Chapter 716

"Hmm…" Aegor pondered for a moment. Once he was certain that the defensive measures were in place, a cold smirk tugged at his lips.

"For now, that will do. Now, bring me Lord Mace Tyrell and Lady Margaery. It's time for them to start earning their keep."

But—
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"Then, issue orders to all forces: full alert, Level One security. A citywide curfew will be enforced tonight. Western Expedition soldiers are to remain in their camps unless on duty, and patrols are not to escalate engagements or retaliate unless under direct orders. Under no circumstances is anyone to act alone."

Half-truths, mixed with a dash of outright lies, seasoned with exaggeration, and served atop a mountain of raw emotion—this was, across all times and worlds, the deadliest and most effective way to incite chaos.

"Anything else? Continue."

Unlike the starving citizens of Cersei’s King’s Landing, the people of Oldtown were not desperate. Apart from a few fanatical zealots, most would not be easily swayed. The city’s middle class had already been firmly drawn to his side, and rather than aiding his enemies, they were more likely to serve as his informants. His proxies were prepared. His tools were sharpened.

On the sixth day of his rule over Oldtown, Aegor awoke as usual, washed up, and began breakfast while listening to the daily reports. It was then that he noticed something unusual—Myrcella looked… off.

With a general amnesty guaranteeing House Redwyne’s safe return to the Arbor—provided they contributed ships to the war against the slavers—the Ironborn Assembly had followed suit, surrendering the very next day and swearing fealty to the Queen.

Aegor took one look at Myrcella’s flushed face and hesitance and knew instantly—whatever she had to report, the real version was a hundred times cruder, filthier, and likely included names spoken in ways so foul that a proper girl like her couldn’t even paraphrase them.

He downed the rest of his hot broth, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and turned to her.

"Good," he said—not just an acknowledgment that no one had died, but also a sign of approval that Myrcella understood his priorities.

"Summon all members of Oldtown’s ‘Council’ to the Hightower this afternoon. I want to hear their explanations."
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But now, forewarned and prepared, the balance had shifted in his favor.

With these two peace treaties signed, the outcome of the Western Expedition had become even clearer. The Golden Company and the remaining two armies to the north and south were already making their final maneuvers, encircling and preparing to crush the last pockets of resistance. Even in the distant Vale, before the final assembly of the two great cannons, Royal Authority and Truth, House Arryn—long hiding behind the Bloody Gate—had begun making overtures of surrender.

Aegor scoffed. He didn’t even hesitate.

Only fools fought battles on terrain prepared by the enemy. The harder one tried to explain, the worse it would get.
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As night fell, Aegor—hungry and shivering from the cold—did not stumble upon a kind-hearted village girl who took him in. Nor was he noticed by a wandering noble who recognized his talent and made him a retainer.

A full-grown man, suffering from hunger and hypothermia, could not simply sit and wait to freeze to death on his first night in this world.

Even if his actions had been "questionable," under the laws of modern courts, his case would have been a textbook example of necessity defense.
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"What is it?" Aegor asked, not bothering to pause his meal. His voice was muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. "Speak freely."

When he had first arrived, stumbling through the near-freezing wilderness in nothing but a thin robe, he had tried to communicate with the villagers.

In most transmigration stories, this was the part where a helpful mentor or benefactor appeared to guide him.

Instead, he had landed in a real North—a remote, impoverished village where even the locals barely scraped by.

How could they possibly afford to help a stranger who didn’t even speak their language, who looked suspiciously foreign, and who might be an escaped criminal?
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"Today… or rather, since last night, the city has been restless." Myrcella hesitated. "Early this morning, a ragged septon gave a sermon in the marketplace, spewing slander—calling the Queen a product of incest, a madwoman whose corrupted bloodline made her cruel and unfit to rule. That she was an abomination in the eyes of the Seven."

She fidgeted. "And he also accused you, my lord… uh…"

Aegor didn’t need to hear the rest. He could already imagine it.

Had he not won over Oldtown with the promise of autonomy, had he allowed the city’s elite and the Faith to unite against him, he would now be facing a citywide rebellion—fanatical zealots running wild, riot after riot, until he was forced to beg the Hightowers to restore order and then flee in disgrace.

The Ironborn and the Reach islanders of Greenshield had neither the time nor the means to verify each other’s surrender. That mutual ignorance was the foundation of his two-pronged deception.

Everything was proceeding according to plan. Now that the unification war had reached its final act, the Grand Septon of Oldtown had finally made his move, mobilizing the Faith to strike against him.
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"He called you a disgraceful, lecherous thief," Myrcella forced out. "That you were caught stealing Northern eggs and sent to the Wall, only to betray the Starks, pillage Winterfell, violate countless women, and bring doom upon yourself."

She swallowed. "And, uh… he said you and the Queen were an adulterous, scheming pair of harlots who—"

Aegor’s expression remained unreadable.

Should he clarify that he had not stolen eggs, but merely taken some old clothes and a few potatoes?

Or perhaps he should issue a public denial—admitting that, yes, he had indeed defiled women, but absolutely not anyone’s wife?
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"Summon the Council." His voice was quiet but firm. "This afternoon. The Hightower. I want to hear their explanations."
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In political warfare, before you crush a great man, you must first destroy his connections.

That was a lesson Aegor had learned from Tyrion back when he maneuvered against Janos Slynt in King’s Landing.

Even if some among the Faith’s flock realized this was a ploy—an attempt to force his hand in negotiations—what could they do?

Even if they suspected this was merely a tactic to lower their bargaining position, could they openly defy it?

No.

They would be forced to feign fear, forced to play along, forced to accept the Queen’s terms and end the war.

Because ultimately, the true key to making this deception work was not merely rhetoric or maneuvering.

It was that Aegor had already won the battlefield.

And he had the power—and the will—to ensure that victory was absolute.
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"Good."

That was the official judgment.

And Myrcella, sharp as ever, instantly understood.

She nodded and recorded it.
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"The city guard moved to disperse them, but the situation escalated. Ten were injured. The instigators escaped, but we captured dozens of fanatics." Myrcella sighed in relief. "Elsewhere in the city, there were minor disturbances—some civilians threw rotten eggs, spoiled vegetables, and stones at our patrols. No one was seriously harmed, though the insults were… difficult to endure."
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This was about stability.

To maintain order, his side had to act with absolute restraint—because the moment blood was spilled, chaos would spiral out of control.

Aegor leaned back, exhaling slowly.

And then, with the same cold smirk, he repeated himself.

"Good."