Chapter 17

The music and dancing faded behind Aegor as he stepped out into the cold night air. The courtyard was silent except for the faint rustle of wind. Guards on the inner walls pulled their cloaks tighter against the chill, and Aegor glanced around, quickly spotting the boy he was looking for. He began walking toward him.

"Hey, kid." A new voice broke the stillness. Aegor didn’t immediately see the speaker, but he knew he hadn’t taken the wrong step—this was the moment he’d anticipated. "Is that creature by your side a wolf?"

"It’s a direwolf. His name is Ghost," Jon replied, turning toward the voice. He also noticed Aegor emerging from the hall and quickly looked away, as if to hide his tears. "What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you at the feast?"

Aegor rounded the column by the door and followed Jon’s gaze. There, perched on a ledge above the hall’s entrance, was Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf sat with his legs dangling, peering down at them. If not for the occasional movement, he might have passed for a gargoyle.

"Too loud, too warm," Tyrion answered Jon’s question. "And I’ve had a bit too much wine. Long ago, I learned it’s considered impolite to vomit on one’s brother. May I come down and take a closer look at your wolf?"

Jon hesitated, then nodded cautiously. "Can you get down on your own, or should I fetch a ladder?"

"Do I look helpless to you?" Tyrion snorted. With a deft push of his hands, he flipped into the air. Twisting mid-fall, he landed lightly on his hands and executed a perfect backflip, coming to his feet.

Even the direwolf retreated a step, and Aegor had to admit that, for someone of Tyrion’s stature, the maneuver was impressive.

The dwarf dusted himself off and grinned. "I think I frightened your wolf. My apologies."

"He wasn’t frightened," Jon retorted, kneeling to pat the wolf. "Ghost, come here. Good boy, come here." Ghost padded over, rubbing his nose affectionately against Jon’s face but maintaining a wary distance from Tyrion. When the dwarf reached out to pet him, Ghost pulled back, baring his teeth in silent warning.

"Shy, is he?" Tyrion asked.

"Ghost, sit." Jon commanded firmly. The wolf obeyed, sitting obediently. "Now you can pet him. He won’t move unless I tell him to. I’m training him."

"Impressive." Tyrion scratched behind Ghost’s ears, ruffling his snowy fur. "Good boy."
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Aegor stood nearby, searching for an opportunity to insert himself into the conversation and capture the dwarf’s attention. When Tyrion finally paused, his hand still on the direwolf’s head, Aegor seized the moment.

"Jon..." Aegor began cautiously. "I hope it’s alright to address you this way, but I have to tell you—your uncle doesn’t want you to join the Watch because he’s trying to protect you."

"Protect me?" Jon’s voice still carried a trace of anger. "If he cared so much, he should’ve stopped his brother from bringing me into this world in the first place!"

"Ah..." Tyrion’s voice, though soft, cut through the tension. He tilted his oversized head and gave a knowing smile. "You’re Eddard Stark’s bastard, aren’t you? You want to join the Night’s Watch, and your uncle said no?"

With just a few sentences of overheard conversation, Tyrion had pieced together the situation. His quick deduction was remarkable, though his bluntness was salt in Jon’s wound. Jon stiffened, his lips pressed into a thin line, and stood abruptly. Ghost, mirroring his master’s mood, darted away from Tyrion’s touch.

"If I’ve offended you, I apologize," Tyrion said quickly, realizing his misstep. "But why...? The Wall is supposed to be a place where a man’s birth doesn’t matter—only his abilities. Isn’t it the perfect place for a bastard?"

Aegor spoke before Jon could respond, his tone sharp and cutting. "When you’ve seen a horde of ten thousand wildlings gathered to storm the Wall, their campfires stretching for miles... When you’ve faced giants tall enough to rip a man in half with their bare hands, or seen pale White Walkers with glowing blue eyes pierce a comrade with a blade of ice... When you’ve watched the dead rise again after falling in battle, you wouldn’t call the Wall a ‘perfect place.’"

"An intriguing pitch," Tyrion quipped, turning his attention to Aegor. "First, let me say that I respect the Night’s Watch greatly. I admire the sacrifice you make to protect the realm... though I’d never take your vows myself. Still, I do admire you." He paused, his smile fading slightly. "But forgive me if I don’t buy into the fairy tales of giants and ice demons. Wildlings are just people—unfortunate enough to end up on the wrong side of the Wall when it was built."

"Doubt all you like," Aegor countered. "But tell me, Lord Tyrion—have you ever seen the Wall? Do you know what it really is?"

"Of course," Tyrion replied, shrugging. "It’s one hundred leagues long, seven hundred feet high, and wide enough for a dozen armored knights to ride abreast."

"That’s the official figure," Aegor agreed. "But I’d wager you’ve never stood before a wall a hundred leagues long or climbed a tower seven hundred feet high. The Wall dwarfs anything you can imagine. One day, you should see it for yourself. But if you can’t, allow me to put it into perspective: the Wall is seven times taller and seven times thicker than Winterfell’s inner walls. Do you know what that means?"

Tyrion frowned, his sharp mind calculating. "It means... to build a Wall the length of Winterfell’s, using the same proportions as the Wall, you’d need forty-nine times the material."

"Exactly," Aegor said, smiling. "Now consider this: the Wall is one hundred leagues long. If you dismantled it and rebuilt it as a wall the height of Winterfell’s, you could encircle all of the North or run it along the King’s Road from Winterfell to King’s Landing. Its weight exceeds that of every city wall in Westeros combined."

"But the Wall is made of ice," Tyrion objected, though he was clearly intrigued. "Winterfell’s walls are stone."

"Ice weighs less, yes," Aegor conceded. "But when you consider the difficulty of constructing a seven-hundred-foot wall compared to a one-hundred-foot wall, the challenges even out. And yet, despite the scale of this project, it was built at the farthest edge of the North, not somewhere more defensible like the Neck. Why? What made the first builders—and all those who followed—dedicate such effort to the Wall’s construction? Were they mad? Or was there a reason?"

"An interesting question," Tyrion murmured, rubbing his chin.

"And there’s more," Aegor pressed on. "At its peak, the Night’s Watch stationed over five thousand soldiers at Castle Black alone. The total force exceeded ten thousand, not counting servants and support staff. This was eight thousand years ago, when the population was far smaller than today. What threat demanded a fortress of that scale, with a standing army to match?"

A heavy silence settled over them as Tyrion considered Aegor’s words. Jon, meanwhile, listened wide-eyed, struggling to keep up with the discussion but too engrossed to interrupt.

Aegor allowed himself a small, knowing smile. Let them think on that.