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Chapter 452
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 16:46:29 +0000 UTC“Yes, there’s only one person in the world with dragons. Everyone knows that!” Rickard Karstark was momentarily stunned by Aegor’s bold and direct admission, his confusion lingering for several seconds before he regained his composure. “Then tell me, how did a Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch end up conspiring with the Mad King’s spawn?”
“The Dragon Queen traveled all the way from the battlefields of King’s Landing to the Gift’s frontlines, personally riding her dragons into battle to aid the Night’s Watch in pursuing the foes who crossed south of the Wall. She fought alongside us, helping to annihilate the enemy and saving thousands of Northerners from the clutches of the dead—including your liege lord, Robb Stark. For this, she sacrificed one of her three dragons, while another was gravely wounded. The dragon circling above the castle just now? The only one left unscathed. Did you never stop to wonder why?”
“Perhaps the queen only ever had one dragon, and the stories of three were just lies. Or perhaps there were three, but only one came here. Who can say?” Rickard’s son, a burly man with a thick beard and a bear-like build, sneered as he spoke. “You claim this queen abandoned King’s Landing to save the North and Robb Stark, yet not a single message from Winterfell has reached us. And how exactly does an undead army, standing on the ground, manage to injure a dragon soaring in the sky? Do you think we’re simpletons, born to be deceived by your lies?”
Rickard’s son stood nearly six and a half feet tall, his imposing frame further bulked by furs and armor. Aegor had no doubt that even unarmed, he would barely hold his own against this man in a fight. The Karstark heir’s ferocious gaze made it hard to think clearly, but Aegor had faced worse and steadied his nerves.
The dead left no corpses, the wights had been burned to ash, and the undead dragon lay destroyed, but Aegor could offer no proof of his claims. Even so, he stood tall and firm. “Whether my words are true or false, you can confirm them with the men who followed me back to the Gift, the settlers of New Gift, or the hill tribes familiar with the North. Truth cannot be fabricated. After the battle, the queen’s wounded black dragon needed a suitable place to heal, which is why she followed me north. We had intended to use Last Hearth, believing it abandoned. But since your forces have occupied it, I’ve come on her behalf to persuade you to withdraw to Karhold and avoid unnecessary conflict.”
The Night’s Watch guards behind Aegor voiced their support, vouching for his words, but their status meant little. Rickard and his son dismissed them outright.
“Avoid conflict? Is that how you justify trying to deceive me into handing over Last Hearth to the Mad King’s daughter, so she can claim her first foothold in the North?” Rickard’s anger flared once more, his temper a storm battering against reason. “This is Northern land, and no foreigner will lay claim to it! Even if we all die here, burned to ash by dragonfire, we will not yield this castle! Men, to arms!”
The odds were grim. The dozen Night’s Watch guards who might have been able to carve a path through earlier now faced an additional thirty Karstark soldiers called in by their lord’s roar. Rickard’s son smirked coldly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Aegor was left with no retreat, only the path forward.
There was no time for words. Delay any longer, and Rickard would give the order to seize him, and all would be lost.
“Are you Ser Harrion Karstark?” Aegor turned to Rickard’s bearded son.
The man grinned wickedly. “What of it? Trying to win me over now? Too late. You can rot in the dungeon.”
Aegor raised a hand, signaling for patience. “Ser Harrion, may I venture a guess? Your brother, Torrhen Karstark—is he also in this castle?”
“And if he is? I don’t recall him having any dealings with you.”
Dealings? Hardly. Aegor gambled on Rickard’s well-known habit of keeping his sons close during campaigns. Rickard’s youngest son, Edd, had already been slain by Euron Greyjoy on the western coast. If Harrion and Torrhen were both present, then every surviving male heir of House Karstark was inside this small castle.
For many Northern warriors, death held no fear. But for a father with his sons at risk, the stakes were entirely different. Among the ancient houses of the North, nothing was more important than bloodlines.
“I’ve never met your brother,” Aegor said, smiling lightly. “If he stood before me, I wouldn’t even recognize him. But tell me—do you think the walls of Last Hearth are stronger than those of Harrenhal?”
For a moment, Harrion hesitated, stunned. Mentioning Harrenhal was no coincidence. As the most infamous castle destroyed by dragonfire, its fate served as a stark warning. Harrenhal’s last lord, Harren the Black, and his entire house were annihilated when they tried to defy Aegon the Conqueror. If Rickard and his remaining sons all perished here, their family’s fate might mirror Harren’s.
“You bastard! You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that!” Harrion’s temper flared, and he unsheathed his sword with a sharp clang. “Even if we all die today, Karhold will live on! My sister, my uncles, my cousins—they’ll outlast you. But you? Let’s see if the queen’s dragon can save you from my blade!”
The room tensed as Harrion prepared to strike, but Aegor stepped back calmly. His well-trained guards immediately stepped in, forming a protective line. Though they lacked Harrion’s size, they were more than capable fighters. In a one-on-one fight, he would struggle to break through.
“Harrion, stand down!” Rickard barked, his voice sharp and commanding. He stepped forward, pulling his son back, and glared at Aegor with barely contained fury.
If Rickard had been alone, Aegor’s defiance might have cost him his head. But with his sons at risk and no way to fight a dragon, Rickard hesitated. The Karstarks had no scorpions, no weapons capable of taking down a dragon. If they provoked Daenerys Targaryen, there was no predicting the extent of her wrath.
“You’re bold for a Lord Commander,” Rickard growled, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Tired of the Wall and looking for a better path, is that it? That Targaryen wench—so desperate for the throne she’ll take any ally she can get, even a turncloak! Tell me, what’s to stop me from throwing you in the dungeon and forcing her to fight for you?”
Aegor’s blood ran cold. If Rickard imprisoned him, the army in the Gift would fall into disarray, Daenerys would act recklessly, and everything he had worked for would crumble. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
“Hahaha...” Aegor laughed suddenly, loud and carefree, raising his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. “Kill me, lock me away—whatever you like, my lord. But understand this: the queen cares not for my life. Her only concern is finding a safe haven for her wounded dragon. She told me clearly—if I’m not out of this castle within an hour, she’ll burn it to the ground. Imagine the story: the Night’s Watch and dragons save the North from the dead, only for House Karstark to betray them, slaughter the Lord Commander, and provoke the queen into a fiery massacre. Not just you, but your sons, your entire house—all gone.”
“Doesn’t that sound like a tragedy?” Aegor continued, not giving Rickard time to process his anger. “Or, perhaps, we could write a happier ending instead.”
Tension hung thick in the air as Aegor gambled everything on Rickard’s sense of self-preservation.
