Chapter 532

Myrcella had not had an easy time these past few days. But to Aegor’s relief, this had nothing to do with him forgetting about her—quite the opposite, in fact. His neglect had actually made things a little easier for her.

After all, he was the primary source of trouble for most of the people in this castle.

With a faith and courage that seemed almost possessed in hindsight, the little princess had chosen to trust Aegor and aid him in attacking what was now her new home, Winterfell. It was fortunate, of course, that none of the Stark family members had perished in the process. That had lightened her burden—but only by half. Myrcella still had to grapple with the fear that the things Aegor had told her about Roose Bolton and the Queen might actually be true. Had she been naive? Had she been manipulated into harming the people she loved?

Today, at last, those fears were put to rest.

With Daenerys arriving in Winterfell, escorted by the Unsullied and openly welcomed into the castle with Roose Bolton at her side, the rumors of "the Mad King's daughter being slaughtered by the Dreadfort's forces" were crushed beneath the weight of undeniable reality. Seeing it with her own eyes, Myrcella let out a long breath, her heart finally settling. She had not been deceived.

That mysterious foreigner—his origins unclear—had truly been as reliable as she had hoped. Against all odds, her impulsive gamble, her reckless leap of faith, had actually paid off. She had saved House Stark from annihilation.

After this test of trust, the imagined image of the "Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch" and the real Aegor Wester fused seamlessly into one. Myrcella suddenly felt as if she had known him for years.
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With so many eyes watching in the courtyard, Myrcella carefully controlled her expression and posture, wary of how their meeting might be perceived by certain individuals.

"It’s fine. Do you have time right now?"

Busy—very. But Aegor didn’t say that.

First, it was difficult for any normal person to say no to such an adorable little girl.

Second, from what he remembered, Myrcella was not the type to bother him over trivial nonsense.

"I have time," he replied, not stopping his stride but slowing his pace just enough so that her small steps could keep up.

"What, Arya isn’t still thinking about stabbing me, is she?"

"No, no," Myrcella laughed, following at his side with a light, cheerful tone. "She still acts furious, but after seeing Lord Bolton trailing behind the Queen like a trained dog, most of her anger has already faded."

Aegor smirked. That was predictable.

"Although..." Myrcella hesitated. "I don’t quite understand why you let her keep Needle—but even if she did still want to stab someone, I’m sure the target wouldn’t be you anymore. If I had to describe her state right now..."

She twirled a golden curl between her fingers, frowning in thought before finally settling on an explanation.

"She can’t like you anymore."

The phrasing was... peculiar. Aegor shot her a sidelong glance.

"What do you mean by can’t like me anymore?"

"Ah, how should I put it..." Myrcella mulled it over for a second before finding an example.

"If someone had asked Arya before, ‘Lady Stark, how can you like a Night’s Watchman?’ she would have snapped back at them, ‘None of your business!’"

She shrugged.

"But if someone asks her now... Well. You get it, right? It’s not that she doesn’t like you. It’s that she can’t like you anymore."

Aegor understood immediately—and he could guess the rest of the sentence Myrcella had tactfully left unsaid.

If someone were to ask now—"Lady Stark, how can you like a traitor?"—that would be a question she wouldn’t know how to answer. One she wouldn’t even be able to get angry at.

People were social creatures. No matter how much one might claim "I don’t care what others think," it was never entirely true.

And in his case, he had, without question, done something dishonorable. To some, he was a traitor. There was no room for righteous indignation here—only the understanding nod of a man who knew exactly what he had become.

"Thank you," he said, sighing. "Keep an eye on Arya for me, will you? Make sure she doesn’t do anything reckless that could hurt herself or others. If you notice even the slightest problem, come to me immediately—"

He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly resisting the urge to slap himself.

I’ve already treated Arya like a tool to maintain my relationship with the Starks. Now I’m even enlisting another girl, younger than her, to spy on her?

My descent into villainy is getting harder and harder to deny.

"...I’ll keep an eye on her," Myrcella promised, sensing the awkwardness of the moment and swiftly changing the subject.

"But actually, I came to you today for something else. I was thinking—just something idle, really—but I realized something that might be very useful to you. And I suspect you either haven’t noticed it or have overlooked it entirely."

"Oh?" Aegor arched a brow, his interest piqued. "Let’s hear it."

"Last Hearth was wiped out when the Others invaded from the north. The Umbers were one of the great houses of the North, but now they’re gone—leaving behind a stronghold and a vast stretch of unclaimed land. Right now, the Night’s Watch is occupying it, which is reasonable given the circumstances. But... have you thought about what happens after?"

Aegor frowned, unsure where she was going with this. "We took Last Hearth out of necessity. If the Northerners want it back, I have no reason to hold onto it. It’s their land. It should be their decision."

"That’s exactly the right way to think about it," Myrcella murmured, lowering her voice as if afraid someone might overhear.

"If you leave it to the Northern lords to decide, there are two likely outcomes. One, after much infighting, they find some distant relative of the Umbers—someone with even the faintest trace of family connection—and restore House Umber under a new name. Or two, they don’t find a suitable heir, and Last Hearth ceases to exist as a noble seat. The castle falls into ruin, and the lands are absorbed by the Starks and their favored bannermen."

She paused, then added, "Neither outcome would have anything to do with you. But actually... there’s a way for you to take it for yourself—completely legally and without making an enemy of the North."

Aegor narrowed his eyes.

He hadn’t been particularly interested in the fate of Last Hearth. Compared to the grander ambitions he had for Westeros, it was a speck of land. Still, Myrcella had phrased it in a way that demanded curiosity.

"Go on."

"You remember Mors Umber’s only daughter? The one who was taken by the Free Folk, but later reunited with her father after you let the Wildlings cross the Wall?"

"Of course," Aegor nodded. He had arranged that reunion, after all.

"She had two sons with the Wildling who took her."

Aegor’s brow furrowed. "Yes, and the Umbers reclaimed them when she was brought back."

"Right," Myrcella said. "But—if they were still alive when Last Hearth fell... and if they’re in Deepwood Motte now... then you hold the only living Umbers with direct blood ties to that land. And if you petition the Queen to legitimize them..."

Aegor instantly saw where this was going.

If Daenerys legitimized those boys, they would be the rightful heirs to Last Hearth. And if Aegor controlled them, then the lands, the castle—everything—would be his.

A wicked grin tugged at his lips.

"Harvey," he called to his aide. "Those two Umber boys—what were their names?"

"No idea, my lord!" the soldier answered with perfect military crispness.

"Were they in Deepwood Motte when the Others invaded?"

"No idea, my lord!"

"Are they even still alive?"

"No idea, my lord!"

Aegor snorted. "Find out. If they’re alive, bring them to me—quietly."

"Yes, my lord!"

As Harvey rushed off, Myrcella muttered under her breath, "Angus and Benny."

Then, after a moment, she added in a whisper:

"...Or, if they’re dead—you could always find some replacements."