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Chapter 695
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 19:31:49 +0000 UTC"It's all yours."
With a light, almost playful tone, the Queen tossed out the half-sentence before turning and gliding away.
This wasn’t an abandonment of duty. Aegor had secured this authority long before setting out on his Western Campaign—an imperial sword of sorts, granted by the Queen herself. As the architect and executor of the Greater Crownlands Plan, he had full discretion over the Reach’s conquest, including the fate of its nobility and the terms of any negotiations. Daenerys had promised not to interfere.
The Queen was long past her novice phase and understood the necessity of such centralized command. Besides, she was in a particularly good mood after being coaxed earlier, so there was no chance she’d suddenly go back on her word now.
With that settled, Aegor personally saw her off before ordering the negotiation delegation to be received. He adjusted his demeanor, returned to his command tent, and awaited his guests.
Before long, the murmur of distant conversation grew into the lively noise of a group approaching his tent. As per protocol, Aegor ordered that the delegation be searched before entry. This arrogant and offensive demand, as expected, provoked immediate protests. Arguments flared, voices rising, and—curiously—he caught the distinct tone of a woman among them.
Just as he was pondering this anomaly, the tent flap lifted, and a guard poked his head inside.
"Milord, the leader of the delegation is Margaery Tyrell. She refuses to be searched. What are your orders?"
Margaery Tyrell?
Aegor’s eyelids twitched.
Did this woman not realize that, beyond being the eldest daughter of House Tyrell, she was also the Queen of Aegon—the False King?
His initial surprise quickly gave way to delight.
This meant that if negotiations broke down, he could simply detain her, instantly acquiring a high-value hostage.
"We do not take emissaries prisoner in war?"
He had no such noble pretensions. That kind of chivalric nonsense was for fools.
That said, sending male guards to search the queen of the enemy was tactless. That was indeed an oversight on his part. But Aegor wasn’t one to dwell on mistakes—he immediately came up with a solution.
"Melisandre, you do it."
The Red Woman nodded and followed the guards outside. The clamor of debate quickly transitioned into a more measured discussion between women. A few seconds later, silence fell—clearly, one side had yielded.
Two minutes later, the tent flap lifted again, and a slim figure, wrapped in a deep green hooded cloak, followed the Red Woman inside.
"Mistress Margaery... no, Lady? Or should I say Your Grace?" Aegor greeted her with a smirk, eyes twinkling with amusement as he met her indignant, blushing gaze. "I must say, I'm honored. Who would’ve thought the Rose of Highgarden would personally come to negotiate? Please, have a seat."
"Lord Hand, what overwhelming authority you wield!" Margaery sat as directed, her voice carrying a calculated tremor of grievance, anger, and wounded dignity. "An old friend visits, and she must be searched before even being allowed to meet you? Is our long-standing friendship worth nothing?"
Aegor didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reined in his smirk and, expressionless, turned his gaze toward Melisandre.
The Red Woman gave him the faintest nod—no magic disguises, no hidden weapons.
Interesting.
With a slight gesture, he dismissed her.
Had the visitor been any other envoy, he would have kept Melisandre in the tent as insurance. But Margaery?
When he was clad in dragonscale armor, with a sword at his hip, and an entire table separating them, he would be a disgrace of a commander if he feared an unarmed noblewoman who had just been searched.
"Unusual times call for unusual measures. I trust you understand."
His tone was indifferent, almost dismissive, as he finally addressed her.
Margaery Tyrell, now in her early twenties, was at the perfect cusp between youthful charm and mature elegance. Though her attire was simple and unadorned, it retained an understated grace, free of any overt intent to entice. And yet, she still stood out.
Under different circumstances, Aegor might have started with polite flattery.
But the woman before him was not a guest, nor a friend.
She was an obstacle.
And at this moment, the balance of power between them was so lopsided that he couldn’t even be bothered to offer a token jest to put her at ease. The mere act of maintaining basic civility was already generous.
"If you insist we had a friendship, then I suppose there was something between us," he continued coldly. "And that is precisely why you are here, seated before me, instead of being dragged off in chains the moment you declared yourself the wife of the False King.
"Consider it an old friend’s courtesy. I suggest you don’t waste it on trivial complaints."
The so-called golden age of cooperation between House Tyrell and the Night’s Watch was real, but it had always been a matter of mutual benefit. It was true that the Reach had refrained from exploiting the Watch too severely, but the Watch had never been a beggar either. Every investment, every favor, every transaction had been repaid—whether in shares, knowledge, or doubled returns.
There had been partnership, but no outstanding debt.
So when it came time to renegotiate that relationship with the sword, Aegor had no qualms.
Margaery’s attempt to play the friendship card was promptly torn apart.
Realizing this, she pivoted immediately.
"Then let me appeal to Her Majesty. I come on behalf of House Tyrell and the Reach to offer surrender. Surely she will at least grant her nephew’s wife an audience?"
"If I were you, I wouldn't pin my hopes on that lifeline," Aegor scoffed.
He revealed nothing.
Daenerys might have doubts about Aegon’s legitimacy, but that was information he would not be handing over to his negotiation opponent.
Sitting up straighter, he adopted a more formal tone.
"By the authority vested in me by Daenerys Targaryen, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I, her Hand, hold full command over all negotiations with the Reach’s rebels.
"So let’s not waste time.
"Shall we begin?"
Margaery’s face fell.
She had come personally, not just because her father and brothers were missing after the battle, nor because her only remaining male kin—her crippled elder brother, Willas—could neither risk nor afford to come.
No, there were two other key reasons.
First, Daenerys herself was a woman. The scouts had seen her descend on dragonback, confirming her presence.
Second, she was married to the Queen’s nephew—a Tyrell by birth, but a Targaryen by name. In the noble game, such ties were invaluable.
Margaery had planned to craft a ladies' peace with Daenerys—one that would be remembered as a legendary accord between queens.
But the Queen was right here in camp—and yet she refused to show herself.
Instead, she had sent Aegor—the black-armored, foreign-born, utterly ruthless Hand.
This was not just a rebuff.
This was a warning.
It meant Daenerys was considering the complete annihilation of House Tyrell.
Margaery’s heart clenched, but she forced herself to remain composed.
Either the Queen had already made up her mind…
Or Aegor was bluffing.
If it was the former, then nothing she did mattered.
If it was the latter, then the slightest show of weakness would see her devoured whole.
"House Tyrell renounces its support for Aegon’s claim and swears fealty to the Queen. The Reach will compensate her for all war expenses, with the sum to be negotiated. In return, she must guarantee the safety and freedom of all surviving Reach nobles. Their lands, titles, and homes must remain intact. Those without male heirs must be allowed to retain enough wealth to survive—"
Aegor cut her off with a derisive laugh.
"Lady Margaery… does this tent stink to you?"
Stink?
Margaery blinked, confused.
She inhaled slightly.
No foul smell.
Realizing this must be some metaphor, she wracked her brain, but couldn’t decipher it in time. Unwilling to appear lost, she shook her head hesitantly.
"No… What do you mean, Lord Hand?"
Aegor leaned forward, eyes glinting.
"You disregard my words as nonsense, yet claim the air is fresh?
"Such contradictions are quite amusing."
Margaery’s stomach sank.
She was already losing.
