Chapter 391

Aegor didn’t believe in prophecies, but that didn’t stop a whole lot of other people from believing in them. Instead of playing the role of some naïve rebel, dismissing those who believed in prophecies as fools and scorning them, Aegor preferred to do something useful—like figuring out how to harness that “belief” for his own purposes.

That’s precisely why he decided to name the set of reforged arrows Lightbringer, rather than something like Aegor’s Arrows or Night’s Watch Arrows. It wasn’t because he thought the name was cool or got a kick out of borrowing prophecy “copyright.” No, it was because using such a name would subconsciously lead people to associate the arrows’ owner with the prophesied hero destined to save humanity. By doing so, he could effortlessly tap into the existing influence of that well-known prophecy, greatly boosting the morale of the soldiers and civilians in the Gift.

Seventy-one arrows. Aegor named them Lightbringer I, Lightbringer II, and so on up to Lightbringer LXXI, so that if needed in the future, he could identify their authenticity and distinguish ownership.

But leveraging such momentum wasn’t as simple as carving a name and number into the arrow shafts. He needed to spread the news, not just to the entire realm, but at least to the people of the Gift and the North: Lightbringer had appeared.

In this world of primitive communication and slow information flow, how could one quickly ensure that a mass of people—beyond just the raven-wielding elites—learned of and accepted a specific event?

There was a way: a tournament.

When a noble family wanted to announce the birth of an heir, a lord intended to name a legal successor, or some petty ruler wanted to flaunt wealth or strength—or even when a nobleman plotted rebellion or intrigue—a tourney was the go-to solution. In this era, tourneys served as a hybrid of military exercise and press conference. The jousts and melees were merely a pretext, an excuse, a side attraction. The real purpose was this: to gather a large crowd and convey a message.

Take, for example, the tourney Robert held in King’s Landing to mark Eddard’s appointment as Hand. It wasn’t called “The Hand’s Tourney” because the Hand wanted or paid for it. It was called that because its entire theme revolved around a significant political signal: King Robert had chosen Lord Stark as his next Hand, and anyone with other ideas could forget about it.

...

Currently, the Gift—and especially the frontlines near the Gorge—was too tense for recalling troops to hold a full-scale tourney. But in Crown’s Rest and nearby Castle Black alone, over a third of the Gift’s soldiers and civilians were already gathered. A simple archery competition here would suffice to spread news of Lightbringer’s creation far and wide, significantly boosting the overall confidence of the Gift’s human forces.

Interestingly, even after Aegor had come up with this clever plan, Myrcella managed to offer a few more ideas.

...

“Seventy-one arrows—what an odd number,” the little princess muttered on their way back, frowning thoughtfully. “Why not claim you forged seventy-seven arrows instead? Seventy-seven is a sacred number in the Faith of the Seven. Many believers would eagerly spread your story for free if you played into that.”

She continued, “Didn’t that smith have some Valyrian steel arrowheads left over as samples? You could buy six of them, call them Lightbringer LXXII through Lightbringer LXXVII, and coordinate with him to make up the rest. Wrap the shafts in gold for better presentation, and you’ll have people flocking to you in droves.”

Aegor blinked at her. He’d always regarded Myrcella as a fragile, unfortunate girl in need of protection, but now he realized her ability to come up with ideas was rather impressive. Her expression when deep in thought was surprisingly captivating. “Good suggestion,” he said, “but not all of my allies are followers of the Seven. I can’t fabricate a lie just to cater to one group.”

“You can spin the story longer,” Myrcella suggested after a moment of thought. “Add elements that appeal to different faiths. You must understand: people will always believe what they want to believe. For instance, if you claimed that a priest of R’hllor helped you forge seventy-seven Lightbringers, the story would have enough elements for both Seven worshippers and R’hllor followers to spread it far and wide.”

“What about us Northerners? We follow the Old Gods!” Arya interjected, practically stomping her foot. She glared at Myrcella, feeling a sense of competition. This was her mentor; she couldn’t let some fancy southern girl steal his attention!

“Ah, my mistake!” Myrcella quickly apologized. After some thought, she added, “Then let’s incorporate Old Gods symbolism. What’s something sacred in both the North and the Gift?”

“Weirwood trees!” Arya blurted, seizing the opportunity to prove her worth. “We could say the Master found the sword in front of a heart tree. Bran gave it to him anyway, so I can just check with him!”

“Good idea,” Myrcella agreed. “We can say Aegor pulled a mysterious Valyrian steel sword from a lightning-struck or burnt-down heart tree. Then, the destroyed weirwood tree sent him a dream, instructing him to reforge it into Lightbringer!”

...

What had started as a lighthearted brainstorming session between two girls soon took on a more serious tone as the details of the story began to take shape. The more Aegor listened, the more he felt they were onto something. By the time the story’s outline was complete, his expression had turned solemn. This wasn’t just a tall tale—they were creating a myth.

Aegor, the man who had pulled a mysterious sword from a giant weirwood tree, then reforged it into seventy-seven Lightbringer arrows with the help of a R’hllor priest. And no matter how they ultimately defeated the Night King’s army, the Night’s Watch would proclaim to the world that Lightbringer had felled the Night King and ended the war.

Piece by piece, they were assembling a story that would resonate with followers of the Old Gods, R’hllor, and the Seven—or even with skeptics who merely knew of the prophecy. It would create a powerful narrative.

If spread far enough, this story would endure for centuries. Long after they were gone, people would consider it part of the official mythos, analyzing every word, scrutinizing every detail, trying to uncover a truth that could never be fully reconstructed.

“Ridiculous.” Melisandre’s cold voice interrupted the brainstorming. She scoffed, clearly unimpressed by their fabrication. Though she wasn’t above using illusions and rhetoric to achieve her goals, there was one principle she would never break: she would never conspire with anyone outside the ranks of high priests to stage events. Such collusion would undermine her mystique and authority. “Do as you like, but leave my name out of it. I was never part of this discussion and didn’t hear a single word.”

With that, the Red Woman swept out of the room, her scarlet robes billowing behind her.

...

“Don’t mind her,” Aegor said with a casual chuckle, waving off her departure. “She won’t tattle on us. This idea has potential—enough to refine and execute.” Turning to his trusted guards, he ordered, “Make sure no one leaks what you heard here.”

He then turned back to the girls. “It’s getting late. After dinner, come to my chambers. We’ll polish the story together. By the time the archery competition is held, this new myth will be ready to spread far and wide.”