Chapter 523

The weather, indifferent to the turmoil below, continued to sprinkle fine snow over Winterfell from the beginning of the siege to its end. Even after Aegor took the castle, the snowfall showed signs of thickening into a heavier flurry, covering the chaotic aftermath in a fresh coat of white.

After ensuring Robb and Catelyn were safely escorted back to the keep, Aegor made a round through the castle, inspecting the progress of his troops taking over positions from the local residents and the repairs being made to the cannon-battered gate. Once satisfied that everything was proceeding as planned, he found himself with a brief moment of free time. After some thought, he decided—he needed to speak with Arya Stark.

Though the Gift and the North were equals, not vassals, and Aegor had never sworn fealty to House Stark, the accusations of "betrayal" from the outside world carried weight. People often referred not to political disloyalty but to his violation of the Night’s Watch’s neutrality and his perceived betrayal of the trust and friendship the Starks had shown him over the years.

In that sense, labeling him a traitor to House Stark was not entirely baseless.

Admitting to such a charge, however, would undermine the legitimacy of his southern campaign and the righteousness he sought to project. Aegor wasn’t foolish enough to concede to such a narrative publicly, but he wasn’t blind to the truth either. While it was necessary to use clever rhetoric to rally his followers, self-deception was a dangerous trap. To dispel the accusations of treachery, it wasn’t enough to win and minimize harm to the Stark family during his campaign—how the Starks themselves framed the events to the world afterward would be just as critical.

The once-close relationship between Aegor and the Starks had plummeted to freezing depths after this short but decisive conflict. But for the sake of his reputation and future alliances, mending even a sliver of goodwill was essential. Whether motivated by guilt or self-interest, he had to repair their trust—not to its original state, but enough to salvage the Stark family as a political asset and ally.

The best way to achieve this, Aegor reasoned, was to start with Arya Stark, someone who had already shared a degree of intimacy with him during his time at Winterfell. Their past connection provided an opening for reconciliation.
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On the bridge connecting the main keep to the outer world, people moved in and out as usual, though now they were all faces familiar to the Gift. Aegor’s siege was nothing like Theon Greyjoy’s infamous attack in another timeline. His campaign south had brought five thousand men, including women, warriors, craftsmen, and healers—a small, self-sufficient society in its own right. If nothing else, Aegor never lacked manpower.

To maintain the illusion that Winterfell remained under Stark rule for Daenerys’ arrival, Aegor kept the Stark family in the main keep. But to ensure his control over the situation, he implemented two measures: first, replacing all the castle’s staff with his own men, who donned Stark livery and cloaks to act as guards, stewards, and maids; second, separating the Starks, giving each one their own room—except for mothers with infants.

This arrangement left the Starks isolated, unable to coordinate or scheme, while the castle itself became a perfect house arrest scenario, with no risk of rebellion or escape. The original residents, meanwhile, were relocated to Winter Town outside the castle alongside the displaced civilians.

On the first floor of the keep, the damage caused by the cannon fire was evident in the shattered walls and pierced wooden doors. Aegor paused to observe the destructive power of his secret weapon before asking a nearby officer for Arya’s room location. With the answer in hand, he ascended the stairs at a measured pace, contemplating how to approach the girl.

As he walked, a burly spearwoman—now dressed in a maid’s uniform—stepped into his path. “Commander,” she said, “the little girl under my charge insisted I deliver this to you. Said if I didn’t, you’d be in danger.”

Talking to people with limited ability to explain themselves was always a chore. Aegor sighed and clarified, “Which little girl?”

“The small one,” the woman said vaguely, before adding, “the one with hair like gold.”

Ah, that made it clear. “Maeve—Maeve Snow,” Aegor said, shaking his head. “If you’re pretending to be a Stark maid, you’d better remember the names of the people you’re serving.” He gave her a stern reminder before gesturing for the object. “What did she give you?”

“This.” The spearwoman, having been thoroughly disciplined through a mix of rewards and punishments, nodded earnestly as she handed over a crumpled piece of paper. “Maeve, got it.”

Waving her off, Aegor unfolded the paper. It was triangular, likely torn from the corner of a book, with a few neatly written words: Arya—hiding—Needle.

It was a cryptic message, but Aegor understood its meaning instantly. Even without his knowledge of the original timeline, he had seen Jon Snow forge the blade Needle at the smithy and gift it to his younger sister.

Arya must have hidden the sword for a sense of security—or perhaps to use it against someone.

Maeve, sharp as always, wouldn’t have warned him without cause. Aegor recalled how quiet Arya had been during the surrender ceremony earlier, a silence that now seemed less like shock and more like calculation. So, this was her plan—waiting for the right moment to strike at him.

And he had almost walked right into it.

Stopping in his tracks, Aegor pushed aside the unease creeping into his mind and considered his options. The safest course would be to send soldiers to search Arya’s room again, confiscating the blade to eliminate any risk. But if his goal was to rebuild goodwill and trust, storming in with armed men would undermine the entire effort.

Yet leaving it alone wasn’t an option either. Swords, after all, were not known for their discretion.

After careful thought, he crumpled the paper back into his hand and resolved to proceed as planned. It wasn’t that he wasn’t afraid—he simply calculated that Arya, having lost no family members in the siege, wouldn’t hate him enough to immediately resort to murder. And even if he was wrong, the chest armor hidden under his black coat would give him a buffer against any surprises. He had donned it precisely for moments like this.
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The keep wasn’t large, and Arya’s room was only a short walk away. Upon reaching the door, Aegor whispered some backup instructions to his followers before stepping forward to knock.

“Go away! Stop bothering me!” Arya’s irritated shout came from behind the door, her voice dripping with hostility. She must have mistaken him for someone else. Judging by the sound, she wasn’t hiding behind the door waiting to ambush him. Aegor relaxed slightly and carefully pushed the door open.

Arya sat on the bed with her back to the entrance. Hearing the door creak, she turned to glare over her shoulder, ready to snap at whoever had dared disturb her. But when she saw who it was, her expression froze. She quickly turned away, refusing to look at him, silently fuming.

Even forewarned, Aegor didn’t miss her subtle movements—her hand darting beneath the blanket to grip something. So, she had the sword after all.

Suppressing a surge of tension, Aegor closed the door behind him, taking care not to approach recklessly. He stood at a cautious distance and spoke calmly.

“Arya, we need to talk.”