Chapter 252

While chaos brewed along the Wall, the rest of the world in the Song of Ice and Fire universe did not grind to a halt.

South of the Neck, winter had yet to arrive in Westeros. Stannis Baratheon, seated on the Iron Throne, continued his wars against the pretenders to his crown.

On the side of the rebels, the Reach—though vast and wealthy—had suffered repeated defeats. Its lords, who held the real wealth and resources, had nearly exhausted their willingness to bleed their coffers dry for a doomed rebellion. The Golden Company, marching under the banner of the true dragon, had secured one of Westeros’ greatest strongholds—but Storm’s End was not King’s Landing, and the lords of the Stormlands were not the long-loyal vassals of House Targaryen. Young Aegon and his backers had taken their enemies’ home but failed to seize control of the land itself. As for their last potential ally, Dorne—while they had publicly sent troops to aid the cause, in reality, they had yet to draw blood against Stannis' forces. Politically, they had not even officially declared rebellion. The moment the siege of Storm’s End was lifted, they had slithered back beyond the Boneway like eels, feigning effort while waiting to see the two sides tear each other apart.

On the surface, it seemed like everything was going in the Iron Throne’s favor. However, Stannis lacked the strength to seize this moment and unite the Seven Kingdoms. The mutiny of the "League of Justice", Jaime’s regicide and the subsequent struggle with the Westerlands, and the civil war against his brother Renly had left the Crownlands, the Vale, and the Riverlands severely weakened. The North, the only region still retaining most of its strength, had withdrawn from Storm’s End and turned back home—to save its own.

Worse still, the Iron Bank had refused to extend any further credit to the Iron Throne. The King of Westeros was now facing an unprecedented financial crisis.

Aegor, of course, was aware of these developments even from Castle Black. However, the Night’s Watch had no means—or authority—to intervene. After organizing two thousand New Gift settlers in Crown’s Rest, he led them southward in a great procession down the Kingsroad.

Once, Aegor had naively dreamed of training a modernized, professional army modeled on contemporary forces: a disciplined, elite force capable of sweeping the world before it. But plans never keep pace with reality. His first true experience leading troops had him commanding rabble barely better than peasants. His only consolation was the professional soldiers he had trained near King’s Landing, who now served as a skeleton of officers and squad leaders—a small reward for his earlier scheming.

Though far from battle-hardened, the New Gift Army, with its cadre of professional soldiers as a backbone, was at least capable of maintaining formation and discipline on par with the armies of any Westerosi kingdom—though its small size certainly helped in this regard.

To avoid unnecessary confrontation, Aegor disguised the army’s intentions as “transporting grain to the North.” He armed the mountain clansmen but kept the New Gift settlers unarmed, placing their weapons in wagons while organizing them into restructured units, presenting them as mere laborers.

Northern lords were predictably cold toward the Night’s Watch’s decision to allow wildlings past the Wall. When Aegor’s force reached Last Hearth, they were refused entry by House Umber.

This rejection did not surprise Aegor. Even if the Umbers had been willing to accept wildlings, a single castle could not possibly house thousands. After Mormont’s assassination, Aegor was no longer willing to bet on the wildlings’ self-restraint, nor would he risk them entering any Northern stronghold.

Thankfully, at least the Umbers did not extend their rejection to the Night’s Watch itself.

In Last Hearth’s great hall, Aegor met Hoarser Umber, a towering, rough-hewn Northern man who was temporarily in charge. From him, Aegor learned that no fresh news had come from the Wall.

Given the era’s communication limitations and the slow transmission of information, Aegor was not surprised. Moreover, many lords and maesters had no habit of corresponding with the Night’s Watch. Thus, information often reached Aegor only sporadically via messengers from King’s Landing.

“Balon Greyjoy is dead?” Aegor asked, mildly intrigued. “When did that happen?”

“Several weeks ago,” Hoarser replied. “Word is, his long-lost brother Euron Greyjoy returned to the Iron Islands and was crowned their new king. His first act as king was to contact King’s Landing, offering peace and even fealty.”

“Fealty to King Stannis? From Euron the Mad?” Aegor raised an eyebrow. “Then why haven’t the Ironborn left the North?”

“Hah! Some sea monster returns after years away, usurps his brother, and pledges loyalty to a king struggling to hold his throne? Who would believe that?” Hoarser scoffed. “It’s just a ploy—an excuse to pillage the Westerlands and the Reach under the guise of aiding the Crown. His niece, Asha Greyjoy, still holds Deepwood Motte and Sea Dragon Point, trying to carve out her own kingdom to rival her uncle. If Euron cared about the Iron Throne, he’d drag his niece back to the Iron Islands so the North could march south with Stannis unburdened. Instead, he’s already building ships for another southern raid.”

So that was Euron’s game—pretending to parley with Stannis while continuing his reaving. Aegor couldn’t help but admire the move. Euron had not only left himself a way out but also cloaked his piracy in the guise of royal service. It reminded Aegor of his own strategy: using Jaime and his allies’ votes to prop up Cotter Pyke, ensuring a prolonged stalemate in the Lord Commander election. Helping the weaker side to delay resolution was an effective way to seize the upper hand as a third party.

Stannis surely saw through Euron’s ploy, but his precarious position likely left him with no choice but to tolerate it.

Aegor couldn’t help but think back to Ramsay Snow, whom he had hanged outside Queenscrown. He wondered, with morbid curiosity, what chaos might have unfolded if two madmen like Ramsay and Euron had clashed. Alas, that possibility was buried along with Ramsay’s ashes.

If only dealing with Euron could be as straightforward as dealing with Ramsay.

After quickly processing the new information, Aegor realized the situation played into his hands. “So, the Ironborn raiding the North are cut off from support from the Iron Islands?”

“Exactly. They’re holed up along the western coast in the Wolfswood, too afraid to venture east of the Kingsroad. If you’ve come to fight them, you’re a bit late.”

“Am I?” Aegor thought it was perfect timing. He had no real experience leading troops, but against such a weakened enemy, it was an ideal opportunity. “No matter. Deepwood Motte is still in their hands. Let’s start there.”

“Bah! Why waste time with Deepwood Motte? March south to Moat Cailin instead! Our new Lord Stark is stuck outside its gates because of the Ironborn. With a pincer attack, we could break through, bring our twenty thousand men home, crush Asha’s rabble, and even invade the Iron Islands. It’d be a simple matter.”

Moat Cailin, the North’s “Bloody Gate,” was a defensive bastion guarding the Neck. Its capture by the Ironborn had turned it into a cruel irony, blocking the North’s own armies from returning home.

While Hoarser’s suggestion was sound, Aegor had other plans. “That may be, but Deepwood Motte is closer. Besides, if we march south without dealing with the enemies in the Wolfswood, they could strike us from the rear. With the training level of my mountain clansmen, I’m not confident they could hold formation.”

“Suit yourself,” Hoarser grumbled. “Your men, your decisions. None of my concern.” He studied Aegor for a moment, then slammed his hand on the table. “I’ve got it—you’re worried about Robb Stark holding you accountable for letting wildlings through the Wall! You’re trying to earn his favor by cleaning up the mess first, aren’t you?”

For such a rough-looking man, Hoarser was remarkably perceptive. Aegor smiled, neither confirming nor denying. “There’s some truth to that, perhaps. But more importantly, I want to ensure the North is peaceful enough for us to trade for grain. We need it to get through the winter. Lord Umber, my clansmen and settlers aren’t familiar with the Wolfswood. Would you lend us some guides to lead the way?”

Before Hoarser could reply, a louder, even rougher voice boomed from outside the hall.

“Which little bastard brought a pack of wildlings to my doorstep?!”