Chapter 206

After spending the night at the Golden Tooth, Aegor departed with the Kingslayer in tow.

Traveling east along the River Road, he reunited with his "squire" Arya Stark at Riverrun and rejoined the logistics convoy waiting for him in Harroway. The peculiar group—comprised of the twice-disgraced Jaime Lannister, a runaway Arya sulking over her predicament, one hundred Northern soldiers, fifty Westerland “volunteers,” and Aegor's loyal logistics team—set out north toward the Wall.

To prepare for potential trouble along the way, Aegor preemptively armed some of his logistics soldiers with the armor donated by Tywin. The black-dyed gear blended seamlessly with their Night's Watch uniforms, making the entire group—apart from Robb's Northern soldiers—a uniform sea of black. Jaime and his bodyguards, now indistinguishable in appearance, blended into the convoy effortlessly.

Aegor couldn’t help but admire Tywin’s foresight. By dressing Jaime in black, the Lannister lord ensured that anyone planning an ambush would need to attack the entire group to guarantee Jaime’s capture or death. It was a clever, calculated move that further complicated any would-be attacker’s plans.

...

For Jaime, the shame of being sent to the Wall was an unbearable humiliation. His father had gambled everything in a war to secure the family’s survival, only to buy Jaime exile in black. Since leaving the Golden Tooth, Jaime had remained silent and brooding, offering only curt responses when spoken to. He carried himself with a sullen detachment that rivaled the stoicism of Jaqen H’ghar.

Arya, meanwhile, was still simmering after the spanking Aegor had given her. She avoided him entirely, occasionally letting out a disdainful “hmph” when their eyes met before turning away. To her childish mind, ignoring him must have felt like the ultimate punishment. Little did she know how much Aegor appreciated her newfound quiet.

With the troublemakers subdued and the Northern soldiers refraining from clashing with Jaime’s Westerland guards, the journey proceeded smoothly. Aegor relished the rare tranquility as he led this peculiar black-and-gray band north without delay.

...

The historical animosity between the North and the Westerlands had never escalated into direct conflict until Jaime attacked King Robert. Their strained relations stemmed more from differences in faith, culture, and the influence of the Riverlands than from any specific grudges. Jaime himself had never directly harmed Northern interests, and during the recent war, he had remained in Casterly Rock, recovering from his wounds.

This timeline had diverged significantly from the original one. Without the Lannisters holding King’s Landing, Jaime and the Northerners lacked the deep-seated enmity they might have otherwise harbored. It was this lack of personal grievance that allowed Robb Stark to accept peace talks with the Westerlands—and for his bannermen to refrain from opposing the agreement.

Robb's decisions carried more weight than Aegor had anticipated. As the convoy passed through the Riverlands and reached the Neck, they encountered no noble houses willing to risk openly opposing them. If even the Riverlords—whose lands had been ravaged by the Westerlands—could hold their fire, there was no reason for Northern lords, untouched by Jaime’s actions, to insist on his death.

Still, Aegor remained cautious. The dangers in Westeros weren’t limited to noble armies. Wildlings continued to trickle south of the Wall, pirates from the Narrow Sea launched sporadic raids, and banditry had risen in the wake of the war as Northern forces marched south. Even the seemingly peaceful North was fraught with risks.

To mitigate these threats, Aegor kept his soldiers armed and vigilant. Yet, in the end, the greatest trouble came from the last place he expected.

...

After crossing the bottleneck of Moat Cailin, the convoy entered the desolate expanse of the Barrowlands. This windswept region, dotted with ancient graves and lonely hills, stretched for hundreds of miles. Even in the sparsely populated North, the Barrowlands were considered empty and forlorn.

It was here, in this barren wilderness, that Arya abruptly approached Aegor, her face pale with fear. “Master… I think I’m dying.”

“What nonsense is this?” Aegor frowned, thinking it was another of her tricks. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I’m bleeding.”

“Where?” His concern deepened. “Let me see.”

Arya hesitated, her face flushing bright red, and she remained frozen. After a moment, Aegor’s confusion gave way to a dawning realization. “Is it… down there?” he asked cautiously.

She nodded, panic flashing in her wide eyes. “It started as just a little… but today, there’s so much… my pants are—”

“Enough.” Aegor’s gaze instinctively dropped, and sure enough, the dark gray fabric around her thighs was stained a deep blackish-red. Even without a sense of smell, he imagined he could detect a faint metallic tang in the air.

He swallowed hard, his mind racing. In all the life-threatening battles and political gambits he had faced since arriving in this world, nothing had prepared him for this. This wasn’t a crisis to be solved with strength or strategy—it was a normal, yet deeply personal, milestone in a young girl’s life. Normally, Arya would have had her mother or a trusted older woman to guide her through this. But now? Aegor looked around desperately. Everyone in the convoy was either a gruff Northern soldier or a stoic Westerland guard. Not a single woman in sight.

Was it normal for an eleven-year-old to experience this? Could Arya’s constant sword training have triggered it prematurely? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to act quickly, both for her health and to protect her identity.

...

As a straightforward man, Aegor’s knowledge of menstruation was practically nonexistent. The only advice that came to mind was to “stay warm” and “drink hot water.” But with no one else available to help Arya, he had no choice but to handle the situation himself, no matter how awkward it felt.

...

“Stop the convoy!” Aegor barked to a nearby guard. “We’re camping here tonight. Get the tents set up immediately!”

Though the sun was still high in the sky, no one objected to the early rest. Within the hour, Aegor’s tent was ready. He ushered Arya inside and lowered the flap for privacy.

“Listen,” he said in a low voice. “This is normal. It means you’re growing up. Stay calm, don’t tell anyone, and wait here. I’ll heat some water for you to clean up. Change your pants, and…” He paused, mentally scrambling for more advice. “Use a towel to… you know, soak it up.”

With that, he turned and left, determined to handle this unexpected challenge as delicately as possible. For all the wars and politics he had survived, it seemed nothing in Westeros was as formidable as an eleven-year-old girl’s first period.