Chapter 699

A devil. This man is an absolute devil.

Margaery trembled once more, her hands and feet icy cold.

But unlike the last time—mere minutes ago—her mind was no longer a chaotic mess. This time, she saw Aegor’s intentions with terrifying clarity: he was forcing House Tyrell into a cruel, unsolvable game.

A game that, in Aegor’s world, had a well-known name—The Prisoner's Dilemma.

He was offering her house a relatively small advantage in exchange for an act of enormous betrayal—guiding his forces to dismantle the very foundation of the Reach’s noble class.

Under normal circumstances, there was no way House Tyrell would ever accept such a deal. As rulers of the Reach, their reputation and standing among their fellow lords were their greatest long-term assets. A betrayal of this magnitude would erase three hundred years of effort—an act so suicidal that even her father, that fool, would never trade away their legacy for a mere council seat.

But now?

They had no choice.

The only way to escape this trap was if every single noble house in the Reach stood together—rejecting the terms in absolute unity, threatening to fight to the last man if necessary.

But that kind of perfect coordination?

Impossible.

Even if the Reach had only two competing noble houses, such a plan would be riddled with deception and backstabbing. And in reality?

The Reach had hundreds.

The moment one house gave in—whether out of fear or self-interest—House Tyrell’s principled refusal would not be seen as noble defiance, but as foolish obstinacy, paving the way for another house to take their place.

Then what’s left?

Feign acceptance… and betray Aegor the moment he lets his guard down?

Margaery let out a bitter laugh in her heart.

Given his paranoia—his demand to have her searched before this meeting—it was clear that no one could outplay Aegor in deception.
----


As she sat there, cold and silent, her mind began stringing together clues.

Since entering the Reach, the Queen’s army had spread a message:

"The Queen comes, and she demands no taxes."

Like most Reach lords, Margaery had initially dismissed this as mere propaganda—a psychological trick to weaken local resistance.

But now?

She saw the real strategy.

It aligned perfectly with this plan to relocate the Reach’s noble class to King’s Landing.

By dragging the Reach’s ruling families out of their castles and isolating them in the capital, Aegor wasn’t just preventing them from rallying a rebellion—he was severing them from their own people, rendering them powerless.

Yet the biggest obstacle to this plan wasn’t simply the nobility—it was the commoners.

Locally rooted lords could always rely on their subjects for support—whether through quiet conspiracies or outright defiance.

Even if all the great lords were taken hostage, the minor lords could still rally resistance, leading peasant uprisings and stirring unrest.

But if—right after conquest—the Queen imposed no immediate taxes on the Reach?

Then everything would change.

Weary from both winter and war, the Reach’s people would hardly reject the chance to live free of burdens.

Would they really risk their lives, their wealth, and their newly won peace—for the sake of their former lords?

For the very people who had always taxed them?

By the time the Queen’s rule was fully established—when the governing system was firmly in place—the exiled nobility would finally be allowed to return.

And at that moment?

Taxation would resume.

And in the eyes of the Reach’s people?

It would not be the Queen who demanded it.

It would be the nobility.

The ruling class would become synonymous with taxation itself.
----


What a brilliant wedge to drive between them.
----


A cold sweat dripped down Margaery’s spine.

Aegor’s demand that the Reach’s nobility must be relocated to King’s Landing?

It wasn’t an impulsive demand.

It wasn’t some whimsical cruelty.

It was the first step of a grand, systematic, and highly calculated dismantling of their power.

And if there was a beginning to this process?

There was also a middle—and an end.

Gods, Margaery shuddered. How could I have been so blind?

This plan—so vast, so ruthlessly efficient, yet terrifyingly feasible—had left her, a seasoned schemer, questioning whether she had any hope of resisting.

Just minutes ago, she had scoffed at Aegor’s words:

"Will you be ground to dust—forgotten by history? Or will you embrace this new order?"

Now?

It felt less like a metaphor.

And more like a prophecy.
----


There was no decision left to make.

She exhaled, slow and deep, forcing herself to speak.

"House… Tyrell… joins."

She spat the words out through gritted teeth.

"But a single council seat? That is not enough."
----


Ah, how delightful it is to deal with the intelligent.

Margaery Tyrell—ever perceptive—had pieced together the true stakes of the game.

And in mere moments, she had completely shifted her stance.

Not only had she immediately thrown her lot in with Aegor, but she had leveraged House Tyrell’s loyalty, influence, and intelligence network into a valuable bargaining chip—ensuring she got the best possible price for her allegiance.

And just when Aegor thought she had reached the limit of her adaptability?

She exceeded expectations.

Was this proof of sincerity? Or was she truly committed to burning every bridge?

Because after finalizing the deal?

Margaery Tyrell did something even Aegor hadn’t anticipated.

She immediately began refining his plan.

She suggested how to handle the lower tiers of nobility once the great lords were removed—how to smooth the transition of power, using stewards and lesser lords to maintain order.

She proposed arranging marriages between Aegor’s war heroes and the widowed or unwed daughters of the Reach’s noble class—ensuring that those who had fought for the Queen became the new aristocracy.

It was ruthless.

It was brilliant.

A true thorned rose.

Some of her ideas clashed with Aegor’s long-term vision—those, he dismissed.

But others?

They were so insightful that he nearly had the urge to grab parchment and start taking notes.

The night dragged on.

Outside the tent, the sounds of revelry faded.

Inside, the oil lamp had already been refilled once.

They had talked for far too long.

It was time to conclude.

Aegor smiled.

"This has been a pleasurable discussion, Lady Margaery. I trust that the alliance between House Tyrell and the Queen will be a profitable one for all involved."

He was about to signal for her departure.

But then—at the very last moment—his tone shifted.

"However—before you leave—I believe there’s still one last matter to settle."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"A personal matter."

"A debt of three thousand gold dragons."

"Tell me, Lady Margaery—do you recall it?"
----


(Absolutely not.)

Margaery’s mind went blank.

She obviously knew that wasn’t the right answer.

Her initial confusion quickly turned to shock—and then outrage.

And finally?

A deep blush of embarrassment.

She remembered.

Years ago, at the Night’s Watch trading office in King’s Landing, Aegor had tried selling House Tyrell the complete printing and papermaking process for five thousand gold dragons.

Out of sheer pettiness—revenge for his indifference to her during a past meeting—Margaery had haggled the price down to two thousand.

And she had delighted in outplaying him.

Now?

It had come back to haunt her.

Margaery's lips curled in amusement.

"House Tyrell acknowledges the debt," she purred.

Then, lifting her chin, she met Aegor’s gaze with an unmistakable glint.

"But tell me, Lord Hand—how much do you think I am worth?"

And with that, she spun—gracefully twirling in place.

"Would that be sufficient to clear the account?"