Chapter 557

Melisandre had spent years honing her craft of persuasion, weaving truths and half-truths into compelling narratives to sway kings and queens. Yet blatant deception—especially malicious deception—was a rarity for her. When Missandei openly accused her of setting a trap, the priestess felt a fleeting moment of unease. Only her vast experience and unshakable composure allowed her to recover in an instant.

Rather than faltering, she narrowed her eyes, exuding an aura of dominance tinged with menace as she fixed her gaze on the dark-skinned handmaid. “Little girl, food may be eaten carelessly, but words should not be spoken recklessly. Do you understand the gravity of accusing someone of treachery against their queen?”

The tension in the room grew palpable. As queen, Daenerys should have intervened to defuse the situation, either by rejecting the priestess’s suggestion or by reprimanding Missandei for her outburst. Yet she said nothing, her brow furrowed in silent turmoil, caught between competing instincts.

Her caution whispered that Missandei might be right—this could indeed be a trap. But logic quickly reminded her that she had no concrete evidence to support such a claim. And then there was her heart, which refused to be silenced, crying out again and again: What if you’re wrong? What if you let your only ally die, struggling in his final moments, unable to be saved by the blood of a true dragon? What if you lose your only confidant, and with him, the chance to fulfill your grand vision of breaking the wheel? You’ll regret it forever.

Daenerys wrestled with herself for what felt like an eternity, until clarity struck her. The heart of the problem lay in one question: Was Aegor truly poisoned and at death’s door?

A professional—or at least someone attentive enough—should be able to tell.

As queen, her pride would not allow her to personally confirm the situation. But she could send someone else in her stead.

“Lady Melisandre, I ask you to forgive Missandei’s rudeness,” Daenerys said, her voice suddenly calm and poised. “She is but a child, and the recent events concerning Petyr and Varys have understandably frightened her.” With her plan now clear, the queen’s confidence returned. “However, blood magic is no ordinary method. I cannot decide on such a matter without due consideration. Therefore, I will send my healer to the Lord Commander’s bedside to assess his condition. If no other options remain, I will decide then. Would that be acceptable?”

“The Gifted Lands troops serve you, Your Grace, and it is you who must offer your blood for this magic. Thus, the final decision should also be yours to make,” Melisandre replied, her face an impassive mask, though she inwardly sighed in relief. After a pause, she added, “However, time is of the essence. I suggest your healer moves swiftly.”

“Of course.” Daenerys smiled faintly, then turned to her handmaid. “Missandei, inform Poole to gather two Unsullied and accompany him to the Lord Commander’s quarters immediately. I expect a report as soon as possible.”

Missandei understood Daenerys’s intentions in an instant. Sending someone to investigate was indeed more prudent than relying on blind guesses. But humans are fallible—Unsullied knew nothing of poisons, and the healer could be deceived, bribed, or coerced.

Only she, Missandei thought, had the sharp mind, loyalty, and resolve to carry out this task properly.

“Your Grace,” Missandei whispered into Daenerys’s ear, “allow me to accompany them. If I don’t return within an hour, or if I return without saying the agreed-upon signal, do not hesitate. Leave Winterfell immediately under the protection of Drogon, Rhaegal, and the Unsullied, and seek refuge with Lord Bolton.”

Daenerys hesitated briefly before nodding. She gripped Missandei’s hand and whispered in return, “Be careful. Even if you find something suspicious, don’t expose it on the spot. Come back first and report.”
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Wrapped in thick furs, Missandei and Poole followed Melisandre out of the queen’s guest quarters, escorted by a small detachment of Unsullied as they made their way to the Gifted Lands camp on the other side of Winterfell.

The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the cutting wind howled through the gaps between buildings. Midnight in Winterfell was dark and eerily silent, save for the occasional patrol passing by. Battling against the snowflakes that stung their faces, the group trudged through the freezing night until they arrived at their destination.

Outside the Lord Commander’s chambers, a full contingent of guards stood watch. They were armed to the teeth, their numbers far greater than usual. Their expressions and postures radiated wariness, as though bracing for an imminent attack. Seeing Melisandre return without the queen and accompanied only by a handmaid, their dissatisfaction was palpable. They muttered their complaints openly, not bothering to hide their skepticism.

Despite their grumbling, they didn’t dare block Melisandre’s entry. After thoroughly searching Poole, they waved him in but skipped inspecting Missandei, trusting the priestess’s assurances.

The room was stiflingly warm, the heat from the roaring fireplace casting flickering red shadows across the walls. The air was thick with the mingled scents of herbs and something faintly sour. Missandei blinked, her eyes momentarily stinging from the sudden change in temperature.

There were no hidden assassins or ambushes. On the bed, a pale man lay motionless, his chest rising and falling so faintly it was almost imperceptible. Beside him sat Qyburn, his expression resigned. Nearby, a woman tended the fire, while a black-cloaked officer paced anxiously.

Without waiting for instruction, Poole and Missandei approached the bed. Poole addressed Qyburn directly. “How is he?”

The old maester sighed and shook his head, stepping aside to let Poole examine the patient himself. The healer wasted no time, taking Qyburn’s seat and carefully observing the man on the bed.

It was undeniably Aegor. His once-vital form now lay eerily still, his expression peaceful yet unnaturally pale. Even the faintest signs of breath were nearly impossible to detect. Poole gently reached for the hand resting beneath the blanket and was startled by its icy chill.

The hand felt like a block of ice. Were it not for the faint pulse at his wrist, Poole would have assumed Aegor had been dead for hours.

“This man’s body temperature is so low,” Poole murmured, “that even if he were perfectly healthy, he’d still be on the verge of death.”

While the healer discussed Aegor’s condition with Qyburn, Missandei began her own assessment. She carefully touched Aegor’s face, checked his nose for signs of disguise, and even felt his chest, confirming that the icy cold extended throughout his body. She pressed her fingers against his sternum, feeling for his heartbeat. It was faint and irregular—barely there at all.

Could it be that Aegor truly was a victim, and not the mastermind she had suspected?

Missandei frowned, still grappling with doubt. After a moment, she decided to conduct one final test.

Even a man skilled in feigning death couldn’t resist instinctive reactions to extreme pain. Missandei considered pinching him hard or pricking him with a needle. But her strength was meager, and she hadn’t brought any tools. Besides, Aegor was known for his resilience—he might endure minor pain without flinching, and she doubted she would get a second chance to test him.

Her mind raced, and soon, she devised a plan. It was crude, yet guaranteed to provoke a reaction.

She recalled a childhood friend—a “bed slave”—once explaining that every man, no matter how tough, had a weakness. A place no amount of training could harden. A place that would elicit a response, no matter how skilled the actor.

Missandei looked at Aegor one last time, steeling herself. Then, she reached under the blanket toward her chosen target...