversation that had just decided the fate of Highgarden was merely a trivial matter.
"Take Miss Tyrell down. Arrange for her to stay in a residence near Maegor's Holdfast."
He waved his hand, the gesture as casual as shooing away an insignificant fly.
Margaery bowed respectfully and slowly withdrew, her steps steady and her back straight, maintaining the poise befitting a Rose of Highgarden with every step.
Not until she turned the corner of the long corridor and confirmed she was completely out of sight of the Throne Room did she allow herself to lean against the cold stone wall, close her eyes, and take a long, deep breath before slowly exhaling.
She raised her hand and looked at her pale fingers; they were trembling uncontrollably, and in her palm were four deep, bloody crescent-shaped marks.
Behind her, the massive shadow of the iron throne and those unfathomable violet eyes upon it were like a brand, deeply seared into her soul.
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