Chapter 698

"So you're really going to keep making this joke?" Margaery was beginning to lose patience. The man in front of her was clearly intelligent—so why was he being so utterly unreasonable on this point? "Then tell me, Lord Hand—this so-called 'relocation to King’s Landing' for the Reach lords—should it take place before or after the war across the Narrow Sea is over?"

What does he mean by this?

Margaery found herself struggling to keep up with Aegor’s line of thinking. Am I, as the so-called "princess of the Reach," supposed to be viewing this negotiation from the Queen’s perspective?

A thin veil of steam rose from the water cup in front of her. Margaery’s expression remained poised, but beneath the table, her shoulders, neck, and spine had already gone rigid.

It was essentially a conscription of the entire Reach.

An enforced service to atone for rebellion.

House Tyrell would rather share the fate of its vassals—weather this storm together, just as they had once survived the Long Winter. They would sooner leap from the highest tower of Highgarden than accept such a disgraceful arrangement, condemning themselves to eternal infamy in the Reach’s history.

"War is not a child’s game," Aegor replied coldly. "Every decision carries consequences. Those who chose the wrong side—those who backed the False King—yet still expect to keep their lands and titles afterward?

"I have a word for them—delusional."

Ignoring Margaery’s increasingly sour expression, he pressed on.

"I have reviewed the lists. And I regret to inform you—not a single Reach lord has sworn fealty to the Queen.

"This means every house in the Reach has chosen poorly.

"And every last one of them will be judged as rebels."
----


"Some houses will resist to the bitter end, then?"

"Forgive my bluntness, Lord Hand," Margaery said, barely restraining the urge to sneer, "but your so-called conditions give me no enthusiasm to embrace anything."

Her fury flared for a moment, briefly overpowering the caution of a defeated party. But before it could reach a breaking point, she forced it down.

Losing her temper here would accomplish nothing.

Slowly, deliberately, she unclenched her fists and exhaled. Her voice was cool, measured.

"With terms like these, many houses will resist to the death. I advise you to reconsider—if not removing them, then at least easing one or two."
----


"House Tyrell does not wield that much influence," Margaery countered, narrowing her eyes. "Land is the lifeblood of the nobility. Even if we were willing to coordinate such a transition, many houses would never accept it. They would resist—through both open defiance and more subtle means."

A guarantee of life—shouldn’t that be the absolute minimum condition for surrender?

Margaery folded her arms, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"So? And what of punishment, then?"
----


Three hundred years, and in the end, House Tyrell remains what it has always been—loyal hounds to the Targaryens.

The only difference this time?

At least now, they were being invited to feast at their master’s table.
----


"If putting Reachmen against Reachmen feels too distasteful, don’t worry," Aegor continued, watching Margaery’s growing disbelief. "The task of eliminating residual rebel forces will fall to a selected force from the Western Army."

"Infantry, cavalry, and artillery—no more than ten thousand men, but fully equipped for the task."

"House Tyrell’s only role will be nominal—to carry the banners, to show the way."

Pausing, he let his words sink in before adding:

"Of course, if you can’t bear to spill Reachmen’s blood, I would accept captives instead.

"But in that case, the costs of transporting these prisoners to the Wall—and funding their survival beyond it—will be yours to bear."
----


This bastard is set on his course—at the very least, I need clarity on the key details.

The reality that not a single house in the Reach had pledged loyalty to the Queen was not an unfortunate accident.

It was intentional—something Aegor had deliberately engineered with harsh demands to force the outcome.
----


"I personally guarantee," Aegor continued, "that the Reach’s military contributions to the war against the slavers will be fairly and publicly evaluated.

"Of course, if you don’t trust me—and insist on framing it in harsher terms—then yes—" he met her gaze without a hint of shame "—this is exactly what you think it is."
----


Aegor nearly laughed.

Perfect.
----


"The position of Master of Whisperers," he mused, "has been vacant ever since Lord Varys was assassinated in Winterfell."

"Naturally, as the False King’s Queen, you yourself are not suited for the role."

"But…"

"You could cleanse your name—convert to R'hllor, take the black, whatever works—then have your father or brother assume the title, with you acting as their advisor behind the scenes."

"A shadowy hand in court—no official title, yet still whispering in the Queen’s ear."

"Quite the elegant arrangement, don’t you think?"
----


Such a move would be nothing less than social suicide—binding House Tyrell to the Queen so tightly that all of the Reach’s resentment would fall upon them.

There would be no escape.
----


"As for the other houses—each earldom will pay its share of war reparations. Additionally, between thirty and fifty percent of their lands will be seized—scaled according to their level of defiance."

"Furthermore," Aegor added, "one condition from King’s Landing remains unchanged."

He gestured to the list before Margaery, smirking.

"Any Reach lord marked in red—unless already eliminated—must relocate to the capital for no less than two years."

"For those whose lands have already been seized—whose lords perished in war, leaving no adult heirs—their titles, castles, and estates will be forfeited entirely."
----


For a brief moment, Margaery’s eyes flickered with an odd brightness.

Aegor let the tension hang for a few seconds before casually refilling their cups.
----


"Yes," he confirmed.

"All of these conditions apply to every Reach lord—except House Tyrell."

"For my future allies, a separate arrangement exists."

His lips curled into a wicked grin.

"House Tyrell will face no punishment."

"Your titles—unchanged."

"Your lands—untouched."

"Your wealth—yours to keep."

"You will remain the paramount lords of the Reach, ruling over its richest lands."

"And you will still be, second only to the Lannisters, the wealthiest house in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Additionally—there is a seat on the Queen’s council waiting for you."
----


Aegor didn’t waste time on false promises.

"If House Tyrell rejects this offer out of a noble sense of honor and duty, I won’t be offended."

His smirk faded into something colder, more resolute.

"On the contrary, I will personally lead the assault on Highgarden."

"I will oversee your trial."

"I will escort your family in black cloaks, bound for the Wall."

"And then—after regretfully parting ways with you—I will bring this very offer to another Reach house."

"One that is less proud."

"Less stubborn."

"And far more eager to take your place."
----


Aegor grinned.

Margaery Tyrell—ever sharp.

She had immediately caught the real meaning.

By setting earldoms as the unit of land seizure, Aegor was telling the Reach lords—"I will take from you, but I won’t dictate how you carve it up."

Let them tear each other apart.

Let them fight amongst themselves.
----


"And the price?" Margaery asked.

Aegor chuckled.

"Simple."

"House Tyrell must publicly embrace the Queen’s rule."

"And then, my dear Lady Margaery…

"You will lead the conquest of the Reach."