The winds of King's Landing carried the acrid scent of unextinguished war, swirling the fine dust in the alleys and sweeping across the broken walls and ruins.
Collapsed beams leaned against blackened stone walls; rubble and bricks were scattered everywhere, and the air was thick with dust, ash, and the lingering, inescapable smell of hunger and cold.
Ragged commoners huddled at the base of walls that could still block the wind, shivering with their arms wrapped around themselves. Their sallow, emaciated faces were wooden and lifeless, and only when the scent of food wafted over did their cloudy eyes move slightly, revealing an instinctive longing.
Margaery Tyrell walked slowly through this mess, her light green skirts brushing against the gravel and dust on the ground. She showed no hint of disgust, her pace composed, as if she were walking through the rose-blooming corridors of Highgarden.
She carried a half-full wicker basket in her hand, filled with neatly stacked bread that had just arrived from Highgarden. The fresh scent of wheat was out of place amidst the surrounding smell of smoke and decay.
Behind her followed guards in armor bearing the Tyrell crest. They silently and efficiently distributed the bread from the basket to the gathered crowd, their movements light to avoid causing a scramble.
"Take this, and may the Seven protect you," Margaery said softly, personally handing a piece of bread to a skeletal old woman.
The old woman took it with trembling hands, tears welling in her cloudy eyes as she murmured unintelligible thanks.
More people gathered silently, reaching out with eyes reflecting a raw desire for survival. The scent of wheat temporarily overwhelmed the smell of smoke, and a faint warmth spread through the dilapidated street.
The guard following closely at Margaery's side kept a watchful eye on the surroundings while leaning in and lowering his voice, his tone full of respectful confusion:
"My Lady, this bread is food and supplies self-funded by our Highgarden. Why distribute it in the name of Prince Aegon? If done without permission, I fear it will invite criticism, which would be improper for both you and Highgarden."
Margaery looked at the gathered crowd with a gentle gaze, her voice soft and clear, audible only to the guard beside her:
"It is fine. I have already sought a private audience with Lord Jon Connington and obtained his approval to comfort the commoners in the name of His Highness. Lord Clinton allowed Highgarden to assist in the post-war reconstruction of King's Landing and the relief of refugees; it is meant to share His Highness's burdens."
She added silently in her heart, her eyes clear: Prince Aegon has just taken control of King's Landing, and his reputation for iron and blood is too strong, alienating the people. By bestowing favors in His Highness's name, I am both showing Highgarden's goodwill and submission to him, and helping him win over the hearts of the common people—killing two birds with one stone. With Lord Jon Connington's permission, this act is by no means an overstepping of bounds.
The scent of wheat continued to permeate the alleys. The commoners held their bread and, after whispering their thanks, all lowered their heads and hurried away, their eyes carefully avoiding the eastern side of the street as if something invisible and terrifying were there.
To the east were Targaryen Soldiers.
Judging by their attire, they were not main combat troops but seemed more like auxiliary Soldiers responsible for logistics and engineering. Their surcoats were covered in dust and mud, and they were scattered silently throughout the ruins.
No one shouted, no one talked, and they rarely even made eye contact with the commoners.
Some Soldiers pushed crude wooden carts, hauling away large pieces of broken tiles and beams load by load. The wheels rolled over the pitted road, making a dull and monotonous creaking sound.
Others held iron shovels and pickaxes, clearing the rubble in front of houses bit by bit, the tips of the shovels striking the stones and sending up tiny sparks. Still others were trying to reinforce a half-collapsed wall, using ropes to pull slanted wooden pillars, their movements slow and steady.
They performed the heaviest and dirtiest clearing and repair work, their figures weaving through the ruins, silent from beginning to end.
The commoners also tacitly stayed away from that area, keeping their heads down and walking quickly along the base of the wall on the other side, rarely even glancing at the busy Soldiers.
The two groups were close at hand, yet they seemed to exist in two isolated worlds. The Soldiers were like living stone statues, while the commoners were like startled birds, maintaining an unsettling, cold distance between each other.
Margaery finished distributing the last piece of bread in her basket and was about to signal her guards to get more when her gaze was drawn to the scene on the western side.
A group of people had gathered there, dressed in the coarse gray cloth robes common to the brothers of the Faith of the Seven. They were positioned exactly where the commoners were most densely packed.
Unlike the silent labor of the Soldiers on the east, the movements of these brothers seemed exceptionally "gentle," even somewhat deliberate.
A young brother bent down, carefully straightening a loose mud brick on a low, crumbling wall. When a bit of dirt got on his fingertips, he immediately frowned and brushed it off.
Another older one was using a relatively clean cloth to wipe the cheek of an injured person sitting on the ground, whose face was covered in grime. He murmured under his breath, his voice neither too loud nor too soft, just enough for those around him to vaguely hear words of comfort and prayer.
Three or four more brothers surrounded a half-collapsed, crude altar of the Seven, chanting prayers in low voices, occasionally raising their hands to draw the Seven-pointed star on their chests, and gently comforting the anxious and frightened commoners nearby.
Their actions could hardly be called effective repairs; they hadn't moved any heavy objects or cleared piles of rubble. However, they remained constantly among the commoners, their every move falling into the eyes of those around them, carrying a sense of performance and a deliberately displayed compassion.
Margaery frowned slightly.
Since Prince Aegon Targaryen entered King's Landing and suppressed the initial resistance with an iron fist—particularly after the bloodbath on Silk Street, which had ambiguous ties to the Faith—the High Septon had perished, and the Faith's influence had been unusually low, almost vanishing.
To appear so actively and in such a concentrated manner among the refugees to "do good" was truly unusual.
After a moment's thought, she gave a low instruction to her guard, then picked up her empty basket and walked slowly toward the group of gray-robed brothers.
Her light green skirt brushed against the gravel as she stopped in front of the brother who had just finished wiping the injured person's face. With the usual appropriate and gentle smile of the Highgarden Rose, she spoke first, her tone soft yet carrying a trace of imperceptible testing:
"May the Seven bless you. Stay a moment, Brother. I see you all busy here; I wonder what good work you are performing?"
The brother was taken aback by the question, a flash of panic crossing his face as he instinctively turned to look behind him.
From the crowd, an old man with bare feet and the hem of his gray robe stained with dust and mud walked out slowly.
His face was ordinary and deeply wrinkled, looking weather-beaten. Only his eyes, flickering under his lowered eyelids, held a deep and shrewd light that belied his simple appearance.
This was the devout believer who had recently been quietly gaining prestige among the commoners, known as the "High Sparrow."
The High Sparrow took a step forward and bowed slightly to Margaery, his posture humble and his face wearing an almost rustic expression of piety.
He first shot a quick glance at the empty bread basket by Margaery's side and the Highgarden white bread being eaten by the commoners around them before speaking slowly, his voice raspy and gentle:
"So it is Lady Margaery of Highgarden. May the Father look with favor upon your good deeds. We are but humble believers who, seeing our brothers and sisters in the city displaced and suffering, could not bear it and have come here to offer what little help we can."
"Comforting the pained, tidying the altar, doing our duty according to the teachings of the Seven—it is truly nothing worth mentioning."
Margaery nodded, her gaze seemingly casual as it swept over the places where the brothers had just been "busy"...
That low wall that was still teetering, the other parts of the injured person's face that remained dirty despite being wiped, and that ruined altar that had received no substantial repair.
Her gaze then swept across the eastern side of the street, to those Targaryen Soldiers who remained silent but were actually hauling away rubble by the cartload and clearing debris shovel by shovel.
She withdrew her gaze, her smile unchanged and her tone still peaceful, as if she were just making casual conversation: "I see. You are all very thoughtful. Prince Aegon has taken charge of the capital, and with everything waiting to be rebuilt, it is a time when everyone must be of one mind."
"His Highness is merciful and sympathizes with the hardships of the people. This bread is the relief supply that Highgarden brought in response to His Highness's call. I am distributing it to the people in Prince Aegon's name to slightly alleviate their hunger and distress."
She paused, her voice clear and gentle, ensuring that the commoners nearby who were listening could also hear: "In the future, as long as King's Landing has need, Highgarden will continue to send food and supplies in His Highness's name. Life in King's Landing under His Highness's rule will eventually get better."
Margaery believed she had spoken these words appropriately. She had pointed out the origin and ownership of the food—it was Prince Aegon's grace, and Highgarden was merely the executor.
She also subtly expressed Highgarden's support and goodwill for the New King. She hoped to use this to slightly improve Aegon's terrifying image as a "Conqueror" and "City Burner" among the commoners, and to add a bit of stability to Highgarden's and her own situation in King's Landing.
However, these words fell into the High Sparrow's ears like a spark landing in a pile of dry wood that had long been stacked in his heart.
Beneath his lowered eyelids, an extremely fast and bright light flashed in his eyes, almost impossible to suppress.
He had long had his own plans.
The previous High Septon had foolishly hidden in a brothel when dragon wings swept over Silk Street, only to perish buried under the ruins. The position of High Septon had been vacant for a long time.
Using his status as a devout believer, he had been running among the refugees to comfort them and offer kind words, gathering their hearts bit by bit in order to accumulate prestige and seek power within the Faith.
But he had always deeply feared Aegon Targaryen's thunderous and bloody methods, not daring to overstep in the slightest for fear of following in his predecessor's footsteps.
At this moment, Margaery's words sounded completely different in his ears.
The Rose of Highgarden, distributing food in the name of the Prince and promising a "continuous supply"?
This was clearly the most distinct signal possible! Aegon Targaryen, the Conqueror who opened his path with coldness and steel, had finally begun to "care" about the hearts of the people after securing the iron throne!
He began to need a reputation for "benevolence" to solidify his rule! He was no longer just that tyrant who only knew of slaughter and destruction!
An opportunity! A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! The High Sparrow felt his heart racing and blood surging in his ears.
The "softening" of the Prince's attitude was the perfect ladder for a devout believer like him, who "held the people's hearts," to climb onto the stage of power!
He forcibly suppressed the ecstasy and restlessness in his heart, the look of gentleness and piety on his face deepening, even flushing with excitement.
He turned around, no longer looking at Margaery, but facing the refugees who were clutching bread, devouring it or carefully treasuring it, and suddenly raised his voice.
That voice was no longer just gentle, but filled with a soulful, highly provocative earnestness, sounding entirely like someone moved by divine grace and overcome with excitement:
"Devout believers of the Seven! Brothers! Sisters! Do you all hear? Do you all see?"
He spread his arms as if to embrace everyone, pointing at Margaery, and more specifically at the bread she brought: "This grain! This life-saving grain! It is the grace of Prince Aegon! It is because His Highness remembers our hunger and cold, and pities our suffering, that the fertile Highgarden has sent these white breads!"
The refugees looked up one after another, some dazed, some moved, looking at Margaery, at the bread in their hands, and then at the emotional High Sparrow.
The aroma of bread was still at the tips of their noses, and the hunger in their bellies had not yet fully subsided; these simple words, "grace," easily took root in the soil of despair.
Seeing this, the High Sparrow felt greatly reassured and continued to shout with his infectious voice, every word seeming carefully tempered to tug at the most fragile heartstrings of his audience:
"His Highness has not forgotten us! His Highness has us suffering subjects in his heart! This is the benevolent heart bestowed by the Seven, the loving-kindness of Your Highness the Prince!"
He waved his arms, pointing toward the Red Keep, his voice growing higher and higher: "His Highness treats us with such great kindness, how can we receive it in silence, without gratitude?! We should let His Highness hear our voices and see our gratitude!"
"Brothers, sisters, let us go together! Together to the Red Keep, to the front of Your Highness the Prince's castle, to kowtow and thank His Highness for his grace in unison! Let His Highness know that the people of King's Landing remember his goodness! We are not ungrateful people!"
His initial intention was merely to take this opportunity to gather a group of grateful citizens and, in the capacity of a "representative of the people," gain an opportunity to meet the Prince and express loyalty, thereby logically seeking the vacant position of High Septon.
He needed a display of "public opinion" to increase his own weight.
At first, the response to him was only scattered, timid voices.
"Yes... we should go thank him..."
"His Highness gave us food..."
"His Highness is merciful..."
The crowd began to stir, and some people stood up hesitantly, looking toward the Red Keep, their eyes shimmering with a mixture of gratitude and conformity.
The High Sparrow rejoiced inwardly, feeling that the timing was right.
However, he underestimated the complexity of the long-suppressed emotions in the hearts of people who had been hungry, fearful, and desperate for so long, and he overestimated his control over these emotions.
As the crowd began to gather and individuals merged into the group, a subtle change began to occur.
"Right! Go thank His Highness!" a hoarse voice shouted, carrying a hint of reckless excitement.
"His Highness gave us bread!" another voice joined in, slightly louder.
"Red Keep! To the Red Keep!" The shouts began to become uniform and louder, as if sound could drive away hunger and cold.
But amidst this wave of gratitude, discordant notes began to burst forth.
"What use is just bread!" a skeletal woman holding a child suddenly shrieked, her voice piercing due to excitement and long-term malnutrition. "My house collapsed! My child cries all night from the cold! Who cares about us!"
This cry was like a stone thrown into a lake that had just begun to surge, stirring up different ripples.
"Yeah! Gave us a bite to eat, but where do we live?!" a man with a missing arm waved his empty sleeve, his face full of pain and resentment. "The war ruined everything! Who cares if we live or die now!"
"Those Soldiers!" another voice pointed toward the Targaryen auxiliary soldiers to the east who were still working in silence, his voice full of malice. "They only know how to rob Peter to pay Paul! Slow as snails! My shop is completely ruined, and they won't even take a look!"
"My man died on the city walls, and I couldn't even find his whole body! Is it all for a few pieces of bread?!"
"Seven Gods, look at the state of this world!"
Complaints, curses, and cries erupted from every corner of the crowd like a flood breaking through a dam.
Long-accumulated pain, the sorrow of losing loved ones, fear for the future, dissatisfaction with the status quo... all emotions found a vent under the seemingly legitimate excuse of "gratitude."
The target quickly blurred and shifted.
They were no longer just going to thank the "merciful Prince," but rather seemed to be seizing this opportunity to pour out all the injustice and suffering in their hearts.
The crowd began to riot, jostle, and surge forward. The shouts became chaotic and manic; "Thank His Highness" intertwined with cries of "Give me back my house," "Give me justice," and "We want a way to live," forming a massive and noisy wave of sound.
The initial sense of order and direction quickly vanished, and the crowd became blind and impulsive, driven only by a powerful, venting emotion toward the Red Keep... the symbol of power and all their problems.
The momentum grew stronger and more out of control.
The carefully maintained expression of gentle gratitude on the High Sparrow's face completely froze the moment the crowd boiled over and sharply shifted direction, turning instead into shock and panic.
He opened his mouth, trying to shout, wanting to pull the crowd back to the track of "gratitude," wanting to maintain order...
"Wait! Not like this! We are going to give thanks! Be grateful..."
But his voice was instantly drowned out by the boiling, resentful clamor.
The surging tide of people swept him up in their midst, moving him forward against his will. The situation, the moment it was ignited, had already derailed and was racing toward an unknown and dangerous direction.
Margaery stood where she was, still holding that empty wicker basket in her hand.
She watched the suddenly boiling, out-of-control crowd before her, watching those faces turn from numbness to excitement, and from gratitude quickly distorting into resentment or even fury.
She watched them merge into an increasingly surging, negative-emotion-filled muddy stream, shouting, pushing, and cursing as they surged toward the Red Keep, toward Aegon Targaryen...
The color drained from her face bit by bit, turning pale.
Her heart sank heavily in her chest, and a cold premonition of ill omen, like the most biting winter wind, instantly swept through her entire body, making her fingertips go cold.
Her words just now... originally intended to show goodwill, to ease the situation, and to gain space for Highgarden and herself... seemed to have been severely and completely misunderstood and exploited.
That High Sparrow, that seemingly devout and humble septon, had interpreted a completely wrong signal from them and tried to use it to achieve his own goals, but had foolishly ignited a powder keg that was fundamentally uncontrollable!
And even more terrifying was that what was packed in this powder keg was not just gratitude, but more so long-suppressed suffering, anger, and despair.
Once this emotion was ignited, it was like a wildfire on the prairie; it would only consume all reason and rush toward any target perceived as a source or symbol.
A gathering. A surge. Resentful shouts. Advancing toward the Red Keep.
No matter how distorted the original intention, no matter what slogans were shouted, this behavior itself...
Margaery's lips were pressed white, devoid of color.
She watched the rapidly receding, earth-shakingly noisy crowd that was like a stampeding herd of wild beasts, feeling only a chill rush from the soles of her feet to the top of her head.
This touched upon Aegon Targaryen's most inviolable, sensitive, and dangerous bottom line.
Any form of gathering or commotion, especially one directed at the Red Keep, would likely be no different from rebellion in his eyes.
She could almost see the cold reflections on the walls of the Red Keep, hear the friction of the Kingsguard's longswords being unsheathed, and feel the cold, ruthless gaze cast down from that throne.
A commotion unintentionally triggered by bread, yet rapidly catalyzed and corrupted by long-term suffering, was sliding madly toward an unpredictable and even more irreversible abyss.
And she, Margaery Tyrell, the Rose of Highgarden, seemed to have become the person who lit this fuse.
"My Lady..." Her guard stepped forward, his voice tense, hand resting on his sword hilt, warily watching the chaotic and violent streets and those dangerous-looking people who had been incited.
Margaery snapped back to her senses, forcing herself to be calm. Panic would solve nothing.
"Return to the Red Keep immediately," she lowered her voice, speaking quickly and clearly with unquestionable decisiveness. "Take the nearest side gate, go tell Prince Aegon, hurry!"
She had to go back immediately; she had to stay as far away from this forming storm as possible.
At the same time, she had to think about how she should explain and respond when Aegon learned of all this, especially when he learned that the "cause" of this commotion was related to her.
Lifting her skirts and turning around, Margaery no longer looked at the receding crowd. Closely surrounded by her guards, she quickly and silently ducked into another secluded alley, her light green figure soon disappearing among the ruins.
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