Chapter 253

An old man, as tall and broad as Hoarser Umber, stormed into the hall with a fierce demeanor. He walked straight up to Aegor and barked, “So, you’re the infamous Chief Logistics Officer of the Night’s Watch? Boy, has anyone told you—the Umbers have always suffered the most at the hands of wildlings, and we hate them more than any other Northern family. And of all the Umbers, I hate them the most!”

Aegor studied the man’s flushed face, unruly white beard, and the dirty white leather eyepatch covering one of his eyes. He quickly deduced the man’s identity: Mors Umber, uncle to Greatjon Umber and the second acting lord of Last Hearth.

It was said that, years ago, Mors had fallen asleep on the roadside. A crow, mistaking him for a corpse, tried to peck at his eye. Mors woke, caught the bird, and bit its head off, earning him the nickname "Crowfood."

Aegor didn’t care to guess how much of the story was true. The personality it implied, however, was likely accurate enough. He had no desire to antagonize a Northern lord at such a critical juncture. Raising his hands helplessly, Aegor explained, “My lord, the Free Folk have surrendered their weapons and provisions. They’ve voluntarily become New Gift settlers and submitted to the governance of the Night’s Watch. Moreover, the number of loyal soldiers and mountain clansmen I’ve brought with me exceeds that of the New Gift settlers. No matter what happens, we can keep the situation under control.”

“Oh, you can keep control, can you?” Mors sneered. “But what about when these wildlings run off into the Wolfswood, hiding and stealing like bandits? You think you’ll be able to hunt them all down? Old Gods preserve us, the North has enough troubles already without you adding to the mess!”

Mormont had forbidden the use of the term "wildling" during his tenure, but the Night’s Watch rules held no sway over Northern lords. Aegor could only swallow his frustration and patiently reply, “The New Gifts settlers I brought with me come from various tribes and don’t know one another. Their families and friends live within the boundaries of the New Gift under the constant watch of Night’s Watch patrols. If a single wildling tries to flee, their family and children would have nowhere to go. What incentive would they have to run?”

Mors opened his mouth to argue further, but Hoarser cut him off. “Mors, the New Gift belongs to the Night’s Watch. As long as they fulfill their duties and keep the North undisturbed, it’s not our place to interfere.”

“I don’t believe for a second that wildlings will behave in the New Gift!” Mors roared. “That brat Jeor Mormont—I heard how he died!”

Given Mors’s age, he had every right to call Mormont “brat.” The old man also appeared to have been drinking. Remembering his mother’s advice to avoid arguing with drunkards, Aegor softened his tone and said, “The murderer has been hanged, and their tribe, which resisted, has been massacred. Over a hundred lives were lost. Warner Buckwell, despite earning the reputation of a butcher, ensured that no tribe would dare cause trouble for the next fifty years. Rest assured, my lord.”

“Can the two of you let me finish speaking?” Hoarser glared at his brother and Aegor. “The North has no authority to command the Night’s Watch. Even if we did, that power should lie with the Starks. The only decision we have to make is whether to send guides to help them reclaim Deepwood Motte.”

“Guides? To lead wildlings to Deepwood Motte?!” Mors’s single eye widened as he fixed his glare on Aegor. “Do you know why I hate wildlings so much? It’s not just because they steal and raid. Years ago, they kidnapped my only daughter and called it ‘stealing a wife!’ And now you bring a pack of wildlings to my doorstep, asking us to lead them to Deepwood Motte? Have you lost your mind? You want us to show them the way so they can take more Northern daughters?!”

The wildlings’ marriage customs had caused trouble at the Wall before, and Aegor knew better than to try to excuse their barbarism. Still, Mors Umber’s daughter? A highborn lady, a sister to Greatjon Umber and a central figure in such a prominent family, had been kidnapped by wildlings?

Aegor didn’t know whether she’d been snatched in a raid or had run away to escape an arranged marriage, but one thing was clear: failing to safeguard one’s children wasn’t unique to the Starks.

They only steal young women. Judging by the timeline, this must’ve happened decades ago. You failed to protect your daughter thirty years ago, and now you’re taking it out on me? Aegor grumbled inwardly but kept his mouth shut.

He needed Northern support. Even with Moat Cailin under their control, the Ironborn wouldn’t be able to hold Robb Stark outside his own gates for long. Aegor needed to achieve something significant in the North before its true lord returned. That way, when questioned about letting wildlings pass the Wall, he’d have a solid answer—and the merits to secure a stronger position in the next Lord Commander election.

“My lords,” Aegor said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “I plan to assist House Glover in reclaiming their ancestral home. Are you certain you wish to 'consider' whether to help us? I know Deepwood Motte isn’t your seat, so you’re in no rush. But when word spreads south, no one will distinguish between the Glovers and the Umbers. All they’ll hear is: ‘When the Ironborn invaded the North, the New Gifts Army offered aid, but the Umbers refused.’”

“You little—” Mors flushed with rage, but he couldn’t find a flaw in Aegor’s logic. After a moment, he turned to another demand. “Fine! But I want Mance Rayder’s head! Give me that King-Beyond-the-Wall’s skull to use as a pisspot, and I’ll send you guides. Someone has to pay for what the wildlings did to my daughter!”

When Mance Rayder’s daughter had been kidnapped, he’d probably still been serving dutifully at the Shadow Tower. What did he have to do with this? Aegor was baffled by the absurd leap in logic. Before he could respond, Hoarser shook his head. “Then the story will spread differently: ‘The New Gift Army offered to aid the North, but the Umbers refused without making absurd demands.’ My dear brother, go to bed. You’re drunk and making a fool of yourself.”

Mors glared at Hoarser, but after a moment of hesitation, he stomped out of the hall, slamming the door behind him.

“Now then, Chief Logistics Officer, let’s return to business.” Hoarser shrugged, unfazed by his brother’s tantrum. “House Glover is a close ally of House Umber, and we appreciate the Night’s Watch offering its help. But my brother does have a point—who’s to guarantee your New Gift Settlers won’t cause trouble in the North? And don’t make empty promises. I won’t believe them.”

Aegor exhaled in relief. Compared to Mors, dealing with someone reasonable was a blessing. Though Hoarser had the same rugged appearance and strange nickname, he was at least rational. After a moment of thought, Aegor decided to skip the flowery assurances. “To be honest, I can only promise to do my best to keep them in line. If any of them steal or rob, I’ll repay double the value. If they commit worse crimes—murder, arson, or rape—I’ll personally behead the offenders.”

“Good enough,” Hoarser replied decisively. “House Umber will send guides and fifty men to help you retake Deepwood Motte. But I’ll ask one favor: if you can, try to find out what happened to my niece. If she’s among the wildlings who passed the Wall, bringing her home would mean a great deal to me.”

It had been decades. The odds of finding her were slim, and seeking justice for what had happened was even more complicated. But Aegor knew he couldn’t refuse such a reasonable request in this atmosphere. He nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Good. I’ll pick the guides and soldiers tonight. They’ll be ready for you by morning.”

“Thank you.”

Aegor understood that Mors Umber’s hatred of wildlings was emblematic of the North’s general attitude. This distrust and resentment would remain a long-standing issue. For now, though, he had secured their support, leveraging the goodwill the Night’s Watch still held in the North.

Tomorrow, Deepwood Motte awaited. Victory was the only option.