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Chapter 28
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 20:59:52 +0000 UTCReturning to the Wall was a stark contrast to the southward journey Aegor had made over a month ago. With each passing day, the temperatures dropped, the roads narrowed, and the sparse settlements of the North gave way to vast stretches of uninhabited wilderness. Three days after leaving Winterfell, the farms and villages disappeared entirely, replaced by the dense, eerie expanse of the Wolfswood. The King’s Road became little more than a narrow path winding through the trees.
To the west loomed the mountains; their route led northeast. Nights were bitterly cold, temperatures plunging well below freezing. The sharp northern winds sliced through their thick sheepskin cloaks like daggers. In the distance, the mournful howls of wolves echoed through the forest, though Jon’s white direwolf, Ghost, remained silent, his ears pricking up but never answering the calls.
A week into their journey, as they neared the Gift at the edge of the Wolfswood, they met Yoren, a recruiter of the Night’s Watch known as a “wandering crow.” He waited for them at a wooden manor house, accompanied by two ragged young men from the Fingers.
“Rapists.” Yoren, with his fierce demeanor and bushy beard that nearly obscured his face, looked every bit as intimidating as the criminals he recruited. He introduced the two recruits to the rangers in his gruff, no-nonsense manner. The justice of the North was harsh and direct: thieves lost their hands, liars and slanderers their tongues, and traitors their heads. For these two, the Wall was a better fate than castration.
The group now numbered nine men and one direwolf. Jon Snow, ever observant, couldn’t stop staring at Yoren and his two sullen companions, his expression a mix of confusion and unease. Aegor watched the boy closely and understood. Jon had only ever known the likes of Benjen Stark and Aegor himself—men he considered noble and honorable—so he had naively assumed the Night’s Watch was filled with such figures. Yoren and his recruits were a sobering wake-up call, a harsh reminder of what the Black Brotherhood truly was: a refuge for criminals and outcasts.
Aegor felt a pang of sympathy for Jon. The boy’s choice—or rather, the lack of choice forced upon him by his bastard status—had led him down a harsh and lonely path.
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Tyrion, as usual, was of no help when it came to setting up camp. His short stature and limp made him more of a hindrance than a help. Each evening, while the others pitched tents, tended horses, and lit fires, the dwarf would wrap himself tightly in his cloak, clutch a wineskin, and retreat to a quiet spot to read.
That night, as the group finished settling in, Aegor found Tyrion on the edge of the camp, as he often did.
“What are you reading?” Aegor asked.
“A book about dragons,” Tyrion replied, looking up briefly. “I borrowed it from Winterfell’s library with Eddard Stark’s permission. I need to finish it quickly so I can return it.”
He lowered the book to show Aegor. “Today, I was reading about the Field of Fire.”
“What’s that?” Aegor asked.
Tyrion’s lips curled into a smirk. “One of Aegon’s most famous battles during his conquest of the Seven Kingdoms. Loren Lannister, King of the Rock, and Mern Gardener, King of the Reach, joined forces to resist Targaryen rule. Their combined army boasted six hundred lords, five thousand knights, and over fifty thousand infantry and sellswords. Aegon’s army, by comparison, was barely a fifth of their size, much of it made up of conscripts from previously defeated enemies.”
Tyrion flipped through a few pages before continuing. “The two armies met on the open plains of the Reach. The allied forces charged, and the Targaryen army scattered within minutes. According to the book, ‘The years of conquest seemed ready to end... until Aegon and his sisters entered the fray.’”
“Let me guess,” Aegor said dryly. “The dragons turned the tide of battle. Everyone knows that.”
“Of course.” Tyrion nodded. “But this was the only time all three dragons—Vhagar, Meraxes, and Balerion—fought together. The dragons burned thousands of soldiers alive. More men died that day than in all the other battles of the Conquest combined. After the Field of Fire and the burning of Harrenhal, the remaining kings realized resistance was futile. The Starks and Arryns surrendered without a fight, and Aegon unified six of the Seven Kingdoms.”
“With dragons, it’s not a battle—it’s a massacre,” Aegor said. “There’s no strategy or tactics involved.”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m reading it for fun, not for military lessons.” Tyrion chuckled. “The Gardeners were wiped out, and the Tyrells took their place as rulers of the Reach. Fortunately, my ancestors had the sense to surrender after surviving the battle—otherwise, there’d be no Lannisters left for you to banter with.”
Aegor smirked, realizing Tyrion’s interest in the battle was personal. The Lannisters had faced Aegon’s dragons directly—no wonder Tyrion found the tale fascinating.
“You’re reading again?” Jon Snow joined them, his face still shadowed by unease. The boy was clearly struggling with the contrast between his idealized view of the Watch and the harsh reality he was encountering.
“What’s wrong with reading?” Aegor asked before Tyrion could respond. “Jon, how old are you?”
“Fourteen,” Jon replied.
“You’re fourteen, and you’re already taller and stronger than most twenty-year-old peasants. Do you know why that is?”
“Maester Luwin says bastards grow faster,” Jon answered, though his voice lacked conviction.
“Do you really believe that?” Aegor laughed. “Who’s older, you or Robb?”
“We’re the same age, though Robb might be slightly older.”
“And yet Robb is taller than you. So much for the bastard growth spurt.”
Jon’s face fell, and Aegor softened his tone. “Let me tell you the truth. You and Robb are both taller and stronger than most because you’ve always eaten well. The sons of farmers don’t get the same nutrition. During their most critical years of growth, they go hungry, while you’ve had meat, fish, and fresh vegetables from Winterfell’s glass gardens.”
“In the North, no one starves under my father’s rule,” Jon said defensively.
“There’s a difference between being full and being nourished,” Aegor replied. “One meal might not make a difference, but years of eating well versus barely scraping by will.”
Jon frowned. “And what does this have to do with reading?”
“Nothing directly,” Aegor admitted. “But where I’m from, we say, ‘Every bite you eat becomes part of your body. Every book you read becomes part of your soul. Every friend you make becomes part of your life.’”
He continued, “Your body, your soul, your connections—plus a little luck—make up everything you are. That’s why I eat well, read often, and choose my companions wisely.”
Jon blinked, his frown easing as he mulled over Aegor’s words. Tyrion, meanwhile, raised an eyebrow at the ranger. “You’re full of surprises, Aegor. First, I thought you were a steward. Then I thought you were a liar. Then an adventurer from another land. Now you’re a philosopher.”
Aegor chuckled. “Those roles don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”
Jon’s stomach grumbled, breaking the moment. “Dinner should be ready by now,” he muttered.
“Let’s go,” Aegor said, standing. “The wine’s still flowing, and I’m starving.”
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They returned to the camp to find a scene of camaraderie. The group had set up a windbreak against an old wall, the horses had been fed, and a pot of stew simmered over the fire. Tyrion hobbled over to inspect the meal, taking a sip from the ladle before handing it back to the cook. “More pepper,” he said with a grin.
Aegor settled at the makeshift table, but before he could take a bite, a sudden whistling sound cut through the air. Arrows struck the ground, one piercing the pot and spilling its contents.
“Ambush!” Yoren roared, tossing aside the skinning knife he’d been using and drawing his sword.
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