Chapter 596

From miles away, the plumes of smoke rising from King Aegon’s campfires could be seen. They were countless, in the hundreds or thousands, stretching skyward before tilting slightly under the wind’s influence, like a sprawling, slanted white forest growing along the banks of the Blackwater River. The entire southern sky over King’s Landing was draped beneath this vast, pale “canopy.”

Laughter, music, the sounds of drums and flutes—all these carried across the frozen river and snow-dusted fields, spreading far and wide. It was a murmur like the hum of bees or the call of the distant sea, a background noise that filled the entire world.

Nearly fifty thousand soldiers had gathered here, alongside merchants seeking profit, camp followers, and laborers pressed from nearby villages, swelling the camp’s population to sixty or seventy thousand. The last time Westeros saw such a massive military assembly was during King Robert’s campaign to crush the Vale’s rebellion of the Faith Militant.

And now, amidst this colossal army encampment, there was no training, no battle preparations. Instead, a wedding was being held—a wartime wedding.

Its purpose was clear: to announce the union between House Tyrell and House Targaryen, to publicly declare Aegon VI’s alliance with the Reach, to bolster the morale of an army that had grown lax after a prolonged campaign, and to demonstrate strength to the opposing forces—Daenerys across the river and Stannis trapped within King’s Landing.
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The groom stood on the temporary platform, a golden crown shaped like a dragon’s head resting on his brow. He wore a red-and-black velvet coat embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on his chest. With his striking Targaryen features, regal attire, and the famed Blackfyre sword hanging at his hip, he cut a heroic and noble figure—an effective response to any whispers questioning his legitimacy.

The bride, meanwhile, was dressed in a gown of gold and green, adorned with countless silver-threaded flowers crafted from pearls and beads. Though she was no “fairest of all,” her beauty served as the perfect backdrop, a green leaf accentuating the brilliance of a red flower.

The couple—or rather, the betrothed couple—stood before the High Septon himself, who had traveled from the Starry Sept in Oldtown to officiate the ceremony.

Yes, the High Septon. Not some imposter or stand-in.

He hadn’t flown out of King’s Landing on wings, of course. The Faith of the Seven had relocated its headquarters back to Oldtown in protest after Stannis Baratheon ascended the Iron Throne and refused to receive the Seven’s anointment, publicly declaring his allegiance to R’hllor instead. When news of humanity’s victory against the White Walkers reached the Reach a month ago, Lord Mace Tyrell sent word to Lord Leyton Hightower, asking him to bring the High Septon to the Blackwater.

At the time, this was meant to pave the way for Daenerys Targaryen’s coronation, to have the Faith endorse her legitimacy and gain her favor. But then a twist of fate occurred—Daenerys rejected her nephew’s identity outright and, worse still, spurned the Reach, forfeiting a critical alliance.

The Reach lords were elated, but the High Septon found his workload suddenly doubled. Two days ago, he had anointed Aegon VI as king, crowning him with oil and crystal. After a single day of rest, he was now presiding over the wedding ceremony.

Under the watchful eyes of the Father and Mother, he was overseeing the couple as they recited the Seven Vows, received the Seven Blessings, and exchanged the Seven Promises.

It wasn’t strenuous work, but considering his age and considerable girth, standing through the ceremony while fully dressed in ceremonial robes and a heavy crown left him drenched in sweat. Seen from afar, his steaming head gave him an almost divine aura, as if he were truly holy and untouchable.

Margaery Tyrell, however, paid no mind to this odd and amusing sight. She maintained a poised, gracious smile, allowing herself to be guided through the ceremony’s steps, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

She was still brooding over Aegor’s blatant humiliation and mockery during their meeting—not out of wounded pride, but out of confusion. What gave that man the audacity to behave so brazenly?

There must be something I’ve overlooked. Something unusual is happening.

The Tyrells were among the most well-connected families in Westeros, their influence stretching from the highest lords to the common folk. As a member of the family’s inner circle, Margaery had access to this extensive network of information. And yet, no matter how she examined the reports, there was no indication that the Vale or the Westerlands had sent forces to support Daenerys. Instead, her agents in the North and Riverlands had returned vague accounts of a powerful new siege weapon, rumored to be related to “fire powder.”

This weapon, it was said, had enabled Aegor to capture Winterfell, subjugate the North, and conquer the Riverlands.

The information was significant, explaining how Aegor dared to besiege King’s Landing with just twenty thousand men. But it didn’t explain why he was confident enough to antagonize the Reach so openly.

Unless... this weapon wasn’t just for sieges. What if it could also be used in open-field battles?

The thought sent a chill down her spine. If true, it was the only explanation for his behavior.

But what kind of weapon could level the playing field between twenty thousand and fifty thousand troops, especially when both armies were composed of elite soldiers of similar quality?

The Rose of Highgarden frowned, her mind racing. In an age where communication was slow and inefficient, verifying details about Aegor’s conquest of Winterfell or the Riverlands would take weeks—time they didn’t have, as the battle outside King’s Landing could erupt at any moment.

She scoured her memory, desperate to find a clue she might have missed.

And then, as if by divine intervention, it came to her: on the day Aegor arrived outside King’s Landing and refused to meet her immediately, she had wandered near Blackwall Keep and overheard a passing comment from Ser Neal of Rosby. He had mentioned that Aegor had gone straight to inspect the saltpeter storage.

At the time, she had been too preoccupied with her irritation at being snubbed to dwell on it. But now, the detail struck her as deeply suspicious.

Saltpeter had long been touted as a key resource in the fight against the White Walkers, a belief widely accepted across the Seven Kingdoms. Even while stationed at the Wall, Aegor had regularly written letters southward, inquiring about its production and storage. For a commander defending the realm, this was logical. But now that the White Walkers were defeated, why would his first priority upon arriving outside King’s Landing be to check on saltpeter?

There were only two possibilities: either Aegor was completely incapable of prioritizing, or... saltpeter was the very source of his confidence.

The thought struck her like lightning, illuminating everything. Though she was still missing a few pieces of the puzzle, she was certain she had stumbled upon the truth. It was only a matter of time before the rest fell into place.
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“Margaery? Margaery!”

Her father’s familiar voice snapped her back to reality. The ceremony had moved forward, and the High Septon had ordered the choir to begin their hymn. Aegon was now placing the cloak on his bride’s shoulders.

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