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Chapter 559
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 17:35:09 +0000 UTCHe couldn’t open his eyes, so he didn’t see who was approaching, but given that only two outsiders had entered the room, it wasn’t hard to guess.
Sure enough, soft, hurried breathing laced with tension reached his ears as a small, smooth hand touched his face. It tentatively poked here, prodded there, and even pinched his nose, as if testing whether he was real. Then the hand moved downward, slipping under the blanket, feeling his arm briefly before shifting to his chest. After pressing lightly for a few seconds to confirm his unnaturally slow heartbeat, it withdrew reluctantly.
Was that all? Had he managed to fool her?
Aegor had just started to feel relief when, without warning, the hand returned. This time it moved decisively, slipping under the blanket with a clear and singular purpose.
Though his body was paralyzed, his unimpeded nerve endings faithfully transmitted every sensation to his brain. Instantly, his hair felt like it was standing on end.
No matter his outward demeanor or the weight of his station, at the end of the day, Aegor was still a man. And under such unanticipated circumstances, it was impossible not to feel tense.
What was this girl planning to do? Was she trying to test if he was truly unconscious?
Didn’t she know that reflexive responses could be both psychological and involuntary? Even a person in deep sleep or a coma could sometimes react. It was hardly a foolproof method to determine if someone was faking!
Wait… expecting such nuanced knowledge from a native of this world—especially one so young—might be asking too much. She probably didn’t know.
That meant he’d have to do everything in his power to suppress his body’s reaction.
Aegor wasn’t a spy or trained agent; he hadn’t learned such esoteric skills. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a hopeless endeavor. But now, with Melisandre’s winter hibernation spell and Qyburn’s paralysis potion coursing through him, his responses were sluggish, his heart rate slowed, and his blood pressure so low that circulation to certain areas was already impaired. With enough willpower, he just might endure until someone intervened.
Within seconds, Aegor had devised a plan. But reality veered far from his expectations.
Missandei’s hand, after briefly pausing, suddenly dove lower, her movements resolute and without hesitation. Before Aegor could mentally brace himself—or ever hope to prepare—her fingers clenched in a merciless grip.
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If pain were rated on a scale from 0 to 10, then depending on an individual’s tolerance, resilience, and mental fortitude, most men would rank this sensation somewhere between “10” and “off the charts, indescribable.”
The sheer density of nerves in that region, combined with its lack of exposure to harsh contact, made the pain both uniquely excruciating and disturbingly unfamiliar. Without specialized training, no one could resist it purely through willpower. The sensation tore through Aegor’s mind like a tidal wave, obliterating rational thought in its wake. Plans to deceive Daenerys? Schemes to unify the Seven Kingdoms? Grand visions of conquest and control? All swept away in an instant, leaving a single, all-consuming truth:
Pain.
His body should have instinctively curled into a ball, his hands clutching his abdomen as he cried out, writhing uncontrollably. Such movements would have shattered his ruse entirely, nullifying all his meticulous preparations and forcing him into his worst-case scenario: abducting Daenerys by force.
But Qyburn’s potion proved its worth. Though it couldn’t fully paralyze, it dulled his movements, rendering them sluggish and weak. The tidal wave of pain that should have been over in half a second was stretched out across several agonizing moments. This slight mitigation was enough to turn what should have been violent thrashing into minor twitches, faint shudders, and subtle leg movements.
Ordinarily, such restraint wouldn’t have been enough to avoid detection. Missandei’s hand was still in contact with him, and she would surely notice even the smallest motion.
Thankfully, Aegor wasn’t alone in this struggle. His allies—standing by his bedside—had no intention of allowing Daenerys’s handmaid to continue her intrusive probing unchecked.
----
While Aegor battled the worst pain of his life, Missandei’s face turned a deep crimson, her heart racing.
Though she had been born a slave, she had never been trained as a bed slave. Her talents had been recognized early, and her former master had raised her as a scribe and translator instead. As a result, this was her first time touching a man’s body in such an intimate and unfiltered way.
But embarrassment wasn’t her primary emotion—fear and anxiety took center stage. She fully understood the risk she was taking. If her suspicions were wrong, she would merely face reprimand for disrespecting the Lord Commander. With Daenerys backing her, she would likely escape any real consequences. But if her suspicions were correct, and Aegor truly was faking, her actions might provoke him into a furious outburst. He could order her immediate execution—and possibly turn his wrath on Daenerys herself.
Releasing her grip, Missandei held her breath and waited for the outcome. But the scene played out far differently than she expected.
Someone did erupt with anger, but it wasn’t Aegor.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” The voice of Harvy, the Unsullied commander assigned to Aegor’s protection, boomed like thunder. The scrape of steel echoed as he unsheathed his sword.
Missandei, who had been holding herself together with fragile courage, was overwhelmed. The sight of a hulking, armed soldier bearing down on her broke her composure entirely. Letting out a startled scream, she stumbled backward. Her heel caught on the chair behind her, and she fell to the ground in an undignified heap.
“What is going on here?” Melisandre’s voice cut through the chaos. She turned toward Harvy, feigning confusion. “Why are you threatening a young girl?”
“You saw what she was doing!” Harvy snarled, pointing his blade at Missandei. “Our Lord Commander is gravely ill, and her queen couldn’t even come herself. She sent this girl, who had the audacity to… to grope him while he lay defenseless! What kind of behavior is that?!”
“She’s just a girl,” Melisandre replied coldly, stepping between Harvy and Missandei. “Put down your sword.”
“I don’t care! If the Commander dies, what respect I have for you or your magic dies with him. Now, move!”
“And if I don’t?” Melisandre’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. “Would you like to test your steel against my fire?”
Harvy hesitated, his anger momentarily checked by his wariness of the Red Priestess. He stepped back but redirected his fury toward Missandei. “Listen here, you little rat! If you’re so desperate for a man’s touch, go find someone in the camp. But stay away from the Commander!”
Missandei, still sprawled on the ground, was frozen with shock. Fortunately, Qyburn stepped forward, his tone calm and measured as he addressed Harvy. “Enough. The girl meant no harm. She was attempting a medical stimulus—an entirely standard procedure to revive unconscious patients. Now, calm yourself before you do something foolish.”
He extended a hand to Missandei, helping her to her feet while leaning close to whisper. “Get out of here. These men are on edge, and any provocation could push them to violence.”
Missandei nodded shakily, grabbing the arm of the equally stunned healer. Together, they made a hurried retreat, pausing only for Missandei to cast one last glance at the still form of Aegor on the bed before she bolted out the door.
