Chapter 516

Myrcella ran back to her room, trembling and overwhelmed by fear and anxiety.

She had never been so close to wildfire before, let alone used it herself. Despite Aegor’s warning and her mental preparation—treating the little vial as a dangerous substance—she was completely unprepared for the reality. When she unscrewed the cap, poured the viscous, green liquid onto one of the frozen wooden support beams of the stables, and struck a match, the result was far more terrifying than she had imagined.

The cold had thickened the wildfire, causing it to cling to the wood in long, dripping streaks. The instant the flame touched it, the fire roared to life, spreading rapidly from top to bottom. Though this improved version of wildfire no longer ignited from body heat or exploded unpredictably, its ferocity as a burning agent remained. Bright green flames erupted, radiating searing heat that forced Myrcella to stumble backward and fall onto the icy ground. The front of her hair was singed, and the back of her hand, which had been holding the match, stung with pain from the heat.

Her thick winter clothing cushioned her from the fall, and the burns on her hand and face were minor, but her heart wouldn’t stop pounding. Her hands shook as she realized how quickly the fire was spreading, far faster than she had anticipated. She had carefully chosen the stables as her target—far from the castle’s main buildings and uninhabited—but the blaze was spiraling out of control, igniting chaos she hadn’t intended.

The little wildfire fire she had started to create a distraction had unexpectedly turned into a disaster.
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The small princess had struggled endlessly with herself after Aegor handed her the box of matches and the vial of wildfire earlier that day. She had concealed them under her clothes and returned to Winterfell by spinning a convincing lie, but even after she was back inside, she had hesitated. Aegor’s claim that Roose Bolton was plotting betrayal was plausible, but he had no hard evidence. Yet, there was something about his sincerity, his confidence—hidden beneath a thin veneer of vulnerability—that made her want to believe him.

What Myrcella didn’t know was that her reaction wasn’t driven by logic or emotion alone. It was the subtle, imperceptible presence of a king’s authority, a charisma so compelling it bent even the strongest wills.

In the end, her instinct and reasoning reached a fragile truce: whether Bolton was an ally or an enemy didn’t matter in this moment. The battle was inevitable, and Winterfell’s fall was all but certain. If the castle was going to be taken, better to help Aegor make it swift and decisive, minimizing bloodshed and sparing the Starks unnecessary suffering.

History had taught her that the easier the attackers’ victory, the fewer their losses—and the less likely they were to indulge in anger-fueled massacres afterward. And Aegor, given his past ties to the Stark family, would surely exercise restraint if he captured the castle smoothly.

That was her justification, at least. But now, as the chaos unfolded, she could no longer calm herself. The fire she had set had already caused casualties, and the Gift army hadn’t even launched its attack yet. How could she live with herself if the situation worsened?

Returning to the keep as planned, she found herself running straight into Robb Stark. Her nerves nearly gave out as guilt and fear swept over her. For a moment, she almost confessed everything on the spot, but Robb barely glanced at her. He scolded her for being out of her room and ordered her back inside, sparing her the interrogation she feared.
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Back in her room, Myrcella closed the door behind her, her heart still pounding.

Arya was standing by the bed, pulling on her clothes.

“What are you doing?” Myrcella asked, her voice still trembling.

“There’s a fire outside,” Arya replied. “I’m going to check it out.”

“No!” Myrcella exclaimed, snapping back to reality. “You can’t! Your brother ordered the keep’s gates sealed—no one is allowed in or out.”

Arya groaned in frustration, but that didn’t stop her. She shrugged on her coat and stepped into her boots with practiced speed. “I’ll just tell them to let me through.”

“No, it’s too dangerous out there. You can’t go.” Myrcella moved to block the door, her voice firm. She couldn’t undo the harm she’d caused, but at the very least, she could prevent Arya from putting herself in danger.

“Move,” Arya said, her brow furrowing in confusion at Myrcella’s unusual assertiveness.

“You can’t go out there!” Myrcella repeated, standing her ground and puffing up her chest to appear taller.

“Get out of the way!” Arya snapped, hands on her hips, her frustration mounting. When Myrcella refused to budge, Arya grabbed her shoulders, trying to shove her aside.

Despite being older and stronger, Arya didn’t put her full strength into the effort. It wasn’t a serious fight, just a heated scuffle between two girls. Myrcella, however, was giving it everything she had to hold Arya back. The two of them ended up wrestling awkwardly in the doorway, pushing and pulling without any clear winner.

Their commotion soon drew the ire of the room’s third occupant.

Sansa, who had been lying in bed with a pillow over her head, finally sat up with an exasperated groan. “Arya! Can you stop causing trouble in the middle of the night?!”

Her shout was punctuated by two thunderous explosions outside. The walls of the keep shuddered slightly, silencing all three girls.

Forgetting their argument, they scrambled to the window. Pulling aside the wooden shutters, they stared out into the night.

From their vantage point, they couldn’t see the breached gates or the advancing torch-lit columns of Aegor’s army. But they could see the chaos within the castle—guards running through the streets, firelight reflecting off their weapons, the unextinguished flames still consuming the stables. Smoke billowed into the sky, illuminated by the flickering firelight, casting an ominous glow over Winterfell.

Sansa gasped, covering her mouth with trembling hands as tears welled in her eyes. “The rebels… they’re attacking!”

“Don’t be afraid,” Myrcella said softly, trying to comfort her. “Robb will push them back. Look—he’s already sending men to the gates.”

Her words were calm, but her thoughts were anything but. The timing of the Gift army’s attack was so perfectly synchronized with her fire that it couldn’t have been a coincidence. But what kind of weapon had caused those explosions? And could Aegor truly protect the Starks, as he had promised?

Myrcella’s gaze lingered on the chaotic scene outside. She prayed that Aegor hadn’t lied to her—that this truly was the best way to save the Starks. Otherwise, no matter how many times she tried to justify her actions, she would never wash away her guilt.

A sound from behind her broke her thoughts. Turning, she saw Arya crouched by the bed, rummaging for something.

“What are you doing now?” Myrcella asked, exasperated.

Arya stood up, brandishing a small, slender sword. “Needle,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “If he dares to attack Winterfell, I’ll… I’ll stab him through the heart!”

Her hands trembled as she gripped the hilt tightly, tears glistening in her fierce, defiant eyes.