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Chapter 43
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 21:04:04 +0000 UTCThe two black-cloaked men fell silent. Since the Lannister had spoken, there was no need to argue further. They followed the trio of Lannister master and servants along the main roads of King’s Landing. Passing Shoemaker’s Square and the Central Plaza, they veered left, making their way uphill along the gentle slope of Septa Street. The road led them higher, bringing them closer to the summit of the lowest of the three hills enclosed within the city walls.
As the elevation increased, the surrounding scenery changed. The streets widened, becoming cleaner and better maintained. The people walking them were more composed, their clothing finer and more dignified. Shops appeared on either side of the road, not selling daily necessities, but luxuries—things that only the wealthy could afford.
Aegor quickly realized where they were: King’s Landing’s affluent district. Staying here long-term would be another expense he couldn’t possibly afford. Eventually, they stopped before an inn called The Albatross. Dismounting alongside Tyrion, Aegor glanced into the distance. From here, he was already higher than the city walls. This area sat dozens of feet above the lowest parts of the city, yet remained beneath Rhaenys’s Hill, where the Dragonpit loomed. The location was ideal—high enough to escape the worst of the city’s stench, yet not so remote as to inconvenience daily life. A fine place indeed.
"Four rooms," Tyrion announced the moment he stepped through the door, his familiarity with the establishment evident. "One for me, one for each of my black-cloaked friends, and one for my two squires. All together, if you please."
The inn’s interior was finer than Winterfell’s great hall, and the innkeeper clearly recognized the Imp, greeting him warmly. Servants rushed to take their horses and luggage before leading them upstairs.
Before they entered their rooms, Tyrion had a parting word for the Night’s Watchmen. "You represent the Watch now, so try to look the part. Septa Street has plenty of tailors—some sell ready-made clothes, others take custom orders. I suggest you find time to get yourself properly outfitted." Then he smirked. "Also, take a right when you leave, and keep walking until you see the broken dome of the Dragonpit. That’s your cue to turn left—you’ll be on Silk Street then. Half the brothels in King’s Landing are there. Just drop my name, and you’ll get in even if you’re penniless. If you’re too shy to go alone, I can take you another day. But tonight, I need to rest my poor, saddle-sore ass. Maybe sleeping on my stomach will help. See you later."
Aegor felt a flicker of temptation. He was a healthy adult man, after all, with needs of his own. It had been a year and a half since he’d arrived in this world, and he hadn’t touched a single woman. The so-called "whores" of Mole’s Town were little more than peasant girls turning tricks to survive—he had never been desperate enough for that. Perhaps things would be different in King’s Landing.
The thought crossed his mind for only a moment before he crushed it. He already owed Tyrion too much, and he had far greater concerns than spending someone else’s coin on a night of indulgence.
Entering his room, he set down his belongings and stepped back outside to ask the innkeeper for paper and ink. He sat by the window, quill in hand. King’s Landing was a dangerous place, but as long as he stayed clear of the game of thrones, a Night’s Watchman had little to fear. That said, if he wanted to avoid returning to that cursed Wall, he needed a plan.
Watching the flow of people in the streets below, Aegor steadied himself, then put quill to parchment, writing out four key objectives:
Gather supplies, recruit men, mine dragonglass, and improve the image of the Night’s Watch.
Compared to the confusion he had felt when first given these tasks, the past month of travel had given him time to think. His discussions with Tyrion had provided insight. Now, before the chaos of his work overwhelmed him, he needed to put everything into writing.
The first thing both he and Tyrion had agreed on was that "improving the image of the Night’s Watch" was, in truth, meaningless. In a world where news traveled slowly, the South’s opinion of the Watch was neither here nor there. It wasn’t as if the Night’s Watch could send out recruiters to survey public perception.
No one would check how seriously he took this task. There would be no measurable results. If anything, this so-called "mission" existed solely as a safeguard—a convenient excuse if, by some miracle, he managed to succeed in his other three tasks but the Watch still decided to drag him back.
Unless the worst came to pass, no one would ever bring it up.
Aegor struck a line through it.
That left three tasks—ones that would require actual effort.
But how much was enough? That was the real question. If Yoren came from the Wall demanding recruits and Aegor had none, if he sent no supplies north for months, if a Watch ship arrived at Dragonstone and found no dragonglass being mined—he would be recalled immediately. That much was obvious.
But how many men? How much dragonglass? How many shipments? There was room to maneuver.
Too little, and he’d be deemed useless. The Night’s Watch wasn’t going to let him run free without seeing results.
Too much, and he would set a dangerous precedent. Organizations—especially ones made up of men—were greedy by nature. If he provided a steady flow of new recruits and resources, the Watch would come to expect it. And once they did, they would demand more.
Winter was coming. The lords of the North would have fewer supplies to spare for the Wall. The gap in resources would grow. And if the Watch believed he could provide whatever they needed, he would be expected to fill that void.
But the world had its limits. Even if he could talk circles around King’s Landing’s nobles, even if he could convince the city’s wealthy to part with their gold, there would never be enough.
The ideal situation was simple: keep his contributions at a level where the Watch’s leaders were dissatisfied, but not angry enough to drag him back. That way, if they ever did demand more, the increase would start from a lower baseline.
But where was that safe threshold? That was something he would have to figure out.
Aegor finalized his approach and set his schedule. First, he would arrange for Tyrion’s "donation"—his ransom, really—to be sent north. Then he would travel to Dragonstone to assess the dragonglass mines. Only after those matters were settled would he return to King’s Landing to recruit men and "gather" additional supplies.
As he finished, Aegor hesitated, then added two final lines at the bottom of the page.
Two things no one in this world would understand.
Shed the black cloak.
Find a way home.
Fulfilling Mormont’s mission was only a means to an end—a way to buy time. And that time was for one purpose alone: escaping the Watch.
Once, he had hoped Tyrion might be able to make that happen. But leaving the Wall had been a struggle in itself. Severing his ties to the Watch entirely? That was beyond anyone’s power.
He would have to find his own way.
More than that—he would not forget that this world was not his own. If there was even the faintest chance of returning, he would take it.
There was a saying: Better a dog in peace than a man in chaos.
And for Aegor, no crown, no kingdom, nothing in this cursed world could compare to the life he had lost. If he could return, he would, without hesitation.
