The aftertaste of the Grand Council still lingered faintly in the Throne Room of the Red Keep.
Margaery had already returned to the comfortable guest room arranged for her on the upper floors of Maegor's Holdfast.
The astonishing rewards bestowed upon House Crabb were like a massive boulder thrown into a deep pool, stirring up ripples in her heart that would not subside for a long time.
Governor, Warden, title—three powers combined, equivalent to the regional lords of the past!
Margaery believed this was not just a reward, but a crystal-clear signal.
The future of Highgarden and the way forward for House Tyrell swirled rapidly in her mind.
Renly was dead, Stannis was crushed, the Lannisters were fighting like cornered beasts; the ownership of the iron throne seemed to have no suspense left.
Should she continue to maintain the reserved distance of an "emissary," waiting for an olive branch that might never be extended, or... take the initiative to draw closer and show the loyalty and value that made Highgarden worthy of that "special treatment"?
Margaery hardly hesitated.
She walked to the exquisite dressing table, carefully straightened her hair and attire in the mirror, ensuring every detail was flawless—neither overly grand to appear deliberate, nor lacking in courtesy.
The girl in the mirror had delicate features, with gentleness revealing a sense of determination.
She took a deep breath, turned, and walked toward the door; it was time to knock on that door leading to the future.
...
Aegon returned to his study from the Throne Room, the heavy oak door closing behind him, shutting out the sounds and gazes of the outside world.
He took off the ornate attire symbolizing his status as a prince, wearing only black casual clothes that were easy to move in.
The light in the study was slightly dim, with only the leaping flames in the fireplace and a candlestick on the table providing light, casting his tall, upright figure onto the wall, swaying slightly.
He did not sit down immediately but walked to the window and pushed it open.
The cool evening breeze poured in, carrying the distinct scent of King's Landing; the filth had been sent outside the city along with the building debris, so the stench was much reduced.
The war in The Crownlands, the implementation of the new system, the chaotic situation in the Westerlands, The North, and The Riverlands... a thousand thoughts swirled in his mind, but in the depths of those violet eyes, there was only cold deliberation.
The brief silence was interrupted by a respectful knock on the door.
"Enter."
The door was gently pushed open, and Maester Pycelle, wearing grey-brown robes and with metal links hanging around his neck, walked in, holding a small copper tube with a wax seal.
"Your Highness, there is a letter from your Narrow Sea Realm brought by a raven."
Aegon turned and walked back to sit behind his desk.
"Present it."
Maester Pycelle stepped forward, placed the small copper tube on the table, then skillfully used a small knife to scrape off the wax seal and took out a tightly rolled piece of parchment.
To make it easier for the raven to carry, the parchment had been cut very small, and the handwriting on it was so dense and tiny that it required a magnifying glass to see clearly.
Aegon took it and squinted slightly in the candlelight.
His eyesight was excellent; even though the font was so small, he could still clearly identify it.
The letter was a note from Luciana, starting with congratulations, wishing him victory and brilliant military command for capturing Dragonstone and King's Landing in such a short time.
The tone was respectful, but Aegon could imagine the calm, expressionless face of that Triarch when she wrote these words.
Next was the main topic.
Luciana reported in detail on the current situation of the Narrow Sea Realm.
Thanks to the thorough and brutal purge he conducted before the Western Expedition, all possible unstable factors within the three cities had been rooted out, and the bloody deterrent remained long-lasting.
Therefore, even though he, this "true dragon," had left and was far across the Narrow Sea, the remnants of the old forces in the three cities were still terrified.
No one dared to make any moves.
The situation was even so stable that it was somewhat dull.
"The integration of supplies from the three cities has been initially completed."
"According to the list formulated by Your Highness, ordnance, emergency provisions, and craftsmen skilled in fortification and shipbuilding have begun to be loaded in batches and will be shipped to King's Landing or Dragonstone along the established route to support your war in Westeros."
"The first fleet can set sail within three days."
Seeing this, Aegon nodded imperceptibly.
Luciana's execution had never let him down.
Logistics were the lifeline of war, and as a stable rear base, the three cities served exactly this purpose.
The letter continued: "Additionally, in accordance with your instructions before leaving, if Princess Daenerys wishes, she is allowed to contact and assist in handling some daily government affairs of the Princes Residence."
"Currently, Her Highness the Princess has begun to try reading some non-urgent trade documents and security briefs, and occasionally offers her insights."
"Supported by the funds Your Highness obtained from the Iron Bank, trade in the three cities has gradually recovered from the flames of war, and trade routes with Volantis, Yunkai and even more distant city-states are being reopened, and tax revenue has increased."
"It's just..."
The handwriting seemed to pause slightly here, with a slight smudge of ink.
"It's just that Her Highness the Princess seems to have great... objections to the gradually recovering slave trade in the three cities, especially in Lys."
"She has found me several times, her words earnest and even intense, talking about this matter, believing it to be a huge injustice, contrary to your... contrary to the traditional beliefs of House Targaryen."
"This matter involves a wide range of issues and concerns the traditions and important financial sources of the three cities, so I dare not make decisions on my own and hereby ask for your instructions, Your Highness."
"How should I respond to Her Highness the Princess's opinions? What policy should be adopted regarding the increasingly recovering slave trade? I await your instructions."
At the end of the letter was Luciana's usual formal signature:
"Triarch of the Narrow Sea Realm, Luciana, at the Princes Residence. I only wish for Your Highness to win the battle in Westeros, for everything to go smoothly, and for your early triumphant return."
Aegon put down the small piece of parchment, leaned back into the high-backed chair, tapped his fingertips lightly on the smooth armrest, and the corners of his mouth curled up in a tiny arc, almost imperceptibly.
Daenerys...
He had never thought of treating her merely as a symbolic relative in need of protection, a delicate and fragile vase.
Leaving her in the relatively stable three cities, giving her the opportunity to touch government affairs and understand the operation of power, and even tacitly allowing and encouraging her to express her own views, even if those views sounded a bit immature and idealistic now.
He only provided protection and the most basic guidance when necessary; the rest of the path needed to be walked by her, observed by her, thought about by her, collided with by her, and grown from by her.
Now it seemed the effect was good.
She was no longer just that lost little girl who needed him to draw his sword to protect her.
She had begun to try to understand this complex and cruel world, started to form her own judgments, and even... started to challenge some deep-rooted "rules."
The recovering slave trade in Lys had touched something sensitive in her heart.
This was very good.
She was one step closer to the "Mother of Dragons" who was tough, brave, and eventually liberated the slaves in his memory.
The slave trade in Lys?
Aegon's fingertips tapping on the armrest paused slightly.
This was his oversight before.
Since capturing Lys, he had hardly stopped—purging, integrating, preparing for war, the Western Expedition... Because of the successive wars, many industries in the three cities had stagnated, including this evil trade.
Later, when he unified the three cities, those ancient families and trade princes were all trembling before him, only daring to present the "good" side, striving to restore "normal" commercial activities to prove their value.
And he, thinking only of returning to Westeros for revenge, thinking about how to eradicate the stubborn disease of enfeoffment and separatism once and for all, had forgotten that on the land his feet had just stepped on, on that "Narrow Sea Realm" that had already been branded with his mark, there still existed another set of more ancient, more bloody, and more "justified" shackles... slavery.
He frowned slightly, but soon smoothed it out.
No matter.
His main energy now must be focused on Westeros; the war here was not over yet, and the implementation of the new system was even more complicated.
The slave trade issue in the three cities could just be handed over to Daenerys to face and try to solve.
This would become an excellent whetstone for her, allowing her to learn in practice how to use influence, how to balance ideals and reality, how to deal with pragmatic bureaucrats like Luciana, and even... how to touch those intertwined interest groups.
Let her try it out in her own "Narrow Sea Realm" first.
Setbacks or limited success, all were nutrients for growth.
When her wings were full, and when those baby dragons grew up... perhaps, ending the slavery that prevailed throughout the entire continent of Essos would become the journey she was destined to embark on.
Thinking of this, the faint smile on Aegon's cold face seemed to deepen a little.
He abolished enfeoffment in Westeros, centralized power, and reshaped order; she challenged slavery in Essos, liberated the enslaved, and spread another kind of fire... Could this count as some kind of strange "mixed doubles" across the Narrow Sea?
"Maester Pycelle." Aegon spoke, his voice interrupting the Maester's contemplation as he stood by.
"Your Highness." Pylos bowed immediately.
"Prepare a reply. To Luciana."
Pylos immediately walked to the side table by the desk, where the thinnest parchment, the finest quill, and special ink were always kept.
He skillfully spread out a narrow piece of parchment similar to the letter from Luciana, picked up the pen, and looked at Aegon.
To make it easy for the raven to fly, the letter paper had to be small, and the font had to be tiny.
Although Aegon could see clearly, it was not an easy task for him to write such tiny characters himself, and the efficiency was too low.
Therefore, he dictated, and Maester Pycelle, who was well-trained and skilled in this, wrote it down, which was the best choice.
Aegon pondered for a moment and said clearly: "The letter has been read. The three cities are stable, and the collection and transport of supplies are timely; very good. I trust your work."
Maester Pycelle's pen nib, fine as a mosquito's leg, moved across the paper, leaving behind barely visible ink marks.
"It is a good thing that Daenerys takes an interest in state affairs. You may offer her guidance from the sidelines; there is no need to oversee every trivial detail, but you must ensure she understands the trade-offs of decision-making and the difficulties of execution."
"She is gifted and has a pure heart, making her worthy of cultivation. You carry the heavy burden of the three cities and work hard; you may let her share some of the load appropriately. This will also help me cultivate a capable assistant, and you, too, will be able to catch your breath."
He paused, a flicker of light passing through his violet eyes, and continued: "As for her attitude toward the slave trade... tell her in your reply: on this matter, she is to decide."
The nib of Maester Pycelle's pen trembled almost imperceptibly, but he immediately steadied his hand and continued writing.
"You need only support her from the sidelines, provide the information and manpower she requires, and remind her of potential resistance and consequences, but the final decision on what to do and how much to do rests with her will."
"No matter what choices she makes or what consequences arise, I will bear the burden. Your duty is to ensure her safety and to see that the overall situation in the three cities does not descend into uncontrollable chaos because of this."
"Use your own judgment regarding the boundaries."
After dictating, Aegon watched as Maester Pycelle carefully checked the mosquito-fine handwriting, then, with equally delicate precision, rolled up the parchment, inserted it into a slender copper tube, sealed it with special wax, and stamped it with Aegon's personal seal—a coiled three-headed dragon.
"Send it immediately."
"Yes, Your Grace." Maester Pycelle carefully put away the copper tube and bowed as he exited the study.
Just as Maester Pycelle opened the door and his figure was about to disappear, low murmurs seemed to come from the corridor outside. Maester Pycelle's movement paused slightly, and he appeared to nod to someone waiting outside before gently pulling the door shut.
Aegon paid no mind to this small interlude; his thoughts remained on the other side of the Narrow Sea, wondering what expression Daenerys would wear when she saw the reply—surprise, excitement, or perhaps pressure?
He could almost imagine her beautiful violet eyes lighting up in an instant.
However, the study door had not completely closed before it was knocked upon again. This time the sound was clearer; it was the Personal Guard stationed outside.
"Your Grace, Lady Margaery Tyrell requests an audience and has been waiting outside for some time. Seeing that you were busy with important matters just now, I did not dare to announce her."
Margaery? Aegon's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
The Grand Council had just ended, and she had already arrived.
She was certainly quick.
He leaned back in his chair, the faint, involuntary softness on his face caused by thoughts of Daenerys having long since vanished, replaced by his usual calm and cold demeanor.
"Let her in."
The door was pushed open, and Margaery walked in with an elegant and light step.
She had changed into a relatively simple moon-white gown, but the tailoring was still impeccable, accentuating her graceful figure.
With an impeccable, gentle, and proper smile on her face, she curtsied to Aegon behind the desk.
"Margaery greets Your Grace. Please forgive me for this intrusion."
As she curtsied, her peripheral vision had already swept across the study—the simple furnishings, the dancing hearth fire, the scattered documents on the desk, and the calm, expressionless look on Aegon's face.
Before entering, she had vaguely heard the last few sentences from inside, seemingly about writing a letter and "...she is to decide" and "...I will bear the burden." At this moment, the study seemed to retain a faint scent of mixed ink and wax, as well as a sense of... the stillness that follows the conclusion of an important matter.
Aegon merely raised his hand slightly to signal her to rise. His gaze lingered on her face for less than a second before moving away, as if he had merely looked at an exquisite ornament. "Lady Tyrell, what important matter brings you here at this hour?"
His tone was flat, even polite, but that sense of detachment was more pronounced than when he had faced the generals in the Throne Room.
It was a purely professional stance, devoid of any extra warmth.
Margaery's heart sank slightly, but the smile on her face remained unchanged, appearing even softer.
She did not answer immediately, but instead glanced apologetically in the direction Maester Pycelle had just left, saying softly: "Just now outside the door, I seemed to hear Your Grace attending to state affairs. Was it news from across the Narrow Sea? I hope I have not interrupted anything urgent."
Her question was clever; it explained why she had been "waiting for some time" while naturally leading the topic toward the vague piece of information she had just caught: across the Narrow Sea.
More importantly, she needed to confirm who exactly it was that made Aegon's tone seem even slightly different when he mentioned them.
Aegon looked at her, his gaze seemingly able to pierce through her perfect smile and see the probing underneath.
But he did not deny it, nor did he intend to discuss it further. He simply gave a faint "Hmm," which served as an answer, and then asked again: "Lady Tyrell, is there something you need?"
Margaery's fingers curled slightly within her sleeves.
This dismissal again, this coldness that kept her at a distance of a thousand miles.
From the moment she entered until now, he hadn't even offered her a seat. She stood in the center of the study like a maid waiting for orders, while he hadn't even looked at her more than once.
She recalled the fragments of conversation she had caught outside the door—that hint of... protection? Indulgence? And that clear "she is to decide," "I will bear the burden."
Who was that for? Who could make this cold, powerful dragon king speak in such an almost indulgent tone?
Daenerys... Daenerys Targaryen. The name flashed rapidly through her mind.
She had vaguely heard rumors about The Mad King Aerys having a younger son and daughter wandering overseas.
That girl, by the order of lineage, should be Aegon's... aunt? She seemed younger than Aegon, too.
Could the fleeting softness on Aegon's face just now have been because he was thinking of this exiled princess? The protection in his words, that attitude as if whatever the other party did, it was fine, and he would back her up...
A wave of extremely complex emotions surged in Margaery's heart.
It was not love, but something mixed with scrutiny, comparison, a vague sense of unwillingness, and a stronger sense of crisis.
She had always been confident in her beauty and intelligence; in The Reach, and even in the entire Seven Kingdoms, she indeed had the capital for it.
But since meeting Aegon, this young prince had never shown the slightest interest in her beauty. His gaze was always calm and scrutinizing, as if evaluating the value of an object.
Yet at this moment, merely through a letter, a girl far away, whom she had never met, could stir a flicker of emotion in him and receive such obvious favoritism and support.
She thought of the House Targaryen's famous... tradition. Siblings, half-siblings, uncle and niece... bloodlines intertwined, jointly maintaining the blood of the true dragon.
Could it be...
A trace of envy, so faint that she might not even be clearly aware of it herself, quietly crossed her heart.
Envy for that woman who could be treated this way by such a powerful, destined-to-succeed man.
Aegon's strength, she had seen with her own eyes.
That terrifying three-headed dragon, that overwhelming power, had almost declared the outcome of this war for the iron throne.
He might face challenges, he might encounter resistance, but deep in Margaery's heart, a clear voice was saying:
He will win.
He will surely become the new king of Westeros, and he will be a monarch with unprecedentedly concentrated power and unparalleled majesty.
Then, what kind of authority, glory, and influence would the queen of such a monarch possess?
Once this thought arose, it was difficult to suppress.
She did not show any abnormality, still standing with an elegant posture, her voice soft: "It is Margaery's fault for disturbing Your Grace."
"It is just that at the Grand Council, Your Grace promulgated new policies with such grand ambition and clear rewards and punishments, which deeply shocked Margaery and also left me feeling lost as to how Highgarden should position itself in the future."
"After much thought, I could only venture to come here and earnestly request Your Grace's guidance."
She lowered her posture, her words earnest.
Aegon finally cast his gaze back toward her. Those violet eyes were as deep as an ancient well, clearly reflecting her perfect image, yet revealing not a hint of emotion.
He did not respond immediately, his fingers unconsciously brushing across the edge of the letter from the Narrow Sea on the desk.
The study was silent for a moment, save for the occasional crackle of burning wood in the fireplace.
Margaery waited patiently, though her heart was slightly elevated. She knew that the ensuing conversation would likely determine the future of House Tyrell, and even the entire Reach.
She had to be cautious, even more cautious, and demonstrate sufficient value, and... loyalty.
Aegon finally spoke, his voice still flat, but no longer with that pure detachment from before; instead, it carried a hint of scrutiny.
"Guidance?" He repeated the word, the corners of his mouth seeming to curl into an extremely faint, almost invisible arc, yet it held no warmth.
"Lady Tyrell, the Rose of Highgarden, known throughout the Seven Kingdoms for her wisdom. You are lost?"
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk, fingers interlaced, his gaze falling calmly on Margaery's face.
"Speak. What do you want?"
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