Chapter 651

The two Lannisters—one big, one small—locked eyes. In the span of a few heartbeats, both realized they couldn’t acknowledge each other in the open courtyard, so they feigned indifference. One pretended to survey the surroundings, while the other rushed to Aegor’s side, dutifully reporting on the newly revised schedule. They walked into the house, still speaking in hushed tones. Only when Aegor dismissed the attendants, ensuring no prying ears, did Tyrion seize Myrcella’s hand, his voice trembling despite himself.

"By the Seven… What in the world are you doing here?"

Myrcella, held by the uncle she had been closest to yet separated from for years, felt the warmth of his grip and the unfiltered joy and concern in his eyes. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. She cast a cautious glance at Aegor. Seeing the man smiling with not a flicker of surprise on his face, she finally allowed herself to relax. Taking a deep breath, she began her tale—brief, yet clear.

From witnessing the chaos of the "War of the Father and Uncle" in King's Landing, to being placed under the control and house arrest of Eddard Stark, to being passed from one hand to another until she was sent to Winterfell under a new name, raised as a Stark ward—"Maeve Snow." By some twist of fate, she had met Aegor, and eventually, through another turn of fortune, hitched a ride south with the Night’s Watch expedition, returning to King’s Landing.

Of the three infamous "Lannister Bastards," the whereabouts of Joffrey and Tommen had been made public across the Seven Kingdoms—they had donned the black, forever stripped of any claim to the throne. But Myrcella? She had vanished without a trace after leaving the Red Keep, as if she had been swallowed by the earth. No news, no sightings, not even whispers of her fate. Tyrion had long suspected that Eddard Stark had hidden her identity to protect her, but that did little to ease the bitter taste in his mouth. A Lannister child, his own niece—no, more than that, his favorite kin—forced to rely on the mercy of their enemies for survival. It was galling.

Cersei had never been a good sister, but Myrcella had always been Tyrion’s favorite among the Lannister brood. If there was one person in the entire family who truly felt like a relative, it was her. He would have raised her as his own daughter if he could. And though Myrcella glossed over the worst parts of her years in exile—avoiding mention of the scorn, the loneliness, the hardships—Tyrion was no fool. He had suffered too. He could imagine all too well what it meant for a girl barely past ten to live among strangers for years, with no kin to shield her.

The Lannisters had once been so mighty, so entrenched in power, and yet they had fallen so far that they couldn't even protect their own blood. Tyrion felt as if a fist had clenched around his heart. His eyes stung, and it took all his strength not to let the tears fall. For once, his sharp tongue failed him, his words stumbling out in a half-choked mess.

"Good... You—you're well, that's all that matters. Seven hells, look at you! I swear, it feels like just yesterday you were a child, and now you’re taller than me! That's... that’s wonderful."

Aegor, watching the reunion with a small smile, finally spoke. "I met her at the Gift when she came to visit her younger brother. We spoke, and she gave me some rather interesting advice—enough that I owed her a favor. Later, when the Queen’s forces moved south and I stopped in Winterfell to regroup, Myrcella sought me out. She wasn’t happy living with the Starks and asked me to take her away from the North. She’s been assisting me with administration and logistics ever since."

His smile didn’t waver as he continued, "But she’s still a young girl, and her identity is too sensitive. It wouldn’t be appropriate for her to stay with me forever. You’re her uncle, Tyrion. More reliable than her own parents, if I may say so. You’re the perfect guardian for her. It’s only right that you decide her future."
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Bringing Myrcella and Tyrion together had not been a mistake. Nor was it a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Myrcella was Aegor’s assistant and secretary. Tyrion was the Treasurer of the Targaryen Crown and one of Aegor’s most trusted allies. The idea that these two could coexist in close quarters without ever meeting was an impossible fantasy. Rather than skulking around, constantly maneuvering to keep them apart, it was far better to arrange their reunion under controlled circumstances.

He had been waiting for the right moment. And the moment had come, unannounced and crashing right into him.

Of course, Aegor had taken Myrcella from Winterfell—but not, as he claimed, out of kindness. No, she had stumbled upon something she shouldn’t have: she had seen him moving freely during his supposed "illness." He had no choice but to detain her.

That moment had terrified them both. But now, after months of living side by side, the fear had faded. Myrcella had witnessed Aegor’s vision, his drive, the energy of his reforms. And Aegor had come to understand her—not as a reader, not as a spectator, not as "the niece of an acquaintance," but as a bright, resourceful, and composed young woman.

There were only two groups in the world who might have had both the means and motive to investigate Varys’ death: Illyrio and Young Aegon’s faction under Jon Connington. The former was already dead, executed that very morning at the River Gate. The latter… well, Aegor was about to march against them himself.

At this moment, Aegor was no longer concerned that Myrcella might betray him.

Not just because she was competent, trustworthy, and, in his estimation, knew how to keep her mouth shut. But because she was also rational. She would understand that exposing him would bring no benefit to herself or to House Lannister. Even if, one day, she did decide to tell Tyrion everything, it would only be because some unforeseeable shift had driven a wedge between them—so deep that House Lannister would see no option but to destroy Aegor entirely.

And if it ever came to that—if Myrcella stood in a hall, testifying against him as the murderer of the Queen’s spymaster—then either she would reveal her true identity, rendering her testimony useless, or she would remain anonymous, in which case she was first and foremost the daughter of a kingslayer, and only secondarily a witness.

It would be a mutually assured destruction.

Not that it would ever come to that. If things ever did reach such a point, Aegor had no intention of letting the Lannisters get the upper hand.

He had struck first when he was weaker. Now, at the height of his power? Why would he hesitate?
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"Well…" Tyrion, oblivious to the calculations running through Aegor’s mind, simply found his offer logical. He turned to Myrcella, his expression softening. "My dear girl, I am not a man to dictate your life. The choice is yours. Where do you want to go? How do you wish to live? Tell me, and I will do whatever it takes to make it happen."

The question caught Myrcella completely off guard. She froze, utterly unprepared.

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, her gaze flickered toward Aegor, her eyes glistening.

"My lord," she asked hesitantly, "did I… fail you? Did I not meet your expectations? Is that why you’re sending me away?"

Aegor’s expression turned serious. He shook his head. "No. You’re clever and capable. Whether as an administrator, an aide, or an advisor, you’ve performed exceptionally well. I doubt I’ll find another assistant as competent as you. But this is not the life you were meant to live. I won’t let my own selfishness decide your future for you."

His voice was firm, leaving no room for negotiation.

Because if he framed it as a question, Myrcella—ever cautious—would only see it as another test. And if she, out of fear or uncertainty, chose to stay, Tyrion would see it as a hostage situation. That was not the impression Aegor wanted to give.

He needed Tyrion’s gratitude. Not his resentment.

And so, Myrcella would leave. Not because he distrusted her. But because he could not tolerate the idea that a Lannister girl knew his every move, even dictated his schedule.

She hesitated, then turned back to Tyrion. When she lifted her head again, her eyes were clear. Her choice had been made.