Chapter 524

Myrcella is a damn sorceress.

Arya silently marveled at her friend’s foresight, her palm growing slick with sweat around the hilt of her sword. Her heartbeat quickened—just as Myrcella had warned, Aegor had walked right into her grasp.

Every sense sharpened, every hair on her body stood on end. She imagined herself as a predator, steadying her breath like a wolf stalking its prey. Keeping her left hand hidden under the blanket to conceal the sword, she remained utterly still, trying to track Aegor’s every movement without turning her head. The moment had to be perfect.

The door closed with a soft click, and the man said he wanted to talk. Talk? He had the gall to stand before her after what he’d done? He thought that just because she had once liked him, he could do whatever he wanted? That sleeping beside her in the past somehow granted him forgiveness for invading her home?

(Arya Stark has nothing to say to you. But Needle would love to have a nice, long conversation.)

It was a fine line, one that would have sounded impressive if spoken aloud. But the time for words had passed. The room was empty except for the two of them, everything was proceeding as planned. Today, Aegor would pay for his betrayal in blood.

“There’s nothing to talk about. Get out.”

Her voice was sharp, but her muscles coiled beneath her skin, ready for the strike. She knew Aegor—he wouldn’t leave just because she told him to. He would linger, talk, try to charm her into listening, just like he had done so many times before.

The captain of her guard had scolded her the night before, making her painfully aware of the gap between her strength and a grown man’s. Even the best swordplay meant little against sheer brute force. Aegor might not have been the most fearsome warrior in Westeros, but he was a trained ranger. If she wanted to succeed, she had to wait until he let his guard down—wait for him to come closer.

She had even rehearsed how she would say goodbye to him after plunging Needle into his gut. But Aegor didn’t move forward. He simply stood near the door, a few paces away, and spoke instead.

“Robb is alive,” he said. “He’s injured, but not badly. I had him taken back to his room, where he’s being properly cared for.”

The fact that no Starks had died in the battle was Aegor’s strongest bargaining chip—the one thing that gave him the confidence to enter this room unarmed.

“Hmph.”

Arya’s fingers loosened around Needle’s hilt for a brief moment before gripping it tighter again.

Maybe Robb really was unharmed. But that changed nothing. The person she had admired—had trusted—had led an army to surround her home, attack it, take it. She didn’t know how many of Winterfell’s sworn swords, men who had watched her grow up, had been injured or slain in the chaos. And Aegor thought a simple assurance that Robb was alive could erase all of that?

If anything, it only made her angrier.

“Then tell me,” she snarled, “how many people died in Winterfell last night?”

“Including civilians caught in the chaos? Fewer than a hundred.”

Aegor took a quiet step forward, closing half a meter of distance between them. The number was true—eighty-something dead wasn’t quite a hundred. But in reality, the number of wounded was far greater, and many would not survive their injuries. Telling the full truth wouldn’t help him here.

“But, Arya,” he continued, “you have to understand one thing—no matter the number, the one truly responsible for their deaths is Roose Bolton, not my men.”

“You—” Arya trembled, her voice turning sharp. “Do you have no shame?”

Her anger surged. “You ordered the attack on Winterfell. And now you stand here and try to blame someone else? I must’ve been blind before, but I see clearly now. I know I’m your prisoner—I know I’m your hostage—but I won’t pretend to believe your lies. Get out of my room!”

“You don’t have to believe me,” Aegor said steadily. “But I need to finish what I have to say.”

Arya, still gripping her sword under the blanket, sat stiffly on the bed, unable to move lest she reveal her plan. Aegor felt a rush of conflicting emotions.

Regret—that the girl who once crawled into his bed for warmth now wanted to stab him in the heart.

Bitterness—because this was the price of his refusal to remain a simple Night’s Watchman.

Relief—because as long as Arya was waiting for him to come closer, she wouldn’t strike. And as long as he didn’t move, she would be forced to sit there, waiting.

A standoff.

And in a standoff, words could become weapons.
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“According to plan, I should be beyond the Wall right now, hunting the last remnants of the White Walkers. But not long ago, I received a secret messenger from the Dreadfort. Roose Bolton sent word that House Stark was lying—that your brother had never truly intended to remain neutral. That the moment I led the Night’s Watch north, he planned to take command of the Gift and ensure I never returned.”

“Lies,” Arya spat. “Robb never planned to kill you.”

“Oh? Never?” Aegor echoed, tone laced with amusement.

If Arya was willing to argue, it meant she wasn’t immediately trying to kill him. Another step closer—he now stood beside the small round table in her room.

“That means at least one part of what Roose Bolton said was true,” Aegor mused. “Robb did intend to overthrow my control of the Gift while I was gone, didn’t he?”

Arya froze. She had spoken too quickly. And now, for the first time, she realized—Robb had lied too. He had tried to trick Aegor, he had simply failed.

“I didn’t believe Bolton,” Aegor continued, pressing on. “And I refused his offer to overthrow House Stark. Not just because I trusted Robb’s honor, but because I had my own precautions. I never intended to let him take me off guard. I didn’t need Bolton’s help, and I had no intention of letting him use me as a weapon.”

Arya remained silent. Not because she was convinced, but because arguing took energy. And if she spent her strength yelling, she might lose the chance to strike true when it mattered.

Step by step, Aegor moved until he was within two meters of the bed—close enough for tension to coil tight, but not close enough to strike.

“But then I realized something,” he said. “Bolton didn’t need my help. He would never let an opportunity slip away. If Robb rode south to fight for the Queen, Roose Bolton would seize Winterfell behind his back and crush House Stark from both sides.”

His words were calculated, and yet, as he spoke them, he realized that they might have been true all along. Had he underestimated Roose Bolton?

“I told myself,” Aegor said, voice low, “that if Bolton was lying, I would let it go. And if Robb truly betrayed our neutrality, then whatever happened to him would be his own doing. I could afford to be indifferent to the fate of every single person in Winterfell.”

He exhaled slowly. “Except one.”

Arya flinched.

“The one who wasn’t like the others. The one who was smart, and fierce, and kind.” He let the words settle before finishing, “My student.”

Arya’s eyes burned.

She wanted to believe him. But another part of her whispered—he’s lying.

She gritted her teeth, rage overtaking sorrow.

“You say you’re here with me,” she hissed. “But you brought her here!”

Tears welled in her eyes. Before they could fall—shing!

With a flash of steel, Needle shot from beneath the blanket.
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