Aegor left the music and dancing behind as he stepped out into the courtyard. The cold wind hit his face, and the quiet of the night settled over him. The guards on the battlements above tightened their cloaks against the chill, their forms barely visible in the dim light. He scanned the area and quickly spotted Jon’s figure, walking alone.

“Boy,” an unfamiliar voice called out. Aegor couldn’t immediately see the speaker, but he knew his memory hadn’t failed him. This was the right spot. “Is that thing with you a wolf?”

“It’s a direwolf. His name is Ghost,” Jon replied, turning toward the voice. He wiped at his face hastily, clearly not wanting anyone to see his tears. When he spotted Aegor stepping outside, Jon quickly turned away. “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be inside at the dinner?”

Aegor moved around a stone pillar near the door and followed Jon’s gaze, finally spotting the speaker. Tyrion Lannister was sitting on a protruding ledge above the hall’s front entrance, gazing down at them. The dwarf was so still he might have passed for a statue if he hadn’t spoken.

“It’s too hot and too noisy in there, and I’ve had too much wine,” Tyrion said with a shrug. “I learned long ago it’s impolite to vomit on one’s brother. May I take a closer look at your wolf?”

Jon hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Can you get down from there on your own, or should I fetch a ladder?”

“A ladder?” Tyrion scoffed, his tone mocking but good-natured. “What do you take me for?” With that, he leaned back, flipped into the air, and landed lightly on his hands before springing upright in a nimble backflip.

The direwolf flinched, taking a few cautious steps back, and even Aegor had to admit that Tyrion’s agility was impressive, especially given his stature.

Dusting himself off with a laugh, Tyrion said, “I think I may have startled your little wolf. My apologies.”

“He’s not frightened,” Jon replied quickly, kneeling to beckon the wolf. “Ghost, come here. Come on, boy.”

The direwolf padded over to Jon, nuzzling his cheek affectionately but keeping wary red eyes on Tyrion. When the dwarf extended a hand to pet him, Ghost bared his teeth in a silent growl, pulling back slightly.

“Not exactly friendly, is he?” Tyrion remarked dryly.

“Ghost, sit,” Jon commanded firmly. The direwolf obeyed, lowering himself to the ground. “Stay.” He glanced up at Tyrion. “You can touch him now. He won’t move unless I say so. I’m training him.”

“I see.” Tyrion crouched and tentatively reached out, scratching behind the direwolf’s ears. “Good boy,” he murmured.

Aegor stood nearby, searching for a way to interrupt and draw the dwarf’s attention without appearing rude. He saw his chance when Tyrion stopped speaking, momentarily focused on stroking Ghost’s snowy fur. “Jon,” Aegor began, “I don’t know if I can call you that, but I must tell you, your uncle doesn’t want you to join the Watch. He’s doing it for your own good.”

“For my own good?” Jon’s anger flared again. “If he cared about my good, he wouldn’t have let me be born at all!”

“Ah,” Tyrion said, tilting his head as understanding dawned. He straightened, his sharp eyes studying Jon. “So, you’re Ned Stark’s bastard. You want to join the Night’s Watch, but Benjen Stark has refused?”

Tyrion’s quick deduction was spot on, and the accuracy of his words only worsened Jon’s mood. The boy’s jaw tightened, and he stood abruptly. Ghost pulled back from Tyrion at the same time, clearly sensing his master’s agitation.

“If I offended you, I apologize,” Tyrion said quickly, his voice measured. “But why? Isn’t the Wall a place that values ability over birth? A good place to… well, to put bastards?”

“When you’ve seen one hundred thousand wildlings camped beneath tents, preparing to attack the Wall, giants that can tear a man in half with their bare hands, or pale White Walkers cutting down your comrades with ice blades… When you’ve seen the dead rise again to kill the living, then you’ll stop thinking it’s a good place.”

“An intriguing introduction,” Tyrion replied with a faint smile. Turning to Aegor, he added, “First of all, let me say that I respect the Night’s Watch and admire your sacrifices to defend the kingdom. Truly, I do. Although I’ll never take your oath myself, I can appreciate your dedication.”

The dwarf’s expression grew thoughtful. “That said, I don’t believe in those old stories—giants, wights, White Walkers… myths, nothing more. The wildlings are no different from us, save for the fact that they happened to end up on the wrong side of the Wall.”

“Have you ever seen the Wall, Lord Tyrion?” Aegor asked, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation. “It is the greatest structure ever built by men.”

“A fact universally acknowledged,” Tyrion said with a shrug. “Not only the largest, but also the most useless.”

—

“The most useless building?” Aegor resisted the urge to scoff. While Tyrion seemed approachable and intelligent, the vast gulf between their social statuses made him cautious. He couldn’t afford to offend a Lannister, especially not on their first meeting. “My lord, do you know how large the Wall truly is?”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “One hundred leagues long, seven hundred feet high, and wide enough at the top for twelve armored knights to ride side by side. As for its width, I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Aegor nodded approvingly. “Your information is correct. But I doubt you’ve ever seen a structure seven hundred feet tall or a wall one hundred leagues long. The towers of Oldtown may be tall, but they’re nothing compared to the Wall. If you ever have the chance, you should see it for yourself. If not, I can offer you a clearer perspective.”

He continued, his voice calm but deliberate. “The Wall is seven hundred feet high and roughly seventy feet wide, about one-tenth its height. By comparison, Winterfell’s inner wall is one hundred feet tall and ten feet thick. Now, my lord, you are a clever man. Can you calculate what that means in terms of materials?”

Tyrion frowned thoughtfully, clearly not accustomed to being stumped. After a moment, he said, “It means the Wall requires seven times the height and seven times the thickness of Winterfell’s wall. That’s forty-nine times the materials.”

“Exactly.” Aegor allowed a small, respectful smile. “Now consider this: the Wall is one hundred leagues long. If we dismantled it and rebuilt it to match the height and thickness of Winterfell’s walls, the Wall would stretch for five thousand leagues. That’s enough to surround the North or separate the entire Kingsroad from King’s Landing to Winterfell. Its weight exceeds the combined walls of every city in Westeros.”

“But the Wall is made of ice,” Tyrion countered. “Winterfell’s walls are stone.”

“The weight of the same volume of stone is about twice that of ice,” Aegor explained, “but considering the difference in construction difficulty and the workload required to build a wall that’s 700 feet high versus one that’s 100 feet high, I’d say it balances out.” He quickly brought the discussion back to his intended point. “Just now, my lord, you said that the only difference between the wildlings and us is that they ended up on the north side of the Wall. I agree. Borrowing your logic, could I not also say that the difference between northerners and southerners is merely that they live on opposite sides of the Neck?”

“Most people in the North have the blood of our ancestors flowing in their veins,” Jon interrupted, his earlier grievance forgotten as he latched onto the conversation. He had been silent for a long time, feeling somewhat out of his depth, but now he seized the opportunity to speak.

“‘The First Men’ refers to the humans who first arrived in Westeros,” Tyrion corrected patiently. “They are not a separate race, nor are they older than anyone else in a meaningful sense. From a racial perspective, the First Men are quite similar to the Andals or the Rhoynar, with no fundamental differences. So, ‘the blood of the First Men’ isn’t particularly significant. It’s more of a cultural heritage and belief than an actual bloodline.”

“I agree,” Aegor chimed in, nodding. “Lord Tyrion, I’ve read that the Wall wasn’t built in a single generation. Eight thousand years ago, Brandon the Builder, only laid the stone foundations of Winterfell and began the Wall. Its current height of 700 feet was achieved over decades, possibly centuries, as thousands of Night’s Watch craftsmen gradually piled up enormous blocks of ice cut from the Haunted Forest’s frozen lakes.”

“Isn’t the Wall made entirely of ice?” Tyrion raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “I must have skimmed that part of the histories… though it does make sense.”

“It matters little what it’s made of,” Aegor said with a dismissive wave. “I’m no military strategist, but even I can see that if a fortification of that size were built along the Neck, the southern lords wouldn’t pose any threat to the North. But instead, the builders chose to erect it at the northernmost edge of the realm. Even if the first generation of Wall builders had lost their minds, what compelled their descendants to continue expanding and maintaining the structure for thousands of years? Are we to believe every single one of them was insane, or is there another explanation?”

“Hmm…” Tyrion murmured thoughtfully, stroking his chin.

“And another thing,” Aegor continued, pressing his point while he had the dwarf’s attention. “At the peak of its strength, the Night’s Watch stationed more than 5,000 soldiers at Castle Black alone, with over 10,000 combat-ready troops in the entire legion not even counting the servants and attendants. This was 8,000 years ago, when the population on both sides of the Wall was far smaller than it is today. The wildlings’ numbers at the time may not even have matched the Watch’s. So, why did the North devote such immense resources to building and maintaining the Wall, while also supporting such a large standing army to guard it?”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep