Aegor was startled.

It was not being seen through that unsettled him, nor were Roose Bolton’s words particularly hurtful or unexpected. What unsettled him was their location.

They were not in some secret chamber in King’s Landing or the Dreadfort where they could speak freely and discuss treason. They were standing on the walls of Deepwood Motte, the Glover family seat, which currently served as the Northern army’s temporary command post.

The castle, which had been captured by the Ironborn in a sudden raid just months ago, had once again become a battleground and was now on the highest alert. Heavily armed guards were stationed at intervals along the wall, while patrols moved back and forth to ensure no weakness in the defenses. Did the Old Flayer not fear being overheard by someone with sharp ears?

Aegor quickly scanned their surroundings. They had just passed a sentry, and the next post was still more than ten paces away. Yet the old man had chosen this narrow window to speak. No soldier on the wall would ever imagine that a great Northern lord, high in rank, would speak such dangerous words to the Commander of the Night’s Watch right under their noses.

(Are you insane? Are we really that close? To blurt something like that out, how am I supposed to respond?)

Even with his quick mind, he did not know how to react for a moment. Pretend not to understand? That might fool others, but not this man. Frankly admit it and conspire? He had no such level of trust with Roose Bolton, nor was the time right.

The two walked side by side, not quickly, but the next sentry drew closer with every step, making it harder to say anything at all.

Aegor simply pretended to be lost in thought and stayed silent.

Fortunately, the Old Flayer seemed to expect no reply. After suddenly startling the Night’s Watch Commander, he smoothly acted as if nothing had been said, turning to another subject. “According to the agreement I made with the other lords today, the Bolton family, being a great house seated in the far North, should contribute at least one thousand golden dragons to support the Night’s Watch in defending against the White Walkers. Yet after thinking it over, I came to a different conclusion. To accomplish great things, what use are a few hundred or a thousand? I am willing to lend the Night’s Watch ten thousand golden dragons to aid in the construction and development of the Gift under the Commander’s rule.”

Though still unsettled inside, and knowing this money was difficult to accept, Aegor was shrewd enough to show surprise. “If that is truly the case, I must thank Lord Bolton on behalf of all the people of the Gift for your generous support. The Night’s Watch will use this money properly and to its greatest effect.”

“You are too kind, Commander,” Bolton nodded, his tone and expression unchanged as he accepted Aegor’s thanks. The two exchanged a few casual words, and after passing another sentry, the Old Flayer circled back to the earlier matter. “I am not asking the Night’s Watch to do anything for me now. I only wish to remind you, opportunity always favors the prepared. To the west, the Iron Islands will not be pacified with a few warships. To the south, the Riverlands, Dorne, and the false king they support still hold their strength. Across the Narrow Sea, the Targaryen girl has taken Slaver’s Bay, become the Queen of the Liberators, and she has three dragons.”

Avoiding another patrol, the Old Flayer stopped, leaned on the wooden railing, and gazed at the boundless Wolfswood beneath the moonlight. Then he spoke his final words. “After you have built up the Gift and repelled the army of the dead, perhaps we can work together to accomplish something in Westeros.”

—

The conversation ended there.

Its meaning was no more than three sentences: “You do not seem like someone who can stay put,” “Opportunity favors the prepared,” and “Perhaps we can cooperate.”

It seemed nothing had been said, yet everything had been said. Arranged properly, the Common Tongue of Westeros could be as layered and profound as any riddle.

Aegor had always been the one weaving words to persuade others into his plans. Who would have thought he would one day be on the receiving end?

He suddenly felt a strange reversal, as if he were in some strategy game, but this time the Old Flayer was the player, and he himself the NPC. Roose Bolton had placed him in his debt by speaking for him before Robb Stark and lending him ten thousand golden dragons at a critical moment. Now, with words that to outsiders might seem meaningless, he had reminded him that his help was not without purpose, that he expected a return someday.

What return? Even Roose Bolton likely did not yet know. He too was waiting for opportunity.

And after defeating the Ironborn and repelling the White Walkers, what else could the Commander of the Night’s Watch do?

Aegor had no plan.

To think about this now, when humanity’s greatest enemy lurked beyond the Wall, ready for the final battle at any moment, felt far too optimistic, even reckless. Yet just as he once flipped to the last page of an exam to peek at the essay question first, Aegor had been subconsciously considering this all along, without need of Roose Bolton’s reminder.

Today’s words had simply torn away the gauze, forcing him to face a cruel reality early.

The Stark family and the North were like a great tree that had stood for thousands of years, while the Gift, revitalized under Aegor’s leadership and strengthened by the Wildlings’ acceptance, was no more than a seedling beneath its shade. The great tree could shield the seedling from wind, frost, and snow, sparing it from early death. But rooted in the harsh soil of the Wall and the Gift, the seedling’s growth was in truth being forced by outside nourishment.

One day, the seedling would grow enough to compete with the great tree for sunlight, water, and soil. Then it must either break through the canopy to reach the sun and continue its life, or remain in the shadow. Once the flow of outside support ceased, it would slowly wither. In the end, like a bow put away once the birds were gone, it would return to decline, as before Aegor transmigrated, fading quietly into history.

This thought unsettled him deeply.

Yet he had no old hatred with the Starks, unlike the Boltons. Even if they parted ways, there would be reason. If such a dilemma truly came in the future, what choice should he make?

…

What you dwell on by day, you dream of by night, and that night he dreamed a terrible dream.

In the dream, after helping the North subdue the Ironborn and easily repelling the White Walkers with Dragonglass cannons, the Gift flourished and reached its peak. Then he turned his guns and helped Roose Bolton overthrow the Starks, making him King in the North. From there they marched south, relying on the power of firearms, conquering the other Six Kingdoms one by one.

At last, the realm was unified, he became the First Emperor of Westeros, and then he cast aside Roose Bolton and the meritorious officials of the Night’s Watch Industry, sitting alone upon the Iron Throne, truly solitary.

…

It had been long since a nightmare woke him. Lying in sweat-soaked sheets, he thought for a while, realizing this was not the future he desired.

He was a man with his own will, not an NPC driven by simple codes, swayed by coin, with actions bound by data. Even if Roose Bolton had not lent ten thousand golden dragons but a million, what then?

He did owe him a favor, but whether to repay it, and how, was his choice. If there was no way to cast off the chains of his Night’s Watch vows without bringing disaster to the Stark family, then what of it? He could remain Commander of the Night’s Watch for life.

No matter how low one’s bottom line, there had to be one.

(To be continued.)

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep