The deathly silence in the Throne Room felt almost tangible. The Iron Throne's savage blades reflected a cold gleam in the flickering candlelight.
Aegon sat upon the Iron Throne, his violet eyes lowered.
He did not speak at once, letting the silence stretch for several breaths. It weighed on Margaery's shoulders, heavy as iron.
She held her curtsy, her neck growing slightly stiff from maintaining the same position for so long, but her back remained straight.
At last, he spoke slowly. His voice was quiet, every word distinct, carrying the chill peculiar to the Iron Throne:
"Renly Baratheon's widow."
Margaery's fingers clenched sharply beneath her loose sleeves, her nails digging into her palms. Yet her raised face remained calm, with only an almost imperceptible flutter of her lashes.
"House Baratheon is the Usurper's house, a band of rebels who stole the Targaryen throne." Aegon leaned forward slightly, shadow veiling half his face, his violet eyes glinting with an inhuman coldness in the candlelight. "And yet you, the lawful wife of a rebel leader, stand here as Highgarden's envoy."
He paused. There was no anger in his voice, only indifference, and that indifference was more chilling than any fury.
"Tell me, Margaery Tyrell. Under the law, how should rebels and their families be punished?"
The air froze. Margaery felt her throat tighten, a fine sheen of cold sweat forming on her palms.
But she drew a small, steady breath, calming her racing heart. She lifted her head and met those violet eyes evenly:
"Your Highness, I beg you to consider the truth."
Her voice was gentle yet remarkably clear, echoing through the vast hall:
"Renly Baratheon and I were betrothed in name alone. The wedding never took place, nor was our union ever consummated. I remain a maiden and have no