Chapter 656

"Lords and ladies!"

A sharp, commanding voice rang out from the front of the hall.

Aegon Targaryen, the young king, had caught his queen’s subtle cue. He turned his head slightly toward Margaery, acknowledging her unspoken signal with a brief nod. Then, without hesitation, he rose to his feet.

Dressed in his formal black-and-red attire, his tall and lean figure immediately stood out among the seated nobles.

He paused for a moment, allowing the echo of his call to settle. The arguing lords, caught mid-bicker, turned their heads in his direction, their voices dying down just enough for him to speak and be heard.

With a steady voice, he continued, "It is undeniable that failing to abandon our supply trains at the Blackwater was a mistake. There is no debating that. But today’s council is not about placing blame for past failures—it is about finding a way forward. By my command, as Aegon the Sixth, this discussion will not dwell on the Blackwater any further. And I urge—no, I demand—that all of you set aside your grievances. First, we stand together and face our enemy. Only after our survival is secured may you vent your frustrations!"

Aegon did not have the loudest voice. He had yet to build a true legacy of power and prestige. But position was power, and the simple fact remained—he was the King, seated in the front row.

Margaery had already silenced the rumors. By returning to his side without hesitation, she had made House Tyrell’s stance clear: they still stood by Aegon. They had not abandoned their claim to him as husband, nor had they cast him aside in favor of negotiation with Daenerys.

To the Reachmen, Aegon was more than a boy-king. He was the symbol of their war. Their justification. Their legitimacy. He had no dragon, no great feats, no legendary qualities—but he was the figure around which they could rally. He was the banner under which they could unite against a common enemy.

That alone gave him authority.

And even those who secretly disdained him knew better than to challenge him openly in such a setting.

To the Golden Company and Jon Connington’s faction, this was never truly about the Blackwater—it was a calculated response to the Reach’s earlier attempts at secret peace talks with Daenerys. They had been furious at being sidelined. But Aegon was still their king, their faction’s representative, their figurehead. It was not in their interest to turn this into an open rift.

With these forces combined, Aegon, though young and untested, had managed to wield a king’s authority.

And that was why Margaery had signaled him to intervene.

Not everyone understood the full picture. But when an entire fleet sails the same course, most aboard will instinctively work to keep it from sinking.

The hall quieted, noticeably so. A few stubborn voices still grumbled under their breath, but the discontented men were quickly hushed by their fellow lords.

Order had been restored.

Aegon gave a slight nod to Loras Tyrell, then resumed his seat.
----


At the speaker’s podium, the Knight of Flowers gave his king a respectful bow, grateful for the support. He steadied himself and continued his report on the Queen’s advancing forces.

But down in the first row, Margaery cast a discreet glance at her husband, sighing silently to herself.

He had understood her signal—proof of intelligence.

He had acted swiftly before the dispute could escalate—proof of decisiveness.

And he had chosen to do so—proof of a clear mind and a strong sense of duty.

Add to that his Targaryen blood, his striking royal presence, and his legitimate claim to the throne… and on paper, he was a perfect husband.

But only she knew the truth.

Behind the polished image of their united front, their marriage was still an empty shell.

Returning to Aegon’s side had silenced the doubters. The rumors could be controlled. But political maneuvering could not conjure emotions from thin air.

Their union had been flawed from the beginning.

She had once wanted to marry him—and been refused.

He had longed for his aunt—only to be spurned.

And so, as a consolation prize, they had settled for each other.

A marriage tainted before it even began. A wedding disrupted by war. A union where husband and wife had barely spent time together, never allowing love the space to grow.

It was a malformed child, born crippled. Even in the best conditions, it would be a miracle if it ever grew to full strength.

And in this marriage, it was not simply love that was absent—they had not even consummated it.
----


On the first night after her return, she had presented Aegon with their first successful batch of gunpowder, explaining all the efforts she had undertaken in her absence. He had accepted her explanation, even praised her.

On the second night, they had talked late into the evening, trying to devise a way to effectively deploy their crude explosives in battle. No firm conclusion had been reached, but they had grown familiar with one another.

By the third night, believing the time was right, Margaery had finally worked up the courage to act.

It had been over half a month since their wedding. The rumors were growing. She needed to complete this part of the marriage—not just to secure her position, but to remove any doubt about where House Tyrell’s loyalties lay.

She had gone to him willingly. With flushed cheeks and quiet determination, the Highgarden Rose had made her advance.

Only to discover, in the most humiliating moment possible—

Her husband.

The King.

Could not get hard.

Aegon had been embarrassed, but he had given her a righteous explanation.

"Not until the war is won. Not until I can guarantee the safety of my wife and my future children. Until then, I have no mind for such things."

No mind for such things.

Margaery had been raised by the Queen of Thorns. She was not some naive maiden. She knew men.

She had scoffed at his excuse.

Later, in private, she had sought her grandmother’s counsel. The answer had been simple—there were only three possibilities.

Either Aegon hated her to such a degree that he simply could not perform.

Or the humiliation of the Blackwater, the disaster of their ruined wedding, had left him too psychologically scarred to function.

Or there was something physically wrong with him.

Olenna had assured her that all of these issues could be fixed. But for now, Margaery’s duty was clear—she had to maintain appearances. She had to act as though her married life was blissful. She had to smile, radiate contentment, and ensure no whisper of this ever reached the troops.

Margaery swallowed her frustration, resolved to follow her grandmother’s advice.

But deep in her heart, she prayed.

Prayed that her new husband was not like Renly.

A man who simply could not love her.

Because if that were the case…

Then she was doomed to spend her life in yet another wretched marriage.
----


Clunk—

A small, deliberate sound drew her back to the present.

At the front of the hall, Loras Tyrell had finished his report.

Now, stepping aside, he gestured toward a small iron canister that had just been placed on the table.

"Lords and ladies," Loras declared, sweeping his gaze over the assembled nobles, "what I present to you now is the culmination of the past two weeks of relentless effort. Crafted under the personal guidance of my sister, Queen Margaery, despite having only fragments of information to work with—"

His fingers brushed the surface of the container.

"This—" he said, "—is what the Night’s Watch call gunpowder."