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Chapter 713
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 19:37:19 +0000 UTCMyrcella realized her mistake the moment the words left her mouth. She instinctively wanted to cover it up, to smooth things over, but she hadn’t expected Aegor to react so quickly—or so strongly. She tensed, shrinking back slightly, and obediently stopped what she was doing. Circling around the sofa, she hesitated before carefully gathering the hem of her gown and lowering herself into a seat, tentative and wary.
The sofa was meant to comfortably seat two, yet even with an extra person, there was still plenty of room. Aegor glanced sideways, amused—Myrcella was barely perching on the edge, as if afraid to truly sit down.
“What’s wrong? Afraid you’ll break something that belongs to House Hightower?” he asked, laughing. Without hesitation, he reached over, an arm looping around her waist as he pulled her backward, pressing her more firmly into the seat. “If I tell you to sit, then sit properly. No need to be so polite.”
That was all it took for Myrcella to lose her precarious balance and properly settle into the sofa. The natural curve of the cushions caused her to shift slightly toward him, and she could feel the faint warmth of his body through the fabric of his clothes. Aegor, enhanced by the Lord of Light’s gift, radiated more heat than most, and for someone as unaccustomed to physical contact as Myrcella, the sensation left her utterly rigid.
“I… I wasn’t worried about that. It’s just… my lord spends all day laboring over matters of state. If even your rest is something you must share with others, then…”
“Enough,” Aegor cut her off, his earlier sharpness fading as he returned to his usual, easygoing tone. “I know my own limits better than anyone. Let’s put it this way—I've never felt stronger, more energetic, or more alive than I do now.”
It wasn’t empty reassurance. Beyond the thrill of victory and the subtle strengthening effect of the dragon scale, there was something else. The current situation he found himself in was challenging, yet not overwhelmingly so. A high-stakes game, but one without immediate danger. Tense, yet exhilarating. Demanding, yet manageable.
And that, for someone like him, was the ideal state to be in.
“But what about you?” Aegor shifted the conversation. “A young girl like yourself, choosing to follow a war host on campaign… it can’t have been easy for you. I’ve been too busy to check in—how have you been holding up? Any struggles? Anything I can help with?”
“No, no, nothing like that! I’ve completely adapted to following you,” Myrcella answered quickly, shaking her head like a little drum. Realizing that sounded dismissive, she hurriedly added, “Traveling at your side, I’ve seen the lands beyond castle walls, witnessed great historical moments, and learned more than I ever dreamed possible. My knowledge and experience have grown far beyond what they once were… and most importantly, I can finally breathe the free air beyond the Red Keep! I’m happier now than I ever was in King’s Landing or Winterfell.”
She spoke too quickly, too earnestly. It was enthusiasm, but also carelessness. Myrcella instantly regretted her words. Worse yet, she noticed that Aegor’s arm, the one that had drawn her in, still rested lightly behind her back. It didn’t move, didn’t press, didn’t tighten, but the awareness of it made her flush. The heat in her face spread, her mind stalled, and even her usually sharp tongue felt clumsy.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Aegor smiled, nodding slightly. “But, Myr—Myrcella. With the conquest drawing to a close, governance must now begin. As both Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and Hand of the Queen, I’ll be busier than ever. And that means your workload as my assistant will increase significantly.”
He pinched her arm lightly, then ran his fingers over the curve of her shoulder, as if gauging her frame. “Do you think you can handle it?”
Myrcella’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. Whether it was from his touch or the implications of his words, even she wasn’t sure. “I can! I have absolute confidence in my ability to manage your affairs, ensure the smooth running of all your duties, and shield you from any unnecessary disruptions.”
Aegor chuckled. “Your confidence is admirable. But—” He didn’t continue his teasing gestures, instead resting his hands on her shoulders as he met her gaze, choosing his words carefully. “I am very satisfied with your work. However, you are still a young woman. Putting you in such an exhausting and critical role—one that treats you more like a beast of burden than a proper assistant—feels rather… inhumane. More importantly, this role requires stability.”
“I can endure hardship!” Myrcella interrupted, suddenly anxious. The more she listened, the more she felt something was wrong. Was he about to dismiss her? Just for an offhanded remark?
“Calm down.” Aegor patted her back lightly in reassurance. “I’m not replacing you. I merely have an idea: I plan to split the role. Two positions—one assistant to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and one assistant to the Hand of the Queen. Dividing the workload, ensuring stability, and providing backup for emergencies.”
Myrcella stiffened. The White Walkers were gone. What workload could possibly justify an assistant for the Night’s Watch?
“These two positions aren’t even remotely the same!” she blurted, growing uncharacteristically serious. She had already lost so much—her name, her place, her identity. But this role, this work, was her anchor. She wasn’t like Arya Stark, who had years of companionship and deep-rooted ties with Aegor. She couldn’t just pout and expect indulgence. Instead, she had to fight for her place. “If you insist on creating another position, then let me be your Hand’s assistant!”
Aegor sighed. “Listen, girl. In principle, I’d love to grant your request. But this is a position that demands stability. And like it or not, as a woman, you will inevitably be affected by—”
“I have never fallen ill in my life!” Myrcella shot back immediately, ignoring the embarrassment of discussing such things with a man. “My lord, no matter how you phrase it, you still don’t fully trust me. You still see me as a Lannister at heart. What must I do to shed my lineage? How can I prove myself worthy of the same trust you give Nina?”
Aegor remained silent.
There is nothing you can do, he thought. As long as Tyrion still considered her family, she would always be a Lannister. And even Nina had earned his trust through action, through undeniable achievements—and through a certain… private arrangement that was better left unspoken.
But he didn’t say any of that aloud.
Aegor wasn’t blind. He knew that if both his Hand’s assistant and his Master of Coin came from the Westerlands, it would skew the balance of power in Daenerys’ court. While their interests currently aligned, making immediate action unnecessary, it was still a factor he had to consider.
“I’ll go to Lady Melisandre right now!” Myrcella abruptly stood, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I’ll take a sacred vow before R’hllor—I’ll swear never to marry, never to bear children, and devote my entire life to the Lord of Light. If I become a priestess, I’ll no longer be a Lannister. I’ll no longer have any family obligations. I’ll belong only to you.”
Aegor blinked.
…Was that even an option?
A Westerosi nun?
For some reason, an unrelated historical figure flashed through his mind—Wu Zetian, the Tang Dynasty empress, who had first been sent to a monastery before later seizing power.
The golden-haired girl before him was delicate and charming, an easy object of sympathy. But then again, had anyone suspected that young Wu Zhao would one day become China’s only female emperor?
Before he could finish the thought, Myrcella turned, ready to leave.
“Wait, wait—” Aegor instinctively reached out, grabbing her wrist and yanking her back down onto the sofa. “There’s no need for that! I was just having a casual conversation with you, discussing workload distribution. No need to be so hasty! If you can guarantee stability, then I won’t make any immediate changes. Happy?”
He sighed.
He had only intended to give her a final chance to reconsider her place. Instead, he had nearly driven her into religious seclusion.
Before he could say more, a voice shouted from outside.
“Lord Hand! We’ve found someone in one of the guest chambers—he claims to be of House Redwyne and insists on meeting you. What are your orders?”
