Chapter 567

If watching people leave was called "seeing them off," then what Aegor had been doing most frequently as of late was probably best described as hearing them off.

Lying in bed with his eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness, his hearing had become his primary sense. He remained utterly still, listening as the room emptied—footsteps fading, the door creaking open, the cold wind rushing in, the distant bickering of the Stark children—until, as always, the sequence ended with the solid bang of the door shutting. Only then did he slowly open his eyes.

To prevent visitors from accidentally discovering the truth, Aegor had taken precautions. He had ordered Harwin to enforce strict regulations—anyone entering had to schedule their visit in advance and undergo inspection. Additionally, he set a personal rule: wait a full minute after the last person leaves before getting up. That way, if a visitor unexpectedly returned—having forgotten something, or on a whim—the guards at the door would stop them long enough for him to slip back into bed unnoticed.

Fifty-nine… sixty. Time’s up.

He let out a long breath, stretched his back, swung his legs over the bed, stepped into his slippers, and stood up with a deep, satisfying stretch—

And then he saw the girl standing at the door.

Myrcella was turned toward the exit, one hand resting on the doorknob, caught in the exact moment of departure—yet at the last second, something had given her pause. Her head had turned back toward him, her body stiff, lips slightly parted in silent surprise. Her wide, clear eyes, filled with innocence and astonishment, blinked up at him like a startled doe.

For a moment, the air itself seemed to freeze.

Their eyes met, holding for two seconds. Aegor, mid-stretch, slowly lowered his arms. Then, without a word, he raised both hands in a silent gesture—stay quiet. Keeping his steps light, he moved toward her, closing the distance between them one careful step at a time.

One meter away.

Then, like a mantis striking prey, his arms lashed out.

Before Myrcella could scream, before she could even think to scream, he had seized her—one hand clamped around her waist, the other covering her mouth. In a swift, practiced motion, he pulled her against him, muffling any chance of an outcry.

Like a kidnapper dragging off a hostage, he hauled her away from the door, deeper into the room, far from the exit. Only then did his body begin to relax—if only slightly.

He was shaking. Not from fear, but from sheer adrenaline. Anyone would have been startled to find an uninvited guest suddenly in their supposedly empty room, but for him, this was worse than a mere shock—this was a potential disaster. The moment their eyes had met, the only thought left in his mind had been: Shit!

Everything he had just done—the abrupt lunge, the physical restraint, the near-instinctive silencing of her—had been performed with his mind in total blankness, driven purely by instinct. Only now, with the immediate threat contained, did rational thought begin to creep back in.

"Don’t scream," he ordered, voice low and firm. "If you understand, nod."

Myrcella, trembling in his grip like a kitten caught in a wolf’s jaws, hesitated—then nodded, fervently, desperately.

Only then did he cautiously remove his hand from her mouth.

"Why are you still here!?" he hissed.

"I... I was leaving," she stammered, her voice shaky, either from fear or from the contagious tremor of his own body pressed against hers. "But... the guard shut the door..."

"And it took you this long to open it?"

"No, I… I don’t know what I was thinking. I just… stood there for a bit."

She was trembling harder now, her voice carrying the faintest hint of a sob.

That was when Aegor realized something—his other hand. His left hand.

In the heat of the moment, as his right hand had silenced her, his left had wrapped around her throat.

His gaze flickered down.

Her neck, pale as snow, was slender and delicate—the kind of elegant, graceful neck one might call a swan’s neck. It was warm beneath his fingers, impossibly soft, fragile. All it would take was the slightest bit of pressure.

A simple squeeze, and it would snap.

Muscle memory, his mind supplied. His body had already offered him the safest solution: Kill her.

Dead girls don’t talk. One quick squeeze, then stage a fall—a tragic accident, a misplaced step leading to a fatal tumble down the stairs. It would be a hassle explaining her death to the Starks, but it would ensure his secret remained buried.

That was the smart choice. The ruthless choice.

The choice a true schemer—a true power—would make.

But did he have the stomach for it?

He hesitated.

She felt it.

His grip hadn’t loosened.

Myrcella, her legs weak, regretted everything. A tiny mistake—an innocent accident—had, in mere moments, escalated into a life-threatening crisis.

She had realized the danger the moment she saw Aegor rise from the bed. She had known, instantly, that she had stumbled upon something she was never meant to see.

She hadn’t run because running would have been the worst mistake of all.

Had she fled, she would have forced his hand. He would have chased her down, and there was no one in Winterfell capable of stopping him.

And so, she had stayed. Hoped that her old connection with him, her past friendship, might spare her.

Now, she saw how naive that had been.

The man before her was not the same one she had once known. The man who had risen from a mere soldier to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, to the ruler of the Gifted, was no ordinary leader. He was a man who survived—and those who survived in Westeros did so because they knew when to cut off loose ends.

Her.

She was the loose end.

And if she wanted to live, she had one chance to convince him to spare her.

"Aegor… please," she whispered, teeth chattering from fear. "It’s me."

She forced herself to hold his gaze, despite the crushing weight of his hand on her throat. "The poisoner is dead. He killed himself in the dungeon. You’re safe now. So… can you… let go?"

Aegor blinked.

What?

For a split second, his thoughts scrambled.

And then, like a bolt of lightning, he understood.

It was the classic question: If a hotel worker accidentally walked in on a female guest while she was bathing, what should he say?

"I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t see anything."
Wrong. That only implied he had seen something.

The correct response was: "Apologies, sir, I didn’t mean to disturb you."

Myrcella was playing the same game.

She was pretending to be clueless. Pretending she hadn’t realized the truth. Pretending she believed he had simply awakened from his coma.

All in a desperate bid to save herself.

She was smart. Courageous, too.

But intelligence and bravery were only virtues when they didn’t put her at odds with him. Right now, she was a liability. She had stumbled upon the truth. She held the power to expose him.

So—should he be merciful and risk his own downfall?

Or should he end her, the way he had ended countless