When they entered the chamber, Aegon was waiting by the window, sunlight streaming across his silver hair like a halo of molten steel. He turned as the doors opened, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Olenna, Mace, and Margaery stepped forward. Then, slowly, they all knelt.
"House Tyrell," Olenna declared, her voice steady, "bends the knee to Aegon of House Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men."
Aegon's gaze lingered on her for a long moment before he said, "Rise."
They obeyed.
There was no triumph in his face, only calm satisfaction, the expression of a man collecting the debts the world owed him.
"Good," he said. "Then hear this. When war comes, and it will come, the Reach will not march. Stannis, the Lannisters, and the North will bleed each other dry. You will sit and wait. I will return from Essos when the time is right."
Olenna nodded once. "Practical."
"Necessary," Aegon corrected.
His gaze slid to Margaery. "And perhaps, pleasant."
A faint smile touched her lips.
Aegon's eyes didn't leave hers as he said, "Lady Margaery, will you walk with me? I find your gardens too beautiful to leave unexplored."
Olenna's expression twitched, but she said nothing.
Margaery inclined her head. "Of course, Your Grace."
Aegon offered his arm, and together they turned toward the arching doors that led out into the blooming heart of Highgarden.
Behind them, Baqo and Rahko followed at a respectful distance, and Olenna watched from where she stood, eyes narrowed, mind already calculating what it meant that the rose was stepping so willingly into the flame.
The door closed behind them, leaving only the faint scent of roses and smoke in the air.
The garden paths of Highgarden were alive with color, sunlight filtering through climbing roses and the drifting perfume of blooming lilies. As Aegon and Margaery stepped into the winding walkways, the sounds of soldiers, whispers, and distant dragon-roars faded behind them.
Margaery walked beside him with calm grace, though her heart beat a little quicker than she wished to admit. Aegon's presence was different up close, sharper, heavier, like standing beside a wildfire contained in human form. Even the air around him seemed subtly warmer.
"You have nice gardens, enough to impress anyone," Aegon said, glancing at the flowers, "and they do. Most men would be distracted by the beauty of this place."
Margaery smiled lightly. "Are you distracted, Your Grace?"
He looked at her, unblinking. "I don't allow myself to be distracted."
"Then why the walk?" she asked.
Aegon's gaze shifted back to the garden path. "Because a queen in all but name deserves the courtesy. And because I wanted to judge you myself."
"Judge me?"
"Your grandmother is sharp enough to cut steel. Your father is… present. But you," he turned toward her, "you're the one who matters."
Her cheeks warmed slightly. "You've known me for only minutes."
Aegon gave her a sideways glance. "I could conquer city in less time."
Margaery laughed softly. "So I'm a conquest?"
"Everything worth having is."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It hummed with something unspoken.
"You've been staring at me since I entered the castle," Aegon said casually.Her eyes widened slightly, and he smirked. "You're not subtle."
Margaery recovered quickly. "I was trying to decide if the stories were true."
"And what do the stories say?"
"That the Targaryen prince across the sea has dragons, an army of strange horsemen, a temper like wildfire… and eyes that can make your soul tremble."
Aegon stopped walking. She halted too, just a step behind.
"And now that you've seen me," he asked, "what do you believe?"
Margaery met his eyes, violet and unreadable. "I believe," she said slowly, "that none of the stories were exaggerated."
A small smile curved his lips. "Good. Exaggeration bores me."
They continued walking, silence stretching comfortably until Margaery finally asked:
"Do you truly intend to marry your aunt? Daenerys?"
"Yes."
"And me?" she said quietly.
"Yes."
She swallowed. "And I will never be queen."
"No," Aegon said plainly. "But you will be remembered. And your children, if they prove capable, could wear the crown."
Margaery studied him, then nodded. "You truly mean to choose your heir based on merit alone."
"Yes."
"It's rare," she said. "Men in Westeros do not think like that."
"Westeros has not had a king like me. I see no point in passing my crown to a child of mine who would only destroy my hard work. My new Targaryen dynasty will thrive forever, never to be broken again."
They walked until the sun began to tilt lower, painting the garden paths in gold. Baqo and Rahko waited respectfully by the gate, watching their Khal and the rose-maiden walk towards them.
At the edge of the fields outside Highgarden, the ground trembled faintly as Bahamut descended, its black wings casting a massive shadow over the gardens while the white dragon circled above. Margaery stepped closer to Aegon instinctively, staring up at the colossal beast with awe.
Bahamut lowered his neck. Aegon placed a hand on the dragon's scales before turning to her.
"You'll hear from me again," he said.
Margaery curtsied gracefully despite the tremor beneath her feet. "I look forward to it, Your Grace."
Aegon climbed onto Bahamut's back, Baqo and Rahko mounting behind him. The dragon spread its wings, sending a gust of wind through the fields, making roses bow and servants shield their faces.
"Highgarden stands untouched," Aegon said, voice carrying over the roar of wind. "Remember why."
With a final, blazing burst of fire from Bahamut's throat, the dragon shot into the sky, wings beating thunder across the Reach.
Margaery watched him rise higher and higher, her hair whipping around her face, her expression something between longing and calculation.
Olenna stepped beside her.
"So," she murmured, "the fire takes root."
Margaery didn't look away from the sky.
"No," she whispered. "I walk toward the fire."