Chapter 589

Myrcella, seated nearby, approached promptly. She carefully set down her ever-present clipboard, flipped through a few pages with practiced ease, and drew out a stack of documents—not too thick, not too thin—which she placed in front of Margaery.

Margaery’s eyes widened as she took the documents. She instinctively pinched her thigh to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

The material was immediately recognizable. Both the Night’s Watch and House Tyrell had dabbled in producing and selling paper like this before. These sheets, made from refined plant fibers, were known as “premium writing paper,” smooth, durable, and far superior to the coarse parchment used elsewhere.

The once-pristine pages were now covered with densely packed text, the sheer number of words turning the paper an ashen gray. The handwriting was small and precise, making it intimidating to anyone unfamiliar with its contents. To the untrained eye, it could be mistaken for some arcane spellbook.

But Margaery wasn’t confused—she was all too familiar with the contents. It was a comprehensive list of the noble houses of the Reach, a resource every member of House Tyrell’s inner circle was required to memorize.

The document began with the most prominent families: Tyrell, Redwyne, Hightower, Oakheart, Rowan, Tarly, and Fossoway. These were followed by their bannermen, cadet branches, and other noble families of significance. Each entry included additional details: the size of their holdings, the locations of their seats, the extent of their domains, and the approximate number of troops they could muster.

This wasn’t just a list—it was a tactical breakdown of nearly every house capable of fielding a significant force in the Reach. Even families left out were marked with a question mark and empty space, indicating gaps in intelligence.

“Only the houses circled in red will receive an invitation from Her Grace to bring their families to King’s Landing,” Aegor said casually. “That should narrow things down, don’t you think?”

Margaery did a quick mental calculation. Even with the reduced scope, the total number of people—including families and retainers—would still be significant, but manageable. King’s Landing could feasibly accommodate them.

Then a chill ran down her spine as the realization hit her.

This wasn’t a joke.

The list, so detailed and comprehensive, must have taken an extraordinary effort to compile. Aegor, a man swamped with responsibilities, would never waste his time on a prank.

He was serious.

“Is something wrong, Lady Margaery? You don’t recognize these names?” Aegor’s tone was teasing. “That’s alright. Myrcella here knows the Seven Kingdoms’ noble families inside and out. If there’s a name you don’t know, feel free to ask her.”

Margaery knew Myrcella well from her visits to King’s Landing during Robert’s reign. But her mind was in turmoil, too chaotic to focus on such details.

“Lord Commander,” Margaery said, her voice tense, “are you truly serious about this? If so many noble families come to King’s Landing, who will govern the Reach? Who will defend it?”

“Oh, that’s simple,” Aegor replied with a faint smile. “Appoint stewards, of course. The Tyrells should be quite experienced in that regard, shouldn’t they? If necessary, the Night’s Watch industrial corps could even lend its expertise. We’re quite skilled at establishing administrative systems.”
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The conversation had reached an impasse.

Margaery’s patience snapped as a spark of anger flared within her.

In the world of nobility, there was a basic, unspoken rule: no family could leave its lands entirely unattended. Even during times of peace, some members had to remain behind to maintain control. To vacate entirely was to invite ruin.

The Gardener kings had learned this lesson the hard way at the Field of Fire.

Aegor’s proposal wasn’t just absurd—it was insulting. It was a blatant rejection of her overtures, a deliberate push toward Aegon’s camp. Even Aegon the Conqueror, in his most triumphant moments, hadn’t dared impose such outrageous demands.

Worse still, Aegor had gone out of his way to mock the Tyrells by bringing up their history as stewards—a wound that never fully healed.

This was no negotiation. This was humiliation.

Furious, Margaery stood abruptly.

“Lord Commander,” she said, forcing her tone to remain civil, “Prince Aegon has already formally proposed to House Tyrell. Out of respect for Her Grace and for our past friendship, I came here first, leaving Jon Connington and the Golden Company waiting.

“But since neither you nor Her Grace seem interested in continuing this discussion, I’ll take my leave.”

She placed the list back on the table and turned on her heel, intending to leave without so much as a glance at the untouched food.

“Stop.”

Aegor’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and commanding.

Margaery froze mid-step.

The sudden shift in tone startled not only her but also the guards nearby, who instinctively straightened up, their hands moving to their weapons. The entire dining hall seemed to hold its breath.

“Did I give you permission to leave?” Aegor’s voice was calm but carried an unmistakable weight of authority. Slowly, he set down his napkin and met her gaze with a shadowed expression.

“This is not your family’s garden, Lady Margaery. You cannot come and go as you please.”
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