Chapter 553

What Aegor wore was none other than the magical necklace that Melisandre always kept around her neck, never parting with it. The previous night, he had confirmed with the Red Priestess that the necklace granted its wearer immunity to poison, and with the authority of R’hllor’s chosen, he had “borrowed” it by force—using it as his assurance when drinking the poisoned wine.

The necklace worked as intended. Its central gem radiated intense heat as it neutralized the poison, feeling like molten water poured onto his skin. The temperature rose to such extremes that Aegor half-expected the gem to shatter from the strain. But while the gem burned, it was merely an external accessory. Aegor, having grown significantly more tolerant of high temperatures, could endure it without issue.

The true torment lay in the gift hidden beneath his skin: the scale of R’hllor embedded in his chest. Unlike the necklace, the scale wasn’t merely scalding—it was trapped within his flesh, radiating heat that had nowhere to escape. The result was a searing pain that felt as though a piece of red-hot iron had been pressed into his chest. The mutation was so agonizing that Aegor could faintly hear the sound of his blood boiling and could almost smell the scorched flesh.

This intense pain conveyed two truths: first, the poison provided by Qyburn was devastatingly lethal; second, the scale of R’hllor also possessed a potent detoxification spell, one that seemed far superior to the magic of Melisandre’s necklace.

It made sense. A deity like R’hllor, who had lived for centuries or longer, would naturally provide gifts and protections for a chosen emissary far greater than what an ordinary priestess could wield.

The poison’s insidious nature became clear: it caused no immediate pain, allowing its victims to die swiftly and silently. This created a strange scene—two poisoned men collapsed dead with unnerving simplicity, while the only survivor writhed in agony, consumed by the heat of magical detoxification. His face contorted with pain, and his trembling hands tugged at his collar, pulling it down to inspect the scale’s location.

The area around the scale, embedded in the flat of his sternum, was bright red and scorching to the touch. Yet, despite its fiery appearance, his skin showed no actual burn injuries. It was unclear whether the pain was exaggerated by his heightened senses or if the scale was simultaneously repairing the damage caused by the poison.

As much as Aegor wanted to carve the scale out of his flesh to end the torment, his survival depended on it. He dared not tamper with the scale, nor did he remove the necklace borrowed from Melisandre. Even though it was unlikely the poison could overwhelm the scale’s magic, he wasn’t foolish enough to gamble his life when two safeguards were better than one.

The sight of Varys and Petyr Baelish collapsing within seconds of each other had been so shockingly effective that, even though Aegor knew he hadn’t been poisoned, he still had to grip the table for support as he rose to his feet. Slowly, he straightened his back, testing his balance. Feeling no lingering effects, he cautiously approached the two fallen men.

Hand on the hilt of his sword, Aegor leaned down to check for signs of life. Both were utterly still—no heartbeat, no breathing. Only when he was certain did he let out a relieved sigh and step back to survey the scene.

Before him lay the corpses of two of Daenerys Targaryen’s most influential advisors—the Master of Whisperers and the Hand of the Queen. These were men whose cunning could alter the course of history, men who had manipulated the politics of Westeros for years. Now, they were nothing more than lifeless bodies on the cold floor, their scheming silenced forever.

Once, Aegor had been a nobody—a minor figure scrambling to survive, hesitant to even interact with major players in the story, let alone challenge them. He had to plan meticulously and risk everything just to deal with secondary characters.

Now, he had become a force to be reckoned with—a man whose actions could shake the Seven Kingdoms. With a flick of his wrist, he had eliminated two of the most dangerous individuals in the realm.

Of course, such thoughts were an exaggeration, but the rush of adrenaline from his boldest move yet filled him with a sense of triumph. He had successfully taken the first, most dangerous step in his plan to consolidate power. But the real challenge lay ahead—navigating the consequences of his actions and ensuring that his role in the deaths of Varys and Petyr remained hidden.

The cryptic statements he had made before their deaths were not merely for show. They had been calculated to raise the victims’ heart rates, ensuring that the poison spread quickly through their systems. Still, finishing his speech midway had been unsatisfying. For the sake of his own peace of mind, and to give his victims a final answer, Aegor decided to complete the act.

“Dead men need no speeches, so I’ll keep this brief,” he said, his voice steady despite the lingering heat radiating from his chest.

A faint stench began to fill the room—a mixture of food, wine, and… something else. Judging by the smell, one of the corpses had lost control of their bowels in death. Ignoring the odor, Aegor set about cleaning up the scene.

“Yes, I found you two obstructive. That’s why I wanted you gone from the Queen’s side,” he continued, unbuckling his sword belt and hanging it neatly on a rack against the wall. “But you would never resign willingly, nor would the Queen allow it. Even if she did, you’d simply continue scheming elsewhere, disrupting her reign from afar.”

He poured the water in Varys’s goblet into the fireplace and refilled it with poisoned wine, creating the illusion that Varys had switched back to drinking wine before his death. The Master of Whisperers had insisted on switching to water after his first glass, citing his delicate stomach, and Aegor had allowed it. But leaving the water untouched would raise questions during any investigation.

“After much deliberation, I made a difficult decision: to send you both to a place where you could no longer interfere with the Queen’s plans.”

Having adjusted the positions of the chairs and inspected the room for any inconsistencies, Aegor returned to his seat, gripping the chair’s backrest as he delivered the final word.

“Hell.”

With that, Aegor tipped over the chair. The crash echoed loudly, drawing the attention of those outside the room. Taking a deep breath, he bolted for the door, throwing it open and stumbling into the cold air beyond.

A group of soldiers—his men from the Gift and a handful of Unsullied—turned toward him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and alarm.

“Milord?” one of them asked hesitantly.

Aegor didn’t respond. Instead, he clutched the wall for support, bent over, and shoved two fingers down his throat, triggering his gag reflex. He vomited violently, the sound startling those around him.

Moments later, four Unsullied rushed into the room, drawn by the commotion.

“Poison… in the food,” Aegor gasped between retches. “Seal the castle… detain everyone who… had access to the kitchen…”

He heaved again, spewing another wave of vomit before collapsing to the ground, his voice fading as he gave his final order.

“Get… Qyburn… and Melisandre… to save me…”

With that, his eyes rolled back, and he fell face-first into his