Chapter 597

Seven save me, what kind of foolish woman lets her mind wander during her own wedding?

Margaery cursed herself inwardly, relieved that her father’s timely call had prevented her from making a spectacle of herself. Most guests hadn’t noticed her momentary lapse. This wasn’t her first wedding—after a quick curtsy of apology, her body’s muscle memory kicked in, guiding her through the ritual.

She turned, facing Aegon, and under the gaze of thousands, allowed her father to remove the green cloak of House Tyrell from her shoulders. Lowering them slightly, she let the young king drape the crimson Targaryen cloak over her, a symbolic act proclaiming that she now belonged to House Targaryen.

If Aegon had any thoughts about the moment, he didn’t show them. He merely smiled gently, fastening the clasp at her throat—a gesture meant to signify his vow to protect her, replacing the duty of her father.

With the ceremony complete, the weary High Septon, barely able to stand under the weight of his ceremonial robes, made his final pronouncement: Aegon and Margaery were now husband and wife, bound as one.

And with that, the Rose of Highgarden became Margaery Targaryen. After years of maneuvering, she was once again Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

A perfect alliance, formally sealed.

Thunderous applause erupted from the assembled guests as they surged forward, eager to offer their blessings to the newlyweds.

Amidst the joyful chaos, two armored soldiers pushing their way through the crowd stood out like a pair of iron nails on silk. One held a small flag marking an urgent military matter, the other clutched a wooden box to his chest. They forced their way to the front, their presence quickly noticed by the royal guards, who cleared a path after confirming their identities.

“Is it Daenerys’s army crossing the river, or have the Dornish begun advancing?”

At this juncture, there were only two possibilities—perhaps both.

The young king’s expression was serious but composed. With the Night’s Watch forces stationed just across the river and the Dornish army still lurking with uncertain intentions, it was no surprise that someone might choose to disrupt the wedding. Celebrations were one thing, but most commanders had remained at their posts, maintaining high alert under the watchful command of Randyll Tarly and his son. Even Aegon himself wore armor beneath his wedding attire, sword at his hip, ready to resume command at a moment’s notice.

“Neither, Your Grace. A small boat left the northern dock and landed on our shore. It dropped off a local, who claimed to be delivering a wedding gift from the Queen.”

The second soldier stepped forward, presenting the wooden box.

A wedding gift from Daenerys?

Murmurs spread among the gathered nobles. The box was small but delicately crafted, wrapped with a red ribbon tied into a bow. It had been carefully dressed up to resemble a proper gift.

Everyone knew this was unlikely to be anything good, and speculation ran wild.

A severed head? Too small, and besides, the Tyrells and the Golden Company hadn’t lost anyone of great importance.

A pile of manure? Crass, but if that were the case, it would serve only to anger the Reach lords and Golden Company officers further, hardening their resolve rather than unsettling them.

As the crowd debated, Margaery felt a chill run down her spine.

She would never forget how her previous husband, Renly Baratheon, had died—struck down by a sorcery so bizarre and terrifying that she still doubted her own recollection of it.

The Golden Company had reportedly hired two sorcerers from across the Narrow Sea, swearing that they could protect Aegon from shadow-binding magic. But there were many ways to kill a man—shadow assassins were only one among them.

Without thinking, she grabbed Aegon’s arm in a death grip, stopping him from approaching the box—though he hadn’t actually moved toward it.

“Your Grace, order the crowd to clear a space,” she commanded, her tone sharper and more forceful than usual. The carefully maintained warmth and gentleness of her public persona vanished. “Have the armored soldiers bring shields before opening it. There could be a trap inside.”

Aegon took his new wife’s warning seriously. Without hesitation, he ordered the guards to disperse the crowd and have the soldiers take defensive measures before opening the package.

Most of those in attendance were high-ranking lords and commanders, not foolish commoners eager to gawk at danger. They understood the risks and moved back in an orderly fashion, giving the soldiers a wide berth.

With tension high, the original soldier who had carried the box set it on the ground, propped up a shield between himself and the package, then slowly untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.

No explosion. No hidden blades.

Instead, he reached inside and pulled out a small, spherical object, holding it up for all to see.

It was a solid iron ball, about the size of a fist, smooth, black, and heavy-looking.

Murmurs filled the air once more. No one could fathom its purpose.

Then, the soldier made another discovery.

“There’s a note underneath.”

Four such iron balls had been inside the box—three forming a base, with the fourth resting on top. The soldier removed them one by one, knocking each against the ground to confirm they were solid, then broke open the box itself to ensure there were no hidden compartments.

Finally, he unfolded the piece of parchment and turned to Aegon.

“What does it say?” the young king asked. “Read it aloud.”

After everything he had endured, he was no stranger to slander or insults. At worst, it would be another curse or a questioning of his Targaryen bloodline—nothing new.

Aegon was confident in his claim. He had no dark past to hide, no shameful secrets to fear exposure. And besides, the only people present were his staunchest allies. Whatever was written inside would have no power over them.

What harm could a single note do?

The problem was, the soldier couldn’t read.

He looked helplessly at his superiors, prompting Jon Connington to step forward. The King’s Hand took the parchment, turning it over to examine both sides. Finally, with a dry chuckle, he read aloud:

“In the name of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms…”

The Griffon Lord paused briefly, lips twitching in amusement before continuing, his voice laced with laughter.

“I declare this marriage… invalid?”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then, Jon Connington burst out laughing.

Others hesitated, but one by one, chuckles and snickers spread through the crowd. Soon, even those who had found nothing amusing at first were caught up in the infectious mirth.

A piece of paper, buried beneath iron balls in a decorated box—what a joke! If one took it seriously, it might have been infuriating, but Connington’s mocking tone had set the mood. By treating it as a ridiculous farce, he had turned it into a laughingstock.

If their side didn’t take it seriously, then the embarrassment fell squarely on Daenerys.

It was the laughter of victors, the laughter of men who believed they were winning. Daenerys’s declaration now seemed like nothing more than the desperate yelp of a sore loser.

Margaery smirked, impressed by Connington’s quick thinking. Yet, even as she relaxed slightly, an unshakable sense of unease gnawed at her.

As the court laughed, she quietly picked up one of the discarded iron balls.

Heavy. Solid. No hidden mechanisms.

She turned it in her gloved hands, studying its cold, smooth surface. Nothing seemed unusual—yet her instincts screamed otherwise.

Somewhere in the depths of her mind, a warning flared.

The new siege weapons. The rumored “fire powder.” This iron ball, presented as a gift.

There was a connection here—she was sure of it.

And then, before she could pursue the thought further—

A thunderous roar rolled across the river, drowning out the laughter and sending a shiver down her spine.