Melisandre had done countless things to mislead others, but blatant deception, especially malicious deception, was something she had not done for a very long time. When Missandei openly called her out, she was genuinely startled for a brief moment, before relying on the powerful composure forged through unimaginable experience to steady herself.
Not only did she show no guilt, she even narrowed her beautiful eyes and fixed the dark skinned girl with a sharp, threatening gaze. "Little girl, you may eat as you please, but you cannot speak recklessly. What do you mean by 'this is clearly a trap'? Do you understand that you are accusing someone of deceiving the Queen?"
The atmosphere grew even more awkward. As the Queen, Daenerys should have stepped in to smooth things over, but she neither rejected the priestess's proposal nor rebuked the little scribe for her impertinent interruption. Instead, she frowned and remained silent, trapped in a deep dilemma.
Prudence told her that the other side was indeed very likely setting a trap. Reason reminded her that she had no evidence. Yet emotion kept crying out relentlessly. What if, because of a mistaken judgment, her only companion was forced to struggle desperately in the final moments of his life, unable to wait for the life saving true dragon blood, causing her to lose her sole confidant and forever miss the chance to realize her grand ideal of breaking the wheel? She would regret it for the rest of her life.
After struggling for a moment, Daenerys suddenly realized the core of the issue. Was Aegor truly critically poisoned and on the brink of death?
This was something a professional, or at least a careful observer, should be able to determine.
Her royal dignity would not allow her to verify it personally, but sending her subordinates would suffice.
"Lady Melisandre, please forgive Missandei's rudeness. She is still just a child, and she was frightened by what happened to Petyr and Varys." Once she had made up her mind, Daenerys immediately appeared much calmer. "However, blood magic is no ordinary matter. I cannot make a decision on a whim. How about this. I will first send my maester to examine the Lord Commander and confirm that there truly is no other method available, and then I will decide."
"The Gift Army is loyal to you, and it is Your Grace who must bleed for the spell, so naturally the judgment and decision should be yours alone." Melisandre secretly let out a sigh of relief and nodded without changing her expression. "However, there is not much time. I hope your people move quickly."
"Of course." Daenerys smiled and agreed, then raised her voice. "Missandei, go at once and inform Potter. Tell him to immediately take two Unsullied to the Lord Commander's quarters to check on him, and report back to me as soon as possible."
In an instant, Missandei fully understood Daenerys's intent. Sending someone to investigate was indeed more reliable than guessing based on intuition, but people were still people, and where there were people, problems could arise. The Unsullied knew nothing of poisons, and a maester was still a mortal who could be deceived, bribed, or coerced.
Only she herself, meticulous and unwilling to betray the Queen even at the cost of her life, was truly reliable.
She should be the one to go.
However, Missandei immediately thought of another risk. Even if she could not be bribed or deceived, she might be controlled by the priestess's magic, or someone might impersonate her through disguise.
"Your Grace, I will go as well." She leaned close to the Queen's ear and whispered her thoughts. "If I do not return within a quarter of an hour, or if I return but do not speak the agreed signal phrase, you must not hesitate. Withdraw from Winterfell at once under the protection of the Unsullied, Drogon, and Rhaegal, and seek refuge with Lord Bolton."
Daenerys quickly understood. After a moment of hesitation, she grasped Missandei's hand and whispered, "Be careful in everything. Even if you discover something suspicious, do not expose it on the spot. You must return and tell me first."
…
Wrapped in thick winter garments, Missandei and Maester Potter followed the Red Priestess out of the Queen's guest building, heading toward the main camp of the Gift Army on the other side of the castle under the escort of a small group of Unsullied.
The moon was completely obscured by dark clouds, and the wind whistling through the buildings was unusually fierce. Winterfell at midnight was dark and silent, with only the occasional patrol lending a trace of life. After walking nearly a hundred meters through the stinging snow, the group reached their destination.
A full row of guards stood outside the Lord Commander's door. They were fully armed, their numbers greater than usual, their vigilance sharper, and their demeanor colder and stricter than before. Their equipment and bearing seemed to declare that they were facing a formidable enemy. When they saw that Lady Melisandre had brought back only a maid from the Queen's side rather than the Queen herself, they openly muttered their doubts and dissatisfaction.
Despite this, they did not dare stop Melisandre. After stating that Unsullied soldiers were not permitted to enter, and carefully searching the maester, they skipped a further inspection of Missandei under the priestess's guarantee and allowed the three of them inside.
The fire in the hearth burned fiercely, bathing the room in a dim, flickering red glow and making the air stifling and hot. The scent of medicine mixed with a faint sour odor filled the heat, and the sudden warmth made Missandei's eyes sting and blur for a moment after coming in from the cold.
There were no hidden assassins. On the large bed facing the door lay a pale man, motionless. Maester Qyburn, responsible for treating him, sat by the bedside with a helpless expression. Nearby, a spearwife diligently added firewood to the hearth, while a black clad officer paced anxiously back and forth.
No guidance was needed from Melisandre. Maester Potter and Missandei walked straight to the bed and began their respective tasks.
"Maester Qyburn, how is he?"
The man addressed stood up, nodded stiffly to the newcomers, then shook his head with slumped shoulders. As he stepped aside, he tilted his head toward the bed, clearly having nothing to say and inviting the questioner to see for himself.
Potter sat down on Qyburn's stool without ceremony and began examining the man on the bed.
It was indeed the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. This overlord of the Gift, who had been full of vitality just yesterday, now wore a peaceful expression and lay unmoving like a lifeless statue. Beneath the thick quilt covering his chest, even the faint rise and fall of breathing was barely visible. Based on Potter's experience treating the wounded, it was clear that he was on the verge of death, with little hope remaining.
When Potter finally managed to feel the patient's left hand, tucked beneath the quilt at his side, he was startled.
The hand was icy cold. If it had not still been soft, and if there had not been a faint, slow pulse at the wrist, he would have believed this man had been dead for a long time. With a body temperature like ice water, if it was not quickly restored, death was inevitable no matter how strong the man. No wonder so much firewood had been piled into the hearth.
He had intended to conduct further examinations, but there was no need. The Queen suspected the Lord Commander of feigning poisoning. If someone could fake it to this extent, then he should not be called the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, but the King of Playing Dead.
Potter sighed and stood up, looking at Qyburn nearby. A sense of shared helplessness and sympathy immediately arose between colleagues.
The man could not be saved. All that remained was to understand the situation and learn more about the poison, in case it proved useful later.
"Did you wash his stomach?"
"I did. What do you think that smell in the room is?"
"While he was unconscious?"
Qyburn looked at Potter suspiciously, then suddenly realized that the man before him was no expert. "You do not think it is impossible to wash someone's stomach without their cooperation, do you?"
"Uh, of course not." Potter had never washed the stomach of an unconscious patient, but hearing Qyburn's tone, he realized he had revealed his inexperience and hurried to change the subject. "How can this poison not only damage the blood but also lower body temperature? Is that a side effect? How could such a potent poison be kept so carelessly and stolen?" He asked with a serious expression, then recalled the question he could not answer earlier. "And what is it called? Where did it come from?"
"The lowered body temperature is not caused by the poison, but by magic," Qyburn replied. "The Lord Commander should have died long ago, but Lady Melisandre forcibly kept him alive with magic. Magic can maintain breathing and heartbeat, but for some reason it cannot maintain body temperature. The poison being stolen is indeed my responsibility, and I will not deny it. It was accidentally created while I was researching alchemy with others at the Citadel. Because it had no use beyond killing, the Wisdoms forbade its spread. As for its name, I call it 'The Stranger's Kiss,' because so far, there is no antidote."
The two men leaned together, speaking quietly about medicine and poison, while Missandei silently approached the bed. She stood where the maester had been earlier and began her task of determining whether Aegor was truly poisoned, and whether the maester had been misled.
She first carefully touched his cheeks and pinched his nose, confirming that he was not wearing a disguise. Then she slipped her hand beneath the quilt and lightly touched his torso, confirming that the terrifying cold was not limited to his arm but spread throughout his body. Finally, she pressed gently against his chest and felt his vital signs in silence before frowning.
Not only was the Lord Commander's body icy cold, his heartbeat and breathing were also abnormally weak and slow. Although she did not know whether this was a symptom of poisoning, it certainly looked as though he could die at any moment.
Could it be that Lord Aegor was also a victim, and that she had wronged him?
With a deep frown, Missandei fell into self doubt. After a long while, she reluctantly came up with one final method of testing.
He appeared to be dying, but he was not yet dead. Perhaps this was some kind of suspended animation created by the Red Priestess, making him seem on the verge of death while he was actually in no danger.
Perhaps she should pinch him or prick him with a needle. No matter how convincing the act, intense physical stimulation would surely provoke an instinctive reaction.
The idea formed in her mind, but she considered it carefully before acting. Her strength was limited, and she had no needle. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch was a famed slayer of White Walkers, one of the toughest men in the Seven Kingdoms. Ordinary methods might not be enough, and she might not get a second chance. She needed a method that would certainly work.
Her thoughts turned quickly, and Missandei soon had an idea.
She had been born a slave, and her childhood companions had all been slaves as well. One friend, a bed slave, had once told her that there was a place on a man's body that remained his greatest weakness no matter how much he trained. Even a man of iron will, who could drive a sword into his own heart without flinching, would be unable to remain unmoved if this vital spot were attacked. Moreover, this method required neither strength nor tools.
(To be continued.)