Chapter 384

Stepping out from the dim shadows of the inner keep’s gateway, Aegor’s eyes quickly landed on his troublesome apprentice. Arya Stark was dressed in light, agile clothing, practicing her swordsmanship in the yard. Her ponytail swung with her energetic movements as she darted left and right, delivering powerful slashes and quick thrusts. With a nimble spin and a light landing on her toes, she kept up a relentless barrage of attacks, shouting what were likely self-encouraging battle cries.

Whatever the practical merit of her style, Aegor had to admit her swordplay was captivating to watch. It was no wonder a crowd of soldiers had gathered around, cheering, offering unsolicited advice, and even heckling with playful jibes to encourage her or her opponent.

Beric Dondarrion, observing the scene, raised an eyebrow in admiration. “She’s good—graceful and precise. Who is she? It’s clear she’s had proper training.”

“Arya Stark,” Aegor replied, “younger sister to the current Lord of Winterfell.”

To be fair, Arya’s skills had improved considerably after her training under Jaqen H’ghar and through frequent sparring with others whenever she could. Compared to Aegor, who could only dedicate limited time to maintain his own physical condition amidst his duties, Arya might very well surpass him in technique—at least on paper.

But while Arya’s finesse in swordsmanship was undeniable, it didn’t change the reality of her physical disadvantages. Her lack of strength, stature, and practical combat experience, along with her tendency to lose composure under pressure, meant she still had much to learn. The style taught by the Faceless Men was more suited to stealth and assassination than outright duels. Despite her flashy maneuvers with the wooden practice sword, Arya couldn’t seem to land a decisive blow on her opponent. Instead, she often found herself retreating awkwardly to dodge counterattacks.

“So, she’s a Stark,” Thoros of Myr commented, taking a swig from his flask. “And yet she fights with such fire and grace. Long legs, fine figure, no excess fat anywhere—her future husband will be a lucky man. Huh, wait... why is she wearing ankle chains? Is this some kind of self-imposed challenge to suppress her true strength?”

What? Aegor blinked, then froze as he realized the truth: Arya’s opponent wasn’t just some random sparring partner. It was Asha Greyjoy, the Ironborn prisoner who’d been captured for invading the North. Aegor had been so focused on Arya’s familiar voice and figure that he hadn’t even noticed the nondescript woman at the center of the field. In contrast, Beric and Thoros, unfamiliar with Arya, had immediately fixated on the taller, more imposing figure of Asha.

This wasn’t just a harmless mistake. Aegor knew full well the stakes: Asha was a Greyjoy, taken prisoner for leading Ironborn forces into the North. Arya, on the other hand, was the beloved sister of the Warden of the North. Even with practice swords, a single well-placed strike could prove fatal.

Panic surged through him, and Aegor shouted at the top of his lungs, “Arya! Step away from her, now!”

Startled by his sudden outburst, Arya froze mid-swing and turned toward him with a surprised and delighted expression. “Master?”

That moment of distraction was all it took. Asha seized the opening, her wooden sword striking Arya squarely on the back.
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Aegor’s heart nearly stopped, but the worst didn’t happen. Arya stumbled forward slightly, letting out an indignant huff before turning to glare at her opponent. “Hey, that was a cheap shot!”

“Did your master never teach you not to lose focus in a fight?” Asha retorted, lowering her sword with a smirk. Her tone dripped with mockery as she turned to the approaching Aegor, who was already pulling Arya behind him. “What’s the matter, Lord Commander? If I wanted to harm her, she’d have been dead a dozen times over while you were off gallivanting in King’s Landing.”

“Not true!” Arya protested. “I only lost once or twice. Most of our matches ended in draws!”

“Enough!” Aegor snapped, glaring at Asha with a mixture of anger and frustration. He grabbed Arya’s arm, pulling her away from the training yard. As they left, he barked at the gathered soldiers. “What are you all gawking at? Get back to work!”

Arya yanked her arm in protest, wincing at his firm grip. “What’s the big deal? I wasn’t done yet!”

“Do you even know who you were sparring with?” Aegor scolded. “If you want a partner, fine—but at least pick someone appropriate!”

“We weren’t using real swords,” Arya countered, her tone sulky. “And she’s only a little stronger than me. It’s not like she could’ve done anything.”

Aegor didn’t bother arguing further. He resolved to speak with the guards and forbid Asha from sparring with Arya again. As a prisoner, the Ironborn woman was far too unpredictable, and he couldn’t afford to take chances. Even if Asha hadn’t harbored any malicious intent this time, there was no telling what thoughts might cross her mind in the future. Arya’s safety wasn’t something Aegor was willing to gamble with.

Dragging Arya back toward Beric and Thoros, Aegor explained the situation to his guests. “The woman in the yard is Asha Greyjoy, a prisoner of the Night’s Watch. Arya here is the actual Stark you asked about earlier.”

Though Arya’s flushed face and glistening sweat lent her a youthful charm, it was clear that Beric and Thoros were far more interested in the mature and confident Asha. After exchanging some polite, perfunctory conversation, Aegor turned his attention back to business as the town’s mayor, Yarm, hurried over to greet him.
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After formally introducing his guests to the mayor and instructing him to arrange accommodations for Beric and his companions, Aegor got straight to work. “I brought back a shipment of saltpeter from King’s Landing. Some of it is ready for immediate use—deliver it to the weapons department for assembling dragonglass explosives. The rest is mixed with salt and needs purification. Have the alchemists and alchemists begin refining it immediately, with Maester Qyburn assisting. Additionally, this man here is Tobho Mott, a master smith from King’s Landing. Escort him to the industrial district and let him inspect the facilities. Have him make a list of any equipment he needs, and prioritize fulfilling those requests.”

“Yes, Lord Commander,” Yarm replied dutifully.

Once the immediate tasks were delegated, Aegor turned his attention to a troubling matter that had been on his mind since his arrival. “What’s the deal with all the tents outside the walls? I ordered a mid-level alert before I left. Why haven’t these people been relocated into the town after all this time?”

The mayor sighed. “You’re right to ask, my lord. A few days ago, we received a false alarm of an attack from the Gorge. As a result, many settlers from nearby areas—those who wouldn’t normally relocate during a mid-level alert—panicked and moved here. The number of people now far exceeds what Crown's Rest can accommodate. We tried convincing some to return to their homes, but they refused. Letting them all in would disrupt production, so we had no choice but to house them temporarily outside the walls.”

“A false alarm?” Aegor’s expression darkened. “Explain.”