Aegon's lips curved in something between a smirk and a sigh. "No. My uncle will support Stannis. Honor is a stubborn thing in the North. But that matters little in the long run."
Olenna sat back, studying him. "So you've come to gather allies. You want the Reach."
"I want the realm," Aegon corrected. "But the Reach has always been the heart of it. You stayed loyal to my family once until you had no other choice. I came to see if, now that you have the choice again, you'll make the right one."
The room fell silent.
Finally, Olenna sighed, setting down her goblet. "Tell me, Your Grace. What has loyalty to House Targaryen ever brought the Reach but pain? My house bled for your forebears. For your dragons. And for what? Ashes and loss."
Aegon met her gaze evenly. "I could bring fire and blood," he said softly, the words carrying like the whisper of a storm. "But I do not wish to. I am offering you a chance to stand on the right side of history."
Olenna's eyes flashed. "You sound arrogant."
"I sound like a king," Aegon replied. "There's a difference."
For a long moment, their gazes locked, the Queen of Thorns and the Dragonlord, both refusing to yield.
Then Olenna leaned back, her tone sharp but measured. "If you want our loyalty, Your Grace, you'll have to give something in return. We've lost too much to bend the knee again for nothing."
Aegon tilted his head. "Must I pay for the sins of my grandsire?"
"Of course," Olenna said without hesitation. "Every Targaryen after will, whether they know it or not."
Aegon sighed quietly, the faintest hint of weariness behind his regal composure. "Very well," he said. "What do you want?"
Olenna's lips curved into a sly smile. "Your hand."
Mace gawked. "Mother!"
But Olenna's smirk didn't falter, and Margeary's eyes, wide, curious, and shining, met Aegon's across the table.
The young dragonlord said nothing, merely watched her in silence as Bahamut's distant roar rolled through the halls like thunder.
Aegon's laugh filled the solar. A deep, rich sound that seemed to vibrate through the golden walls of Highgarden itself.
"My hand?" he said finally, a grin tugging at his lips. "You make me sound like a maiden waiting to be courted, Lady Olenna."
Olenna arched one thin brow. "Well, Your Grace, you did say you wanted to make alliances. I'm simply offering you one that won't stab you in the back before your coronation."
Baqo and Rahko exchanged a look, both struggling to hold back smirks as their Khal chuckled softly. But when the laughter faded, so did the warmth in Aegon's eyes.
"I expected that," he said, his voice turning low and measured. "And in truth… the Tyrells are the only House I would even consider marrying."
"Flattery," Olenna murmured.
"But, a marriage to a king is not so easily won."
Olenna leaned back, eyes glinting. "No, it isn't. But if you intend to rule the Seven Kingdoms, Your Grace, you'll need more than dragons and bravado. You'll need the fields that feed your armies. The gold that fills your coffers. The merchants that keep the realm alive while you're off breathing fire."
She sipped her wine, unbothered by the steel in his eyes. "You could burn Westeros to the ground, I've no doubt. But what would you rule then? Ashes? Corpses don't pay taxes, and dragons don't plow fields."
For a moment, silence. Then Aegon's lips curved into a thin, knowing smile. "You are exactly as I expected, Lady Olenna."
"Old, sharp, and unafraid of kings?"
"Wise," Aegon corrected softly. "And brave enough to say what others wouldn't."
She inclined her head slightly, hiding her amusement behind her goblet.
"But," Aegon went on, his tone cooling again, "You must understand, I already have a son. And the title of queen will never belong to your granddaughter. I intend to marry my aunt, Daenerys Targaryen, and unite our bloodlines again as it was meant to be."
Mace looked scandalized. Olenna only raised an eyebrow.
"Ah," she said wryly. "The infamous Targaryen habit of keeping it in the family. One wonders if it's the blood that drives you mad, or the boredom."
Aegon's smirk didn't fade. "Perhaps both," he said.
For a time, Olenna was silent, eyes distant in thought. Her sharp mind was turning, recalculating. Margaery, however, wasn't thinking of politics, not entirely.
From the moment she'd first seen him, dismounting his dragon with command in every step, she had felt something coil inside her chest.
He didn't move like the lords of the Reach. No courtly bowing, no nervous charm. He owned the space he walked in, as if every inch of earth bowed to him before he even spoke.
Now, sitting across from him, she studied the silver in his hair, the unearthly glow of his violet eyes.
She remembered how his dragons' shadows had covered the walls of Highgarden, how the very air had felt alive with heat and fear.
Aegon Targaryen was a power given form, and though every story she'd heard of dragons told her to fear them, part of her wanted to reach out and touch the flame.
"Tell me," Olenna's voice broke the silence, "This son of yours is he your heir?"
Aegon's gaze sharpened instantly. "You're wondering if my heir could come from your granddaughter."
"I'm wondering if you've learned anything from history," Olenna replied. "Kings who make bastards of their second families rarely end well."
Aegon tilted his head slightly. "I have no intention of naming my heir based on birth order. If Maegor, my firstborn, grows into a man of strength and wisdom beyond his siblings, then the throne will be his. But if another son, whether born of Daenerys or of Margaery, surpasses him, then he shall inherit."