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Chapter 352
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 12:29:31 +0000 UTC"Dark Sister" was about two inches shorter than the standard steel swords issued to the Crown's Rest garrison, yet its proportions were sleek and elongated. The grip, however, was rather petite; when Aegor held it, there wasn’t even enough room for a spare finger. For him, it was a tight fit, which said a lot—Aegor’s hands, narrow and uncalloused from a life devoid of heavy labor both before and after his transmigration, were already smaller than average for a man his age.
No wonder Bran referred to the sword as “she.”
Once wielded by Visenya Targaryen, "Dark Sister" was clearly designed with a slender-handed woman in mind. But as exquisite as its design was, what truly amazed Aegor was its weight—or, more precisely, its density.
Even accounting for its slim and delicate shape, the sword was astonishingly light. Aegor weighed it in his hand and estimated that a steel sword of similar size would weigh at least twice as much. This meant that Valyrian steel had a density roughly half that of regular iron.
It was common knowledge that a weapon half as heavy could be swung twice as fast, giving it a significant advantage in combat. Even setting aside its mystical properties—resistance to extreme cold, lethality against White Walkers—its physical traits alone made Valyrian steel the pinnacle of weaponry in the age of blades.
Aegor couldn’t help but speculate about its composition. Could it be that the Valyrians, even a thousand years ago, had mastered a process akin to creating high-quality titanium alloys?
If he had the resources and time, Aegor might have tried to analyze and replicate it. Unfortunately, such experiments were far beyond what was currently feasible or necessary. Priorities had to be set.
After indulging his curiosity with a thorough examination of the blade, Aegor began pondering what to do with it.
Bran had said, "A sword for a hero." How poetic.
Leading armies against the wights, wielding a legendary weapon to strike down the Night King and save humanity—what could be more epic? It was the kind of tale that would fit perfectly into the grand, satisfying climax of a fantasy novel.
Even without the White Walkers, from a purely personal perspective, strapping a Valyrian steel sword to his waist would certainly be a statement. And best of all, the family of its original owner was long gone, leaving no heirs to come and claim it.
Keeping the sword for himself was a natural instinct. But Aegor quickly reconsidered. He wasn’t a famed warrior, nor was he a nobleman flaunting wealth. Carrying a sword of immense value—one worth more than all the Night’s Watch holdings combined—would be both ostentatious and wasteful. Worse, it might invite trouble.
A Valyrian steel sword was meant to slay White Walkers, not serve as a status symbol. Aegor, having personally fought a White Walker, understood their terrifying strength better than most. He could still feel the phantom pain in his hand from where his grip had nearly broken during that desperate clash in the woods. The White Walker’s ice-blue eyes haunted his memory, as did the way his steel sword had shattered under their supernatural strength.
The enemy was far more than just "strong." They were intelligent, magical, and had learned from their defeat in the War for the Dawn. Even with a Valyrian steel sword, the White Walkers wouldn’t simply charge headlong into their own demise. Their legions of wights alone would be enough to exhaust any human warrior, no matter how skilled.
As Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Aegor’s role was to lead, not to fight on the front lines in every battle. He couldn’t afford to risk his life recklessly just because he happened to hold an anti-White Walker weapon. That would be like winning a car tire in a raffle and then buying a car just to use it.
This sword would be wasted in his hands.
Rationality prevailed, and Aegor quickly made a decision that ran counter to human instinct: he would give the sword to someone else.
Bran had brought the sword from beyond the Wall, and it had originally belonged to a woman. According to the canon of this world, it was likely meant for Arya Stark, who would wield it as a skilled assassin and use it in the final battle against the White Walkers. But Arya, under Aegor’s protection, had never gone to Braavos to train at the House of Black and White. While she was still talented, her skills weren’t enough to stand out on the battlefield of ice and fire.
Discarding that idea, Aegor turned to other options. Though "Dark Sister" was technically designed for a woman, there was no inherent difference between "male" and "female" weapons. With a slightly larger hilt and adjusted balance, it could function as an ordinary one-handed sword.
Among his allies, who deserved such a weapon? With Jon already wielding "Longclaw," Aegor’s thoughts settled on Jaime Lannister.
But this choice left Aegor uneasy. Jaime was skilled, no doubt, but he was hardly someone Aegor could fully trust. The Kingslayer had only joined the Night’s Watch out of his own will, not loyalty. Giving such a precious sword to someone so independent-minded felt risky, like tossing a meat bun to a dog and hoping it wouldn’t run off with it.
What’s more, would one knight with a Valyrian steel sword truly be more effective than the hundreds of soldiers who could be equipped with the funds from selling it? Jaime might kill a dozen wights, but would his efficiency ever surpass that of dragon-glass bombs?
Then, inspiration struck. Why not do both? He could sell "Dark Sister" to the Lannisters with the condition that Jaime wield it until the end of the war. That way, he would gain both funds and the temporary use of the sword.
Perfect.
As Aegor walked toward the hall, pleased with his decision, a shout from a nearby guard broke his train of thought.
“Good day, Lady Melisandre.”
The greeting jolted Aegor from his musings. Raising his head, he saw the Red Priestess striding toward him, her expression severe, her crimson robes dusted from hurried travel.
“The boy has returned from beyond the Wall?”
“Yes. Why?”
“How could anyone—especially a cripple—survive that journey? Unless...” Her red eyes fixed on his. “Unless he’s a spy, an agent of the Great Other, or worse—a killer.”
Aegor sighed. Dealing with zealots like Melisandre was as exhausting as arguing with conspiracy theorists. To her, the world was black and white. Anyone not aligned with her god was an enemy.
“He’s a greenseer, capable of seeing through the weirwoods. He’s one of our greatest assets, not a threat.”
“That foul magic—you dare use it?” Melisandre scolded, her tone like a disappointed parent. “You carry the fate of the world on your shoulders. The enemy will try to manipulate you, and you cannot afford to be so trusting.”
Aegor shook his head. Without concrete evidence, what could he do? Burn Bran alive just to be safe and risk alienating the North in the middle of a war?
“I’ve spoken to him. Bran intends to stay with the Watch and live in Crown's Rest. You’ll have plenty of time to observe him,” Aegor replied wearily. Then he lifted the sword in his hand. “Besides, would a spy gift us something like this?”
Melisandre glanced at the blade, her expression shifting from disdain to shock as she sensed its power. “Lightbringer?” she whispered.
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