After Benjen left, Aegor exited the room, eager to find Tyrion.
Aegor was not a man to rely solely on the goodwill of others. Instead, he used half-truths to pique Tyrion's interest and leave an impression. It was a calculated move, a carefully orchestrated performance. But the process—from Tyrion suggesting a workable plan to leave the Wall, to him speaking briefly with the Lord Commander and securing approval—was not due to Aegor's eloquence or Tyrion being gullible.
The truth was simple: Tyrion's intelligence and social acumen were sharp enough to discern from a few casual words that Aegor wanted out of the patrol, and he had the generosity to help make it happen.
Sometimes Aegor couldn't help but wonder: was Tyrion motivated by curiosity, intrigued by the fabricated story Aegor had told, or was he simply... willing to help a poor soul in trouble?
Ultimately, Tyrion's intentions didn't matter. What mattered was that he had extended a helping hand. This timely act of kindness might very well save Aegor's life and alter his future entirely. Such a favor was one that could only be repaid with a lifetime of loyalty and friendship.
But friendship and loyalty couldn't replace the importance of thanking someone in person. Aegor stepped outside, scanning the surroundings until he quickly spotted his target. A dwarf stood out easily in Castle Black, a place filled with tall men clad in black.
"Thank you, Tyrion. I knew you'd succeed!" Aegor called out.
"Of course. Who could stop the infamous little devil of House Lannister?" Tyrion said smugly, tilting his chin upward. Then he added with a smirk, "Though I must say, I finally understand just how poor the Starks truly are."
"What do you mean?" Aegor asked, puzzled.
"It didn't take much to convince the Lord Commander and Maester Aemon, but Benjen Stark had to 'discuss' funding with me in the end," Tyrion explained with a laugh. "I expected to be fleeced. At worst, I figured I'd borrow some gold from my brother when I got back to King's Landing. But the amount he proposed? It nearly made me laugh out loud."
"Was it that little?"
"Not too little," Tyrion said, shrugging. "It was about the same as a few months' pocket money for me. In fact, it was slightly less than what I'd already planned to offer. But his expression, so grave as if he were asking for an outrageous sum, was amusing." He grinned. "I pretended to be shocked, bargained with the steward and the craftsman he brought in, and 'reluctantly' agreed. And here we are—"
Aegor couldn't help but wonder: A few months' pocket money? Was it two or three months? Or perhaps eight or nine? Either Tyrion was exaggerating, or the Lannisters really were as wealthy as the songs claimed. Regardless, for Aegor, who had less than a single gold dragon to his name, it was an unimaginable fortune. Just as Aegor was waiting for Tyrion to elaborate, the dwarf suddenly raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, and motioned for him to follow.
What kind of secret requires such discretion in Castle Black, where a shout could reach half the fort? Aegor's curiosity was piqued, but he followed without question.
They crossed the training yard in the heart of Castle Black, heading toward the armory, where they found Jon Snow—and a group of recruits.
It wasn't hard to guess what had transpired. A bunch of young men who had been humiliated by Jon during training had ganged up on him, cornering him inside. Tyrion must have stumbled upon the situation while leaving the Lord Commander's quarters and intervened. Aegorvaguely remembered something like this happening but couldn't recall the exact timing.
Seeing the recruits surrounding Jon, Aegor frowned. He stepped aside to clear the doorway and nodded sharply. "Out."
Whether it was the authority Aegor carried as a more experienced recruit, or the fear of Tyrion's Lannister name, the young men hesitated, muttered curses under their breath, and retreated—though they made sure to give Aegor a wide berth on their way out.
"What's going on?" Aegor asked. He had initially sought out Tyrion to thank him and discuss their departure from the Wall, but now that Jon was involved, it felt inappropriate to add salt to his wounds.
"Nothing," Jon muttered, turning away as he packed up his practice gear. He sniffed, trying to hold back tears. Peeling off his armor, leather coat, and sweat-soaked wool shirt, he changed into a rough black tunic. His mind drifted to Winterfell and his family—Robb, Arya, Bran, even Sansa, who had always been distant.
No one had warned Jon about the true state of the Night's Watch. Only Tyrion and Aegor had mentioned it briefly, but at the time, he'd been too focused on proving himself. He had dreamed of fighting alongside the rangers, defending the realm from the ancient enemy and earning glory to show he was no less worthy than any trueborn son. Yet here, survival itself was a daily struggle.
Did Father know what it was really like here? As Warden of the North, he must have known. But when Jon asked to join the Night's Watch, Eddard Stark had agreed without hesitation. That thought stung. Was his father's past kindness just a façade? Deep down, did he hate his illegitimate son?
"No wonder," Jon said quietly, his voice filled with bitterness. "No wonder you're so desperate to leave this wretched place... It's so cold here."
"Yes, it's cold," Aegor replied. Cold, harsh, and merciless. He suppressed a wry smile. No matter how strong or mature Jon appeared, he was still a boy. "But look at it this way—I got lucky. Someone kind came along and offered me a chance to leave. If they call me back, I'll have no choice but to return. But you… you can leave whenever you want, so long as you haven't sworn the oath. You could go back to Winterfell and never set foot here again."
Jon didn't respond. The idea of returning home was tempting, but Winterfell wasn't the sanctuary it once was. With his father in King's Landing, Lady Stark ruled Winterfell, and her disdain for Jon was no secret. Even with better food and warmer beds, life there might still be more miserable than here.
Jon felt trapped. Staying at the Wall was a matter of honor, but it also meant enduring endless suffering. Just like Tyrion, who had been "fleeced" earlier in the Commander's office, Jon was making the same choice: suffering for the sake of pride.
"If you decide to stay, you'll need to figure out how to fit in here," Aegorsaid. "Once you take the black, this place will be your home for the rest of your life. And that life could be long or short—it's entirely up to you. But if you keep using the sword skills Ser Rodrik taught you to humiliate farmhands, blacksmiths, and orphans, someone will eventually put a blade in your back."
"I saw your fight this morning," Tyrion chimed in, stepping closer. "That wasn't sparring. If those had been real swords, you'd have killed them a dozen times over. Do you think it's an accomplishment to humiliate recruits who've never held a blade before? Is that why you joined the Night's Watch—to feel superior?"
Jon's face turned red. He had taken pride in his victories, even if they were against untrained opponents.
"He's a smart boy," Aegor said, defusing Tyrion's harsh tone. "He knows what he needs to know. He's just shaken by all this." Aegor softened his voice, showing empathy. "Jon, let's not sugarcoat it. You came here because you wanted to do something meaningful, but have you ever considered this? If the Wall were a place where you could achieve greatness and live comfortably, why would they struggle to find recruits?"
"I—" Jon faltered. Aegos's words stung because they were true. He needed reassurance, but Aegor only offered harsh truths.
"In my homeland, there's an old saying: before the gods entrust someone with great responsibility, they first make him suffer and struggle so that he becomes stronger."
The words sounded foreign to Jon, but they struck a chord. Aegor omitted the rest of the saying—something about gaining rewards after enduring hardship. It felt out of place in this grim fortress.
Jon, however, interrupted bitterly, "That's easy for you to say. Why don't you stay and suffer with me, then?"
"I'm not a bastard," Aegor replied bluntly. "I'm my family's only son. I don't need to prove anything. All I have to do is return home safely, and I'll inherit the family estate. But you… you don't have that luxury. It's not fair, Jon. It's not your fault you're a bastard, it's your father's. But in this cruel world, you're the one paying the price."
His tone softened again. "If you're feeling lost, let me offer you some advice."
Jon raised his head, waiting.
"What do you think is the greatest achievement a Night's Watchman can accomplish?"
"Defending the realm," Jon replied. "Protecting the Seven Kingdoms."
"No," Aegor said, shaking his head. "That's just the bare minimum. The greatest achievement would be to destroy the White Walkers"
***
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