Chapter 654

She was born clever, raised under the direct tutelage of the "Queen of Thorns," molded and trained from childhood in the image of a queen. Such an upbringing was bound to yield its intended results: by the time she reached her teenage years, Margaery had already surpassed most—men and women alike—in wisdom, decisiveness, and inner strength.

But now, faced with a task that would decide the fate of the Reach, one that required prestige, rank, intellect, patience, adaptability, and innovation, Margaery searched her mind and found no one better suited for the job than herself.

She simply could not entrust this to anyone else.

The project demanded immense coordination and action, but at least that was manageable—the Reach, for now, remained united against a common enemy. Yet even if she succeeded in gathering enough raw materials, that was merely the first step in catching up to the enemy's technology.

…

Yes, she could delegate this task. But she dared not.

The second step: relentless trial and error, refining the mixture ratios until they neared perfection, and then moving to mass production.

Her wedding had ended in catastrophe, scattered by dragonfire. During their retreat, they had been harried by pursuing forces, separated in the chaos, and nearly captured by the Dornish. By sheer luck, they had managed to escape back to the Reach—Aegon rallying the remnants of his army at Bitterbridge to prepare for the next invasion, while Margaery, as Queen, should have remained by his side, should have offered him her unwavering support in these trying times.

But she could not.

A greater duty had fallen upon her shoulders—the mobilization of resources, the urgent research and replication of gunpowder, and the breaking of the Gift’s monopoly on advanced weaponry.

Through careful analysis of merchant reports and snippets of information carelessly revealed by Neil, Margaery had quickly deduced the true composition of the Night’s Watch’s black powder. Sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal. Everything else? Misdirections, deliberately planted to mislead spies.

Of the three key ingredients, charcoal was trivial to acquire. Sulfur, a common alchemical material, could still be gathered in sufficient quantities. But saltpeter—that was the true problem.

The Reach had never recognized its strategic importance. They had never mined it, never even attempted to locate a source. And now, when the storm had already descended upon them, they found themselves scrambling for what had never been there to begin with.

That left only two options.

The Tyrells, after enduring countless tribulations, had clawed their way back into contention for the throne by seizing the unexpected lifeline that was Young Aegon. After a series of tumultuous negotiations, betrayals, and the rupture of the alliance between the two dragons, they had once again secured their claim—perhaps even more solidly than before. Their new king’s bloodline was purer, his legitimacy even stronger than the Baratheons’.

A bitter road, but one that had led them back to power.

And now, to secure their survival, they had to exploit the Reach’s greatest advantage—its vast lands and enormous population.

Margaery set the realm into motion.

Every bannerman, every minor lord, every commoner was called upon. The people of the Reach, fiercely protective of their lands, easily swayed by regional solidarity, became an unwitting army of alchemists. Barns, stables, outhouses, caves, cellars—no place was off-limits. By the most crude, primitive, and labor-intensive means, they scraped and collected, turning sheer manpower into a weapon.

It was a brute-force approach, but it worked.

The process itself was unremarkable—tedious, slow, but steady. Yet just as they neared a breakthrough, a strange development occurred.

After painstaking trials, the alchemists and craftsmen finally concluded that the ideal ratio of saltpeter to sulfur to charcoal should be 10:1:2.

And then, suddenly, a document arrived.

It had been smuggled out from the Night’s Watch’s own munitions industry, allegedly an internal factory manual detailing cannon production, technical specifications, and—most crucially—the precise formula for black powder.

For half a day, Margaery had been elated.

Then came the report:

The formula was wrong.

Despite appearing entirely legitimate—meticulously printed, precise in its wording—the key data was incorrect. When followed, the resulting gunpowder was barely half as effective as the version they had painstakingly refined.

At that moment, Margaery understood.

King’s Landing had gone to extraordinary lengths to orchestrate a false leak—not merely to waste a few hours of their time, but to set a trap.

She suspected the bait was meant for someone else, perhaps an unknown spy, perhaps an unwitting ally.

But she had no time to mourn whoever might soon find themselves ensnared.

Because before her loomed an even greater obstacle—the third step.

…

Later, the "King’s Landing Papers" would trigger a rebellion within the Vale. Amidst the chaos of six Great Houses gathering at the Bloody Gate, she had boldly offered herself to the Usurper as a concubine, only to be advised to seek the Starks instead. Yet before she could act, Robb Stark had already chosen Roslin Frey.

That had been unexpected.

The initial resistance to her betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon had been frustrating, but it could be reasoned away as Robert’s desire to keep the Tyrells from gaining influence. That was understandable.

Then came the revelation of Jaime and Cersei’s incest, and with it, the upheaval in King’s Landing. In the chaos following Robert’s death, the Reach had cast its lot with Renly, securing her place as Queen.

For a fleeting moment, it had seemed perfect.

Then, before their marriage could be consummated—before she could bear him an heir—her husband was dead, struck down by black sorcery.

A widow. Branded as cursed.

And with Renly’s death, the Reach had been cast into rebellion.

Now, enemy forces stood at their doorstep, and Margaery had no choice but to maximize the effectiveness of their crude, makeshift gunpowder.

Yet at the same time, another problem—one that had been overshadowed by their immediate struggle for survival—had begun to emerge.

Her marriage was unraveling.

If she could destroy the enemy’s overwhelming advantage, they could restore strategic balance—either to fight a final battle on even terms or to negotiate a far more favorable peace.

Either way, they would not lose.

But as she wrestled with these crises, the whispers began.

Despite carefully constructed justifications, despite both public and private explanations, doubt had begun to spread.

The wedding had been interrupted.

The union between Aegon and Margaery—still unconsummated.

And now, instead of remaining at her husband’s side, she was running across the Reach, playing with alchemy.

Had the Queen of Thorns ordered her to avoid Aegon?

Had House Tyrell already abandoned him, planning to sacrifice him in a desperate bid for peace with Daenerys?

It was the same curse she had always borne.

Whenever marriage was involved, nothing ever went as planned.