Chapter 652

Tyrion had never seen Myrcella so fierce, so unrelenting. His brow arched as he realized the past few years had left a deeper mark on the girl than he had anticipated.

Aegor had no doubt Tyrion would fulfill his duty, but he also knew that the little lion’s enthusiasm for the task was now thoroughly drained.

Myrcella’s actions were not merely out of gratitude or excitement. No, she had just spent every ounce of courage and resolve she had accumulated in her fifteen years of life. Her soul had returned to her body, but her limbs felt hollow, devoid of strength. If she weren’t leaning against her uncle, drawing support from his presence, she might have collapsed onto the floor.
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As a girl in this cold and merciless world of men, she had little power to fight against fate.

Myrcella wiped the tears from her cheeks, steeling herself with a voice that willed confidence into existence. “And that sense of security, Uncle—please forgive my bluntness—was not given to me by my parents. Not by my grandfather, who once held all of Westeros in his grip. Not by Lady Stark, though she was kind and protective of me. And you, despite being Lord of Casterly Rock and Master of Coin, cannot give it to me either! Even if this feeling is nothing but an illusion, a dream, I would rather chase it—I would rather stay at Lord Aegor’s side!”

She locked eyes with Tyrion, searching for any sign of disbelief, of rejection. When she found none, she suppressed the grief in her heart, clutched his hand, and turned her gaze toward Aegor, her expression both apologetic and resolute.

“The first two choices you gave me,” she continued, “are not real choices at all. A golden-haired girl, of my age, suddenly appearing at Casterly Rock or at your side, Uncle—do you think no one would notice? Even if everyone who recognizes me holds their tongue, what about those who do not know me? How long before they put the pieces together? And in the Westerlands, on Lannister land, perhaps no one would dare touch me, but—” she took a breath, steadied herself— “for reasons you must understand, Uncle, I do not wish to stay with my mother.

"And as for staying with you… I know you would care for me. I know you would protect me. But what of the whispers? The stares? The Queen’s reaction when she learns that you, my uncle, have taken in an unclaimed Lannister girl? Would she not question your loyalties? Would she not wonder what you plot? I will not be your weakness, Uncle. I will not be the dagger they hold to your throat.”

She sniffled, forcing herself to press on before anyone could interrupt.

“And the last choice—marriage, a quiet life under a false name—if I had wanted that, then three months ago, I would not have begged Lord Aegor to take me from the North. I would have stayed in Winterfell, become ‘Maeve Horwood’ as Lady Stark arranged, and married Laurence. I heard of him—his character, his looks. He was not unbearable.”

At that moment, she realized what she had done—she had just stood her ground against the two most powerful men in Westeros.

She had just defied both the Hand of the Queen and the Lord of Casterly Rock.

“Thank you, Uncle.”

Myrcella’s heart pounded, thudding against her ribs like a war drum. She could feel the blood rushing to her head, burning in her limbs. It was as if something deep inside her had awakened—something fierce, something desperate.
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Tears streaked down her face, and her words spilled out too fast to stop. But in her soul, she felt something break, something that had shackled her for years. She was no longer trembling. No longer hesitating. Even the lump in her throat had vanished.

Tyrion parted his lips to speak—to offer some placating words—but before he could, she flung herself into his arms, clutching him so tightly that he almost lost his breath.
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Myrcella knew why Aegor had made his decision without consulting her. She knew that her outburst was both unreasonable and inappropriate. But she had no choice.

“While I lived in Winterfell, Lady Stark was kind to me. Arya, Sansa—they treated me well. I was not caged. I could step outside whenever I wished, bask in the sun, feel the wind.

“But despite all that, I was still blind. I knew nothing of the world beyond those walls. I was safe, yes—but I was also powerless. I was trapped in a castle surrounded by Northern wilderness, a place where no one truly knew me, where I had no control over my own fate.

“I was like a pet, Uncle. A pet that had to be good, had to be obedient, had to win the favor of the Starks—had to earn every scrap of kindness that was given to me.”

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to finish.

“If you love me, Uncle… then let Myrcella Lannister die. Let her be forgotten. Let there be only Maeve Snow. Let me stay as Lord Aegor’s assistant. Let me be someone who pleases you only as a dear acquaintance of the Hand of the Queen. That way, I can be happy, and you will not be endangered. Is that not the best outcome?”

The two men—one big, one small—remained silent. They did not interrupt. They simply watched, listened, assessed.

Aegor had expected Myrcella to pretend reluctance, to put on a show of hesitation while inwardly rejoicing at the chance to return to her family. But instead, the girl—this delicate little bird—had bared her heart, had made her stand, and had declared that his side was where she belonged.
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“When my father and Uncle Jaime fought their duel, when my father fled King’s Landing, I was dragged through hell. I was locked in Maegor’s Holdfast, then smuggled through the Red Keep like a prisoner. I was stuffed into carts, hidden on ships, dragged through the wilderness to the North. I never knew what was happening, whether I was to live or die.

“The not knowing—that was the worst part.”

If she did not speak now, if she did not fight for her place here, then her fate would be sealed.

She turned to Aegor, fixing him with a pleading gaze.
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She could feel herself floating, as if her consciousness had left her body, as if she were watching a stranger speak through her lips.

This was not true control over her fate—she knew that. But everywhere else, in every other life she could choose, she would have to please everyone. She would have to charm the entire world just to survive.

Only here, at Aegor’s side, did she have to please just one man.

And as long as she was his, she knew—no matter what happened—no one would ever harm her.

Because his wings were vast. His shadow was deep. And he would shield her from it all.

To most men, this would be an insult. To a lesser man, it would wound his pride, perhaps even drive him to rage.

But Tyrion was no ordinary man.

He was the Imp, the little lion, the schemer with no delusions about his own strength. He was not his grandfather. He was not his sister.

And he would not be so easily offended.

He would not resent her for it.

“My dear girl,” Tyrion murmured, voice soft, “is that what you truly want?”

“Yes, Uncle.” She straightened, lifted her chin, and shed the last remnants of her old self. “I have three choices: to return to my mother, to live under your care, or to marry into obscurity.”

She exhaled sharply.

“I choose none of them.”
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Aegor tilted his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

“Well,” he mused, “I can hardly say no, can I?”

He shrugged, the gesture half-hearted, almost amused. “Let her stay a while longer, then. If she ever changes her mind, she is free to leave.”

For now, she had won.

For now, she was exactly where she needed to be.