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Chapter 525
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 17:19:56 +0000 UTCIt must be admitted, the speed and decisiveness with which the girl drew her sword truly startled Aegor. He nearly followed through with his initial plan after surveying the room—to leap back toward the table, using the furniture as cover to evade Arya's attack. Fortunately, the most intense scenario did not unfold. Arya did not charge at him with Needle in hand. Instead, she stood by the bed, holding the small sword level with its tip pointed at him, tears welling up in her eyes as she gritted her teeth and spat out, "Leave Winterfell with all your lackeys, and I’ll believe you did this to protect me... If you can’t do that, then shut up and get out of my room!"
Her tone was firm, her stance resolute, and the glint of the small sword was undeniably intimidating. Yet, Aegor, who was now being pointed at by Needle, knew that the most dangerous moment had already passed. The moment Arya drew Needle but did not immediately thrust it toward him, she had already lost the resolve to kill him. The situation might have looked dire, but Aegor’s earlier words had undoubtedly had some effect. Now, it was time to press the advantage and tear down her last defenses.
"Arya, I know you won’t hurt me, just as I won’t hurt you," Aegor said with a slightly stern expression, his words laced with strong implications. He took a deep breath and began to walk slowly toward the young swordswoman. "Weapons are for enemies. Put it down. There’s nothing between us that we can’t talk through."
The girl’s expression and movements showed that she was wavering. Now, all he needed was the courage to step forward. With the help of the "Dragon’s Majesty," which he had already begun to master, Aegor was fifty percent confident that he could disarm Arya without a scratch.
As for the other fifty percent? No need to panic. His vital areas were protected by a set of armor hidden beneath his coat. Arya’s strength, far inferior to that of a man, combined with the ordinary steel of Needle, would never penetrate it. If she aimed for his neck or lower body, he would dodge; if she struck his chest or abdomen, he would take the hit and then seize the sword. Given that he was a head taller than her, the latter scenario was more likely. In this timeline, the little she-wolf had not undergone the professional assassin training of the House of Black and White in Braavos. Neither her mental nor physical prowess was that of a killer, and he was not her sworn enemy. There was no need to be overly nervous!
With this self-encouragement, Aegor slowly but resolutely approached the girl. As the distance between them closed, Arya, who had already lost most of her killing intent, felt an indescribable aura of authority pressing down on her as the man’s tall figure loomed closer. Despite being the one holding the weapon, she found herself retreating step by step, her hand trembling as she gripped the sword.
"I told you not to come closer!" she shouted, her voice fierce but her resolve faltering. She gripped the sword with both hands to steady its shaking. "Don’t think I... won’t stab you!"
"Arya, put the sword down," Aegor repeated in a calm, commanding tone, slowing his pace and spreading his hands to show he meant no harm. He backed her against the wall and, with two fingers of his right hand, carefully pinched the slightly trembling tip of Needle. Seizing the opportunity, he grasped the sword firmly, fully taking control of the situation.
......
The hard, reliable support of the windowsill and wall behind her made it clear that she couldn’t retreat any further. Watching helplessly as Aegor gripped the tip of Needle and began to pull it away, Arya reluctantly admitted that this infuriating man had once again completely outmaneuvered her. For a brief moment, she considered giving up and letting him disarm her. But just as Needle was about to slip from her grasp, a stubborn, irrational thought surged within her.
Even if I don’t take your life, I’ll at least make you suffer! Let this bastard know that attacking Winterfell comes with a price!
Seeing that Needle would be wrested from her in half a second, she turned her head, closed her eyes, and with all her strength, yanked the sword back from Aegor’s grip. Then, relying on instinct, she blindly thrust it toward what she guessed was his arm or shoulder!
"Ow!" Aegor let out a low cry of pain as he swiftly disarmed her.
He had been on guard for any sudden moves from the girl after gripping the sword’s tip, so he had deliberately angled it toward his chest armor. Arya’s final thrust was indeed blocked by the sturdy iron plate... but the sideways force from her sudden change of target had, in a split second, pierced through Aegor’s hand.
A sharp, searing pain shot through his palm. This was the third time since entering this world—after "fighting for his life against the White Walkers" and "escaping the assassins sent by Janos Slynt"—that Aegor had been genuinely injured. And now, it was at the hands of this little girl!
With Needle now in his left hand, ensuring Arya couldn’t reclaim it, Aegor finally turned his attention to the wound on his right hand. The tip of Needle, as sharp as any real needle, had pierced the edge of his palm between the ring and little fingers, not only tearing through flesh but also grazing the fifth metacarpal bone before exiting the ulnar side of his hand, where it was finally stopped by the armor... The injured periosteum throbbed painfully, and the small amount of fluid leaking from the two puncture wounds left half his hand drenched in blood.
"You... I told you not to come closer!" Arya opened her eyes again to see the first blood ever drawn by her little sword since its forging. Though she was somewhat afraid of how the man might react, she refused to back down. "Serves you right!"
While it was frustrating to have been injured while trying to calm a girl who had once shared his bed, this outcome wasn’t entirely unexpected. In fact, in some ways... it might even work in his favor for repairing his relationship with Arya and the Starks. Look, Starks, your daughter stabbed me, and I’m not even retaliating. Isn’t that enough to show my sincerity and goodwill?
Of course, Needle wasn’t poisoned, but just as Aegor wiped the blood with his coat and prepared to continue soothing Arya, a strange transformation suddenly occurred within him.
The Rh’llor’s scale embedded in his chest, which had gradually fused with his sternum and become almost unnoticeable, seemed to sense its host’s injury. Without warning, it began to make its presence known, heating up to an uncomfortable degree and, as if squeezing out two drops of molten lava, sent two streams of heat—one rushing down his right arm toward the injured hand, the other surging upward into his head.
The wound from the sword was soothed by the warm, flowing sensation, the pain subsiding and the bleeding stopping. But the heat that flooded his mind felt like he had just eaten a large dollop of mustard, filling his skull with an indescribable rage and bloodlust that threatened to drown his rationality.
What’s going on? Does the Rh’llor’s scale have a healing magic to protect its bearer? Or... does it have its own temper, becoming enraged when its host is injured, urging retaliation and self-preservation?
If so, then the value of this Red God’s gift had just skyrocketed!
......
Before he could think further, the door burst open with a bang as the guards, having heard his cry of pain, rushed in. "My lord?"
"It’s nothing. Out, and close the door!" Aegor quickly waved the guards away, suppressing the turbulent emotions surging from the scale in his chest. He forced a smile, tossed the bloodied sword onto the bed, and continued to approach Arya, extending his uninjured left hand—intending to pull her into an embrace. "Now, can we talk?"
"Say what you have to say, but don’t touch me!"
Contrary to his expectations, this gesture of goodwill wasn’t enough to soothe the resentment born of betrayal in the Stark girl. She twisted her shoulders to break free of his hand, then shoved his chest hard, only to discover the secret beneath his clothes. "You... you’re wearing armor to see me?! Ugh, get away from me, don’t touch me!"
The anger that had mostly subsided flared up again as she realized Aegor’s confidence stemmed from his hidden protection. If a few seconds ago her resistance to his touch had been half-hearted, now she was genuinely furious, unwilling to let him near her. Aegor’s attempt to embrace her was like grabbing a bristling cat—there was no tender reconciliation, only a flurry of punches and scratches. While the chest armor shielded him from the worst of it, the unprotected parts of his face stung from the blows...
Given that he was the one at fault, Aegor wasn’t about to lose his temper over a few scratches or slaps. But this time, he had to focus on the wound from the sword and suppress the anger surging from the scale in his chest. He had little patience left to deal with Arya’s stubbornness and tantrums. Moreover, with each new red mark or scratch on his face, the scale in his chest would heat up, sending another wave of heat through him. Finally, after taking a solid slap to the nose, the amplified rage overwhelmed his reason.
"Enough, calm down!" he growled in a low voice.
"Get out!" The little she-wolf wasn’t intimidated in the slightest, even swinging another slap his way.
But her arm was caught mid-air by Aegor’s left hand, his grip ironclad. His eyes blazing red, his right hand—now no longer bleeding—rose uncontrollably.
If this slap were to land on the Stark girl’s face, all his previous efforts would be for nothing. Reason managed to put the brakes on his loss of control at the last moment. The raised hand paused in mid-air, then changed direction and force as it descended, landing with a sharp "smack" on the girl’s backside.
"Ow!" Arya jumped at the impact, her fury reignited. Without backing down, she escalated her retaliation, biting down hard on Aegor’s left hand, which was still gripping her arm. Taking advantage of his momentary pain, she broke free and lunged toward Needle, now lying on the other side of the bed, intent on reclaiming her weapon and restarting her "assassination plan."
But she didn’t get her way. The bite had been the final straw for Aegor, who had come with good intentions and careful plans only to be humiliated and injured by her. No longer holding back, and with the heat from the scale in his chest flooding his mind, he made a quick judgment in his brief state of "Dragon’s Wrath": if he didn’t deal with this brat thoroughly today, he wouldn’t be able to get anything done during his stay in Winterfell.
Arya, who had almost reached Needle, suddenly felt a powerful force yank her back. Aegor, influenced by the Rh’llor’s gift, was faster and stronger than usual. He grabbed her clothes and dragged her back, then, before she could react, seized her arms and twisted them behind her back. Sitting down on the bed, he pulled her face-down across his knees, one hand pinning her arms while the other rose and fell in rapid succession..., delivering a series of harsh spanks to the young lady’s backside.
This time, he held nothing back. The sharp, stinging blows had Arya crying out for her mother, but even then, she refused to submit. Wriggling like a worm, she tried to bite his thigh and, in a brief moment of struggle, managed to free her arms from his grip.
But her fleeting freedom was short-lived. Aegor stopped spanking her and, with both hands working in unison, quickly twisted her arms back into place. Then, in one swift motion, he drew a small dagger from his belt—slicing through Arya’s waistband, pulling out the cloth strip, and using it to tightly bind her slender wrists together. With that done, he yanked down her pants.
Since overthrowing the former commander of the City Watch, Aegor’s life had been far removed from such chaotic, unplanned moments. But now, this little she-wolf had driven him to the brink of madness... How far should he go? How would he handle the aftermath? He couldn’t think clearly about such questions now, his mind clouded by the rage surging through him. All he could process was simple logic: if spanking over the pants wasn’t enough, then he’d do it bare. He refused to believe this little girl was made of steel!
