Chapter 725

A wise man adapts to the times.

In its original meaning, this phrase praises those with the intelligence and foresight to recognize shifting tides and align themselves accordingly. But in literature and drama, it has often been tainted by its association with the words of traitors and turncoats persuading others to surrender.

Whether one admires or despises those who "recognize the times" depends entirely on which side of history they stand.

To the nobles of the Reach, House Tyrell—who raised the banner of resistance one moment, only to pledge loyalty to the Queen the next—were treacherous, oath-breaking cowards.

To Aegor, however, Highgarden’s pragmatism had saved him an immeasurable amount of trouble.

With a short family history, generations of experience as dutiful hounds of House Targaryen, and a political landscape where ambitious vassals were always ready to challenge their rule, House Tyrell lacked the stubborn pride of older noble families. They bore no illusions of grandeur or divine right. When they surrendered, they did so completely—not with hesitation or pretense, but with total commitment.

Not only did they swiftly accept their defeat and adjust their standing, but in the critical period of proving their loyalty, they threw themselves into their new role with full enthusiasm.

Tyrell bannermen served as guides for the Queen’s forces, leading them against the last resisting nobles of the Reach. They traveled tirelessly to spread Daenerys' tax reforms, securing the goodwill of the common folk. Even in Aegor’s sudden and ruthless religious revolution, they provided manpower and resources, launching the first purge of the clergy across the Reach.

It was exactly what Aegor wanted.

The rural folk of Westeros—illiterate, devout, and accustomed to seeing septons as living embodiments of the gods—would never immediately turn against their clergy. If Aegor simply ordered a widespread self-purification of the Faith, it would either fail to take root or drag on long enough to give the clergy time to hide their wealth, regroup, and resist.

Only by ensuring that the first wave of church property seizures and public denunciations proceeded successfully, could the illusion of religious authority be shattered.

Only when people saw the Faith stripped of its sacred untouchability—when they personally received confiscated wealth and witnessed the clergy forced to answer for their corruption—would the movement take on a life of its own.

From that point forward, greed, resentment, and ambition would sustain the revolution.

Aegor had already planned out a step-by-step guide for the religious purge.

Yet before he could even issue the orders, House Tyrell had already begun.

There was no doubt—this initiative had come from either Margaery Tyrell, that cunning vixen, or her even sharper grandmother.

Aegor had been watching them carefully, ready to remind them of their place if they strayed too close to their old allegiances. But after observing them for some time, he realized there was no need.

They had severed all ties with their former allies, integrated seamlessly into the new order, and gone above and beyond to please him.

They weren’t just obedient—they were proactively helpful.
----


As the flames of religious revolution spread outward from Oldtown, Aegor lay recovering in the High Tower.

A near-death experience should bring great fortune.

That phrase fit Aegor’s situation perfectly.

He had been gravely wounded in the assassination attempt. When he was carried back to the High Tower, two poisoned crossbow bolts were still lodged in his leg. Though R’hllor’s blessing had neutralized the toxins, the sight had terrified everyone around him.

Thus, any protests or opposition to the religious purge were conspicuously absent.

Not because there were no objections—but because no one dared test his patience at such a critical moment. No one wanted to be the first to challenge the Hand of the Queen, who had just survived an assassination attempt.
----


Whoever had orchestrated the attack had intelligence capabilities far beyond those of the newly restored Targaryen dynasty.

Aegor’s guards had failed to capture a single assassin alive at the scene.

The grand purge in King’s Landing yielded little—only a handful of low-level agents, who confirmed that the orders had come from across the Narrow Sea. A statement so vague it might as well have meant nothing.

But while he had failed to track the culprit, the attack did clear his name.

No one could now accuse Aegor of poisoning the Starks in Winterfell—it was impossible to fake an attempt on his life of this magnitude.

Queen Daenerys’ personal letter arrived soon after, filled with concern and sympathy.

And more importantly, a simple message:

"If you cannot find the true culprit, then purge every suspect. One of them is bound to be guilty."
----


Alongside the Queen’s letter came another message—one that left Aegor unsure whether to laugh or sigh.

At the same time as the assassination attempt, the Slave Masters’ Alliance had launched a full-scale naval invasion of Dragonstone.

They had been utterly crushed by the Royal Fleet and coastal defenses—an outcome so inevitable that no one was surprised.

What was surprising, however, was that they had used cannons.

Inferior ones—so ineffective they may as well have been firing pebbles—but cannons nonetheless.

Aegor let out a long sigh, setting the letter aside.

"My lord, why the sigh?"

Myrcella, now clad in red robes she refused to remove, knelt beside him, carefully changing his bandages. She tilted her head, puzzled.

"Isn’t this good news? With this victory, the eastern coast will be safe for some time. You won’t have to rush back with the western fleet. You can rest and recover properly."

"It is good news," Aegor admitted. "But have you thought about what it truly means?"

He spoke slowly and patiently, his tone softer than usual.

Myrcella had saved his life during the assassination attempt. She had proven her bravery and intelligence beyond all doubt. She had earned his trust.

"This battle was won because the enemy used counterfeit cannons," he explained.

"It proves that my earlier strategic deception worked—they stole the wrong blueprints and assumed they had the real secret."

Myrcella frowned. "...Is that a problem?"

"The problem," Aegor said, "is that this trick only works once."

The perfect opportunity had come—and Dragonstone’s fleet, lacking the Reach and Ironborn’s support, had failed to eliminate the enemy completely.

Those who escaped had learned their lesson.

The Slave Masters now knew their stolen schematics were flawed.

Next time, they would not be so reckless.

"From here, they have two options," Aegor continued.

"One: They restart their espionage efforts, trying to steal the real secrets. And with their growing industry, that will be much harder to stop."

"Or two: They hide in their strongholds, forcing us into a much harder war."

"If they hide," Myrcella said confidently, "then you’ll just march into their cities and kill them all."

She had just finished unwrapping a layer of bandages when she suddenly gasped in surprise.

"...The scars are gone!"

"Healing magic," Aegor said dismissively, brushing her fingers away. He pulled his pants down over his leg, hiding the healed skin.

Then, he pointed toward the desk.

"Bring me the draft manuscript."

"For today, we continue writing the Book of Truth."