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Chapter 560
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 17:35:32 +0000 UTCIf everything went smoothly, the second announcement to the Gifted Lands army would be simple: “The Lord Commander is safe. The earlier alarm was a false alarm. Everyone, return to your beds and rest.”
But no such miraculous resolution appeared in the ancient, wind-battered castle that night. Instead, Daenerys Targaryen herself arrived at the camp. The only hiccup came at the door to Aegor’s room, where tension between the Gifted Lands guards and the Unsullied escorting Daenerys briefly flared. The sentries, nervous and protective, refused to allow the Unsullied inside. After a brief but tense standoff, the situation was resolved by Daenerys herself, who agreed to compromise: she would enter with her handmaid and two Unsullied, while the Gifted Lands guards could appoint two of their own to accompany her.
If the worst-case scenario unfolded, however, the Gifted Lands command would declare that “the poisoning was orchestrated by the queen’s camp” and use it as an excuse to launch a betrayal and mutiny that would shock all Seven Kingdoms and the Narrow Sea. The resulting chaos would rival, if not exceed, the infamy of the Red Wedding.
Daenerys was jolted from her thoughts by Melisandre’s steady, urgent voice. “Your Grace, I must remind you that the longer the Lord Commander remains in his coma, the greater the likelihood of irreversible damage. Whether to save him or not, you must decide quickly. If you choose not to, I urge you to leave Winterfell immediately. But if you choose to proceed with the blood magic, we must begin now. Delay, and the chance to save him may slip through our fingers.”
Aegor, feigning unconsciousness on the bed, listened intently. Despite his confidence in Daenerys’s regard for him, he dared not take risks. His plan was calculated to stir her emotions, playing on her fears of failure and loss while giving her every possible reason to save him.
Daenerys’s thoughts inevitably turned to her first husband, Khal Drogo. He, too, had been near death, brought back from the brink by blood magic—only to be left a shell of his former self. The price of that spell, her unborn son, was one she had paid in ignorance. And in the end, she had been forced to suffocate Drogo herself, an act that left her with scars far deeper than those on her body. Even years later, she would wake from nightmares of that moment, her face wet with tears and her body drenched in cold sweat.
“Will this magic succeed?” she asked, her voice strained. “Can you guarantee his survival?”
“There’s a ninety percent chance,” Melisandre replied candidly, her expression serious. “But I must be honest—due to the time that’s already passed, there’s a possibility of complications. He may survive but suffer memory loss, reduced intelligence, or even remain in a permanent vegetative state.”
At this, Qyburn leaned in close to Daenerys, lowering his voice. “Your Grace, you should not worry overly much. The Lord Commander’s reputation alone will deter the wildlings from acting out. Even if his mind is damaged or he never wakes, his mere survival will serve as a powerful symbol. You can announce that his recovery is only a matter of time and use the opportunity to consolidate control over the Gifted Lands forces. You’ll have time to decide whether to disband them, send them back beyond the Wall, or integrate their leaders into your fold.”
Daenerys gripped Aegor’s icy hand tightly as her conflicted thoughts swirled. She glanced at his pale, lifeless face. It felt strange how someone she hadn’t known for long could already feel so familiar, so important. She closed her eyes, steeling herself for what was to come.
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Orders rippled outward from Harvy, who relayed them with precision from the Lord Commander’s room. Across Winterfell, soldiers in the Gifted Lands army were shaken awake and began silently arming themselves. Harvy’s voice echoed with urgency: the fate of their leader, and possibly their queen, was at stake.
Meanwhile, Daenerys made her decision. Rising from her seat beside Aegor’s bed, she turned to Melisandre. In the flickering firelight, her face was resolute. “If there is no time to waste, then begin immediately.”
Melisandre nodded, her expression unreadable. “As you command.”
Harvy dropped to his knees, armor clinking loudly in the sudden silence. “Your Grace, please save the Lord Commander! If he survives, the Gifted Lands forces will forever remember your mercy and repay it with unwavering loyalty and courage!”
Daenerys didn’t acknowledge the gesture, nor did she move to lift Harvy to his feet. Instead, she returned her gaze to Aegor. Her mind wrestled with the implications of her decision. She was no stranger to sacrifice—she had given up so much to reach this point. But this time, it was her blood being offered, and the stakes were higher than ever.
----
In the end, the Red Priestess’s spell began with Daenerys seated by Aegor’s side, gripping his hand as though her touch alone could anchor him to the world of the living. As Melisandre prepared the ritual, the room fell into a heavy, expectant silence.
For Aegor, who had orchestrated this elaborate deception to protect his position, the stakes had never been higher. Every aspect of his plan had gone according to script, but as Daenerys committed to saving him, he couldn’t help but feel the crushing weight of what he had set in motion. Whatever happened next would decide his fate—and perhaps the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.
