Inside a side hall of the Red Keep's Throne Room, a council meeting regarding the campaign to reclaim The Crownlands was drawing to a close.
At the head of the long table, Aegon's fingertips lightly tapped the unfolded map of The Crownlands.
The ink on the battle report just handed over by the messenger was still fresh: the Ash Company had surrounded Stokeworth, and the garrison was putting up a desperate struggle, holding the castle to the death.
The generals standing on either side were clad in pitch-black armor, their gazes all falling on the mark of that strategic castle, waiting for military orders.
The various castles of The Crownlands had already surrendered or fallen like autumn leaves swept by the wind; only Stokeworth relied on its towering walls to hold out, attempting to delay the Targaryen advance.
"Your Highness," a general bowed, his voice lowered and full of consideration, "Stokeworth has high walls and deep moats, and the defenders are all men prepared to fight to the death... Do you need to take to the skies on your dragon to suppress them with dragon-might?"
Aegon looked up, his violet eyes as calm as a frozen lake in midwinter. His fingertips moved away from the map, tapping the stone table, his tone indifferent yet brook no argument:
"No need. Let Luke take full responsibility; a direct assault will suffice."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the generals below the dais, his voice turning even colder:
"If I must personally ride a giant dragon to deal with even a single castle, then what use is there in me maintaining the Ash Company and this great army?"
The collapse of the old order was never achieved solely through the crushing force of dragonfire. What he wanted was submission forged by swords and military discipline—to have his generals be able to hold their own, rather than a hollow obedience that relied on the pressure of a giant dragon for every matter.
The general's heart shivered, and he bowed to accept the order: "By your command!"
At that moment, a guard's steady announcement came from outside the side hall, clearly breaking the solemnity within the room through the heavy wooden doors:
"Reporting to Your Highness! A group has arrived outside King's Landing seeking an audience. They claim to be envoys from Highgarden, accompanied by over a hundred guards, with no banners or ceremonial retinue, and they humbly request to meet Your Highness."
Aegon's brow twitched slightly, a hint of coldness flashing through his violet eyes.
Highgarden?
At this moment, when he had just decreed the abolition of hereditary aristocratic privileges and the old nobility of the Seven Kingdoms were all in a state of panic, House Tyrell had actually taken the initiative to send someone? It was quite unexpected.
"Who is the visitor?"
"In response to Your Highness, the envoy identified herself as the daughter of Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell. In the name of the Plenipotentiary Envoy of Highgarden, she requests an audience with Prince Aegon Targaryen."
"Margaery Tyrell..."
Aegon repeated in a low voice, his eyes darkening slightly as he fell into a very brief moment of contemplation.
Although his memories of his past life were blurred, he had some impressions.
The "Little Rose" of Highgarden, that noblewoman who moved with ease within the vortex of power, was never a mere ornament confined to her chambers.
She was meticulous, and every choice she made hid a calculation of her family's interests and the current situation. Unfortunately, she eventually died due to Cersei flipping the table with wildfire, perishing in the Great Sept of Baelor.
And now, she actually dared to come alone, bringing only a hundred or so guards, without a ceremonial retinue or banners, to this King's Landing that had been washed by thunder. She had more courage than her father's or grandfather's generation.
Aegon withdrew his thoughts and gave a faint order: "Grant her entry to the city. Lead her to the Throne Room."
The guard bowed and withdrew. The side hall returned to silence, with only the light sound of Aegon's fingertips rubbing the map echoing in the empty hall.
On the open ground outside King's Landing, over a hundred Highgarden guards formed a disciplined square formation.
Their armor glinted coldly in the setting sun, spears stood like a forest, and the golden rose patterns on their shields were still striking in the twilight.
These Tyrell guards were well-equipped, but at this moment, most of them looked tense, and as they gazed at this devastated capital, none could hide their shock.
Above the city gates, the collapsed cracks where dragon wings had swept through were clearly visible. The walls were scorched and mottled, and the debris of bricks and tiles from the conflict, yet to be cleared, lay scattered below.
The wind carried the scent of gunpowder and a faint, lingering smell of blood.
After receiving permission to enter the city, the procession slowly drove into King's Landing.
On both sides of the streets, houses were dilapidated, and broken beams and pillars could be seen everywhere. Commoners huddled in corners, their eyes filled with terror as they watched this sizable noble procession, appearing both fearful and numb.
The scorch marks of thunder and the wounds left by the flames of war covered every corner of this capital.
Margaery lifted the carriage curtain, her gaze calmly sweeping over the surroundings. A sliver of chill climbed up her heart, yet she did not let it show in the slightest.
This was the handiwork of Aegon Targaryen.
Exterminating the Baratheons, bathing the Lannisters in blood, abolishing hereditary aristocratic privileges, and using the power of dragons to crush everything of the old era.
In the eyes of all the old nobility, he was an utter madman.
But she had come anyway.
The Tyrells' legal right as Lords Paramount of The Reach originally stemmed from the Targaryens.
When Aegon first landed on Dragonstone, the Tyrells were inclined to submit and return to the legitimate line.
But when the news of the abolition of noble privileges arrived, it threw the roses into a fatal hesitation.
Submission meant their ancestral foundations would be uprooted; refusal meant facing dragonfire and a great army.
Her grandmother Olenna had already sent cavalry after her, ordering her to return to Highgarden immediately and not to risk her life further.
Loras had tried to dissuade her, the guards were hesitant, and everyone was telling her: this trip was a brush with death.
But Margaery knew very well.
Hiding back in Highgarden was merely prolonging the inevitable.
Aegon's momentum to unify the Seven Kingdoms was already established; no matter how prosperous The Reach was, it could not withstand the wrath of the Three-headed Dragon.
That dragon could sweep through King's Landing, and it could use the same method to turn Highgarden into scorched earth, leaving millions of Reach commoners displaced.
Rather than waiting for the flames of war to engulf her home, it was better for her to come personally, as the envoy of Highgarden, to find a way for survival between the new order and the continuity of House Tyrell.
She was a daughter of Tyrell, the golden rose of Highgarden.
Her mission had never been to hide behind high walls.
This was not a gamble; it was a responsibility.
"My lady, the Red Keep is just ahead," a Personal Guard reminded her in a low voice.
Margaery withdrew her gaze, suppressed all the turbulence in her heart, and nodded slightly.
The Tyrell procession stopped before the Red Keep. Targaryen Soldiers stood guard here, their black armor solemn and their gazes like iron.
Loras Tyrell was in full bright silver plate armor, a sharp sword at his waist, and a deep green cloak embroidered with the Tyrell golden rose over his shoulders.
His brow was furrowed as he stepped forward, steadily helping Margaery down from the carriage, his expression full of concern.
"Margaery, King's Landing has just been through war, and dragonfire has run rampant. It was already a risk to bring only a hundred guards, and now you want us all to stay outside?" Loras's voice was kept extremely low, filled with a brother's protective urgency. "Let me enter the Red Keep with you, so I can protect you."
Margaery did not turn her head, her gaze falling on the scorched walls of King's Landing and the towering spires of the Red Keep, only shaking her head gently.
She raised her hand and lightly tapped Loras's silver bracer, her movement slow and gentle yet carrying an indisputable certainty:
"No need. You stay here and manage the group."
Loras was about to speak again, but Margaery stopped him first:
"Aegon Targaryen is a dragon-riding king; his eyes cannot tolerate the slightest provocation. If you enter with me in full armor, he will only see it as a show of force from House Tyrell, needlessly inviting suspicion."
Loras's words were stuck in his throat.
Looking at Margaery's calm eyes, he finally swallowed the dissuasion that was on the tip of his tongue.
He watched as she smoothed the pleats of her dress, then raised her hand to tuck a stray lock of hair blown by the wind back behind her ear, like a rose just beginning to bloom in spring.
"Margaery..." Loras called out softly.
Margaery did not stop, only tilting her head slightly to indicate he need not say more.
Over a hundred guards watched Margaery's solitary figure as she walked slowly toward the open, deep gates of the Red Keep under the silent guidance of Targaryen Soldiers.
Loras stood at the front of the formation, watching her back gradually blend into the shadows of the Red Keep's gatehouse, watching as that dark dress was finally swallowed by the darkness of the castle.
His fingertips unconsciously tightened on the reins, and a complex sense of admiration suddenly arose in his heart—
This sister of his, at times, had more resolve than even he, a son of House Tyrell.
Margaery walked alone through the Red Keep's gatehouse.
The towering gates slowly closed behind her with a heavy thud, cutting off the last of the outside light and sound.
A cold wind surged from deep within the castle, rushing over her.
She did not hesitate in the slightest, stepping into the long corridors of the castle's interior.
The corridor was paved with polished, smooth stone slabs, and the ground was bone-chillingly cold.
The walls on either side still bore the scorched marks of war and deep scratches, like brands left by the claws of a giant beast.
Every few paces, Targaryen Soldiers in black armor stood as still as statues, their armor plates glinting in the dim light of the wall lamps.
Her footsteps fell on the stone floor, clear, steady, and unhurried.
Her pace was even, her hem lightly sweeping over the cold stone floor without a single stray sound.
Her hands hanging at her sides were naturally closed, neither clenched nor slack.
With a serene expression and steady gaze, she walked step by step toward the tallest and heaviest doors at the end of the corridor.
The doors to the Throne Room were silently pushed open by the guards on either side.
The cold light of the iron throne, mixed with the glow of hundreds of candles in the hall, rushed toward her.
That throne, forged from the swords of countless losers, was hideous and grim, the edges of the blades reflecting cold, fragmented light under the flickering candles.
Aegon was dressed in black everyday attire, cleanly tailored and without any ornamentation, lacking any of the ostentatious display of a monarch, yet it instead made the pressure surrounding him seem even greater and heavier.
He sat upon the throne, his back not fully leaning against those dangerous blades. His violet eyes looked down from above, resting quietly on Margaery as she entered the hall, his gaze like a hawk scrutinizing its prey, yet without any superfluous emotion, only a bottomless indifference.
Margaery stopped several paces away from the throne.
Without the slightest hesitation, she slowly bent her knees, performing the most standard and impeccable curtsy of a Westerosi noblewoman when being received by a monarch.
Her posture was upright, and her long lashes were steady and untrembling as she lowered her gaze. She appeared neither lowly and fawning nor haughty and discourteous.
Her grace was that of one who had undergone the most rigorous etiquette training, yet it also carried a kind of composure and confidence that came from within.
She raised her eyes, her gaze calmly meeting the eyes on the throne, her tone gentle yet clear, carrying the weight appropriate for an envoy of Highgarden as it rang out in the empty, deathly silent Throne Room:
"The envoy of Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell."
"Greets Your Highness, Aegon Targaryen."
As her words fell, the echoes vibrated weakly under the high vaulted ceiling before being swallowed by an even larger, heavier silence.
Inside the Throne Room, an extreme, almost stagnant silence instantly fell.
The inherent coldness of the iron throne, the invisible pressure emanating from Aegon, and the different kind of presence Margaery brought from The Reach and House Tyrell intertwined and collided at this moment, enveloping every inch of air and every ray of light in the hall.
The true dragon upon the throne and the rose below the dais thus faced each other directly.
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