Unlike the journey south to Winterfell over a month ago, where he experienced warmer temperatures and livelier roads bustling with travelers, Aegor now faced the grueling realities of returning north. With each passing day, the air grew colder, the roads narrower, and human settlements fewer and farther between. Three days after leaving Winterfell, farmland and villages vanished entirely, replaced by the desolation of the lands beyond the jurisdiction of the Northern lords. The trees of the Wolfswood grew denser, their dark branches creating an eerie, shadowed canopy, and the King’s Road became little more than a forest trail.

The mountains loomed to the west, while the road curved northeast. The chill in the air became sharper, biting through their tightly wrapped sheepskin cloaks. At night, the temperature dropped below freezing, and whenever the northern wind swept through, it felt like a blade cutting through to their skin. To make matters worse, the mournful howls of wolves echoed from deep within the forest. Jon’s direwolf, Ghost, would prick up his ears at the sound but never howled back.

A week into their journey, the group reached a wooden manor at the edge of the Wolfswood, where they encountered Yoren, a recruiter for the Night’s Watch.

The so-called “Ravens” were Night’s Watch officers tasked with traveling the realm to recruit criminals, exiles, and the desperate for the Wall. To the wildlings, who feared and hated the Night’s Watch, they were nicknamed “crows.” Yoren looked every inch the part, with his rough features hidden beneath a thick, unkempt beard that could terrify a child at first glance. He was no kindly emissary, his hardened demeanor and fierce expression made it clear he was a man to be reckoned with. Yoren had brought with him two ragged boys from the Fingers.

“Rapists,” Yoren grunted in explanation, nodding to the two recruits. Even though he was an officer, there was no trace of politeness in his tone. The North had its own brutal form of justice, where crimes were met with mutilation or death: hands cut off for theft, tongues removed for slander, and heads taken for treason. For these boys, the choice had likely been between becoming eunuchs or taking the black. It was no surprise they had chosen the Wall.

With their addition, the group now consisted of nine people and a wolf.

Jon Snow, who had grown quieter and more withdrawn since their departure, kept stealing glances at Yoren and his two sullen recruits. The boy’s expression grew more conflicted with each passing day. Aegor could see that Jon was struggling with the reality of the Night’s Watch. Up until now, Jon had only known his Uncle Benjen and Aegor, two men who, to him, seemed honorable and capable. The sight of Yoren and the new recruits had clearly shattered whatever idealized image Jon had of the brotherhood.

Aegor understood what the boy was going through. Jon had chosen—or, more accurately, been forced by his illegitimate status to walk a difficult path. The truth of what it meant to be a member of the Night’s Watch was now sinking in, and Aegor couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the boy’s disillusionment.

—

Tyrion, as always, was of little help when it came to setting up or breaking camp. His short stature and limp made physical labor difficult, and he wasn’t one to push himself unnecessarily. Instead, the dwarf would wrap himself in his furs, find a quiet corner, and bury himself in a book, a wineskin always within reach, while the others pitched tents, tended to the horses, and built fires.

That evening, after the camp had been set up, Aegor found Tyrion seated at the edge of the camp, reading as usual.

“What are you reading this time?”

“A book about dragons,” Tyrion replied, lifting it briefly to show the cover. “I borrowed it from Winterfell’s library with Lord Stark’s permission. I’ll return it after I’ve finished. Today, I’m reading about the Battle of the Field of Fire.”

“What’s that?”

“It was one of the battles during Aegon’s Conquest,” Tyrion explained, lowering the book to rest on his knees. “King Loren Lannister of the Rock and King Mern Gardener of the Reach joined forces to resist the Targaryen invasion. Their combined armies included 600 lords, 5,000 knights, and over 50,000 infantry and mercenaries. The Targaryen forces, on the other hand, were barely one-fifth of that size, and most of them were former enemies who had recently bent the knee, so loyalty was questionable.”

Tyrion paused, glancing at Aegor. Knowing that the man struggled with reading the local language, he continued, summarizing the events. “The two armies met on a fertile plain by the river. The coalition forces charged, and the Targaryen troops scattered in retreat. For a moment, it seemed like the conquest was at an end… but then Aegon and his sisters entered the fray with their dragons.”

Aegor nodded knowingly. “Let me guess: the dragons turned the tide instantly. Everyone in Westeros knows that story.”

“Indeed,” Tyrion agreed. “But this was the only time in history that all three dragons—Vhagar, Meraxes, and Balerion were unleashed on a single battlefield. More soldiers died to dragonfire that day than in all the other battles of the Conquest combined. After the devastation of the Field of Fire and the Burning of Harrenhal, the remaining kings realized that resistance was futile. The Starks of the North and the Arryns of the Vale surrendered without a fight, and the Seven Kingdoms were soon united—or, well, six kingdoms were.”

“A battle like that doesn’t leave much room for military strategy, does it? The dragons made it a slaughter.”

“Of course,” Tyrion said with a shrug. “I’m not reading it for tactical insights. It’s simply fascinating. Did you know that the Gardener line was completely extinguished that day? The Tyrells only rose to power because they surrendered early. As for my ancestors, thank the gods they were wise enough to kneel when they did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here, recounting this history.”

Aegor realized then that one of the defeated armies in that battle had been led by the Lannisters. No wonder Tyrion seemed so interested in the story, it was personal.

Before Aegor could respond, Jon approached. His face was still sullen, and he seemed eager for distraction. “Reading again?” he asked, clearly directing the question at Tyrion.

“Is there something wrong with reading?” Aegor asked before Tyrion could reply. “Jon, how old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“And you’re taller and stronger than many boys who are twenty. Do you know why that is?”

“Maester Luwin says bastards grow up faster than other children,” Jon replied, his tone defensive.

Aegor snorted. “And you believed that nonsense? Tell me, who’s older—you or Robb?”

“We’re the same age,” Jon admitted, though his expression soured. “I don’t know my exact birthday, but Robb is probably a little older.”

“You’re the same age, yet Robb’s taller than you. So much for that theory about bastards.” Aegor smirked. “The truth is, Jon, you’re taller and stronger than most boys your age because you eat better than almost anyone else in the North. Farmer’s children don’t get proper nutrition during their most critical years. They’ll never grow to your height, but you’ve had meat, fish, and vegetables at nearly every meal and don’t forget those fancy Winterfell-grown greens.”

Jon bristled. “My father makes sure no one in the North goes hungry!”

“There’s a difference between eating enough and eating well. You’ve been fed like a noble, Jon, and that’s why you’re strong. The same logic applies to reading. Every book you read becomes part of who you are just like every meal you eat becomes part of your body.”

Jon frowned, considering this. “I suppose that makes sense… but why does that matter?”

“Because knowledge, like food, makes you stronger,” Aegor replied. “The body, the mind, and the people you surround yourself with—that’s everything you have. So why not feed your mind as well as your body?”

Jon blinked, seemingly unsure how to respond, while Tyrion gave Aegor a sly grin. “Aegor,” he said, “you’re full of surprises. One minute you’re a soldier, the next a philosopher.”

Aegor smiled back. “Why can’t I be both?”

Jon was still young, and while Aegor’s words had made an impression, the boy clearly wasn’t ready to embrace such a mindset fully. “Dinner should be ready by now,” Jon said, glancing toward the campfire.

“Let’s go,” Aegor agreed. “We’ve still got some wine from King’s Landing left, let’s hope there’s enough meat to go with it.”

Back at the camp, the mood was lively. The group had built shelters against an old wall, the horses were fed, and Yoren sat on a rock, skinning a fresh kill. The rich aroma of soup filled the air. Tyrion limped over to Maurice, who was stirring the pot, tasted the soup, and handed the ladle back.

“More pepper,” the dwarf muttered.

Aegor sat down at the makeshift dining area, ready to enjoy his meal. But before he could take a bite, a sudden whistling sound cut through the air. Arrows struck the ground and even pierced the cooking pot.

“Enemy attack!” Yoren roared, dropping the animal he’d been skinning and drawing his sword.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep