GOT: Chapter 281: Blasting the Heroes (Part 1)

The Chief Logistics Officer, absent for two months, had returned suddenly, shedding his cloak, rolling up his sleeves, looking ready for battle, and even ordering the brothers to gather and watch. News of his return quickly spread through the towers and beneath the eaves of Castle Black. Countless Night’s Watch brothers—whether they had already voted, had yet to vote, or were just preparing to—streamed out of their rooms and made their way to the Great Hall and election chamber.

Time was short, so Aegor didn’t wait for the crowd to assemble. He led his men directly toward the “battlefield.” News of his arrival preceded him by half a heartbeat. The cellar, which had gradually quieted after a long afternoon of waiting and frustration, erupted once again: voices rose in conversation, curses, and laughter, mixing with the banging of fists on tables and the stomp of boots to form a chaotic welcome chorus.

Aegor stepped into the hall and was the first to be spotted by Pyp, who had been watching the door. The boy put two fingers in his mouth and blew a sharp whistle, a skill he’d mastered in the mummers’ troupe as a child. The piercing sound cut through the clamor like a blade, and one by one, the hundreds of brothers in the hall fell silent. Quiet spread across the room as quickly as the cold, until only the sounds of Aegor’s descending footsteps, his steady breathing, and the faint crackle of the firewood in the hearth remained.

Everyone held their breath, watching the confrontation between two giants unfold.

“Chief Logistics Officer, you’ve returned.” Though he knew trouble had walked through the door, Ser Denys Mallister still greeted Aegor with a polite smile. Courtesy had become instinct. “You’ve certainly accomplished a great deal during your trip to the North.”

“The Logistics Department’s duties were obstructed, so naturally I had to intervene. Just fulfilling my responsibilities—nothing worth mentioning.” Aegor knew that if he took the bait and answered sarcastically, the old knight would turn the conversation toward accusing him of interfering in the conflicts in the North and the Iron Islands. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to strike first. “I was indeed busy, but what the hell have you all been doing? I’ve been gone for two months, and you still haven’t elected a Commander. And in the end, you throw your support behind a man who’s only worn black for a single year?”

Cotter Pyke was far less civil than Ser Denys. He snorted coldly, his small eyes narrowing into a glare. “Who we choose to support is none of your business.”

“None of my business?” Aegor’s voice rose as he stepped forward. “You’re electing the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch—the future leader of me and all my black brothers. The man who will stand at the head of the shield that guards the realms of men. This concerns everyone’s lives. So how the hell is it none of my business?”

He spoke each word slowly and clearly as he walked past rows of long tables, stopping only once he stood in the front row. From two paces away, he raised his hand and pointed directly at Yohn Royce.

“You’ve been dragging this out for two months, and now you present this man? What qualifications does he have to be Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?”

Since arriving in this world, Aegor had always tried to be polite—no matter the time, place, or person. Beyond the simple reasons like "more friends, more opportunities," and “peace brings profit,” the real reason was that his rise had been largely built on bluffing, or rather, persuading. To earn others’ support with words, they first had to be willing to listen. And no one listened to a rude man.

Royce had come to Castle Black this time with Cotter Pyke, clearly to oppose Aegor and stir up trouble. It was only by slipping away early that Aegor had avoided the brunt of their plan, and now he had returned at the moment his enemies least expected.

Since they were destined to be enemies, there was no need to show mercy.

He would strike first. Strike fast. Overwhelm Royce before he could speak.

Even a clay figure would lose its temper when someone pointed at their face and called them unqualified, let alone an old knight like Royce, who already saw Aegor as an enemy. He stopped trying to charm the nearby brothers and win votes. Clenching his fists, he stood up and met Aegor’s gaze.

Emotionally, Yohn Royce very much wanted to punch this insolent, shameless bastard to shut him up. But reason held him back. To strike a fellow officer, and a challenger, in the Great Hall of Castle Black, under the eyes of the entire Watch, would throw everything into chaos. The Night’s Watch was a military order, where discipline mattered more than anywhere else in Westeros. Arguments were fine. Fists were not. The one who struck first would lose.

Royce was tall, but he was old. Standing before Aegor—even as he straightened himself to his full height—he still appeared slightly shorter. It ruined any chance of reclaiming presence.

“I’m not qualified?” Royce said through gritted teeth. “Then what gives you the right to say who is and isn’t?”

“Do you need to be a chef to know when the food’s bad?” Aegor snapped back. “I’m not running in the election. I’m questioning your fitness for command, which doesn’t require any special credentials. But since you asked... I’d be happy to discuss my qualifications.”

The jab had landed. The confrontation had gone exactly as Aegor planned. But he couldn’t relax. Royce had already secured over half the vote. If he wanted to block him, he had to crush him utterly.

“Since I became Chief Logistics Officer, I’ve personally brought over a hundred new recruits to the Wall. I’ve contributed more than five hundred golden dragons in coin. I’ve transported grain worth over a thousand dragons, no less than ten thousand pounds of meat, and enough dragonglass weapons to arm a hall full of brothers.”

“Right now, one in ten men of the Night’s Watch came here with me or one of my envoys. In the past two years, every brother in this Order has had at least one more meal a week with meat and oil—paid for by me. Even the lowest brothers now have a change of clothes, extra socks and shoes, warm cloaks, padded quilts, gloves, boots… And if you flip the lining, you’ll see the Logistics Department’s emblem stitched inside. Let’s not even mention the wildfire I hauled in from King’s Landing and Queenscrown and stored in every stronghold along the Wall. That is my qualification!” Aegor locked eyes with Royce and roared. “Compared to the support provided by the North and the border settlers over thousands of years, what I’ve done is nothing. But unlike them, I didn’t receive a single man or half a copper coin of help. Everything I gave, I gave on my own. I am the Logistics Department. And the Logistics Department is me. Among the brothers of the Night’s Watch still alive today, no one is more qualified than I am!”

The note Sam had given Aegor had been a list—an exact accounting of everything Aegor had contributed since leaving the Wall for King’s Landing. It included every golden dragon, every pound of grain and meat, every piece of clothing and every weapon. It was Sam’s reminder: use these facts to shut them up.

If the nobles from the Westerlands who came with Jaime were counted, Aegor truly had brought over a hundred new recruits to the Wall. Aside from that slight embellishment, the rest of the figures were entirely accurate—if anything, he had understated them.

Yohn Royce had expected to secure the Lord Commandership in one final push today, placing himself in an unassailable position. Sam’s disruption that morning had ruined his best chance at a clean victory, but by the time Aegor walked through the cellar doors, over eight hundred votes had already been cast, nearly six hundred of which were his. At this rate, so long as the remaining two hundred weren’t unanimously cast elsewhere, even a few abstentions would be enough to elect him.

He had never expected Aegor to return to Castle Black today, and he was completely unprepared to argue or debate. Aegor, meanwhile, had clearly come ready to attack. How could Royce possibly respond?

He didn’t know if the numbers Aegor cited were true. He instinctively looked toward the Black Castle’s warehouse Chief and to Cotter Pyke of Eastwatch. Neither said a word.

Their silence confirmed it. It was all true.

Royce remained silent, working through a reply. After some time, he finally spoke again.

“Your contribution to the Night’s Watch cannot be denied. But as Chief Logistics Officer, providing supplies is your job. While you were comfortably ensuring our support in the rear, we were risking our lives on the front line. Every brother who stands watch atop the Wall has contributed no less than you.”

“I won’t argue that frontline brothers don’t deserve credit.” Aegor shrugged. “But you, Lord Royce? As a Ranger, how many patrols beyond the Wall have you joined? How many raiders have you killed? How many White Walkers?”

“I’ve taken part in nearly twenty ranging missions. I’ve killed one White Walker. There are many brothers with more patrols than me. But as far as I know, no one has killed more White Walkers than I have. Lord Royce, would you care to share your record?”

Royce cursed silently. He had been so rattled by the verbal assault, he’d forgotten this point entirely.

By the time King Robert exiled him to the Wall for rebellion, the Night’s Watch had already stopped routine rangings. He never had the opportunity to earn such achievements. And as for White Walkers—those cunning magical beings didn’t line up to be killed. Other than the one Aegor killed, the Watch had only succeeded in killing a second one by sheer chance during a rare ambush.

Since then, the White Walkers had rarely shown themselves.

Strictly speaking, there were only two people alive who had ever killed one. And no one had killed more than Aegor.

Aegor’s contribution to the Night’s Watch was enormous. No one could deny it. And after being gone from Castle Black for two months, the resentment over Lord Commander Mormont’s death had mostly faded. Now, by returning and reminding them of his work, he stirred their memories again.

Ser Denys quickly saw the danger. He noticed the flood of brothers arriving from outside to witness the confrontation and stepped forward to defuse the situation.

“Lord Royce hasn’t been in the Night’s Watch long and hasn’t had the chance to earn military achievements. But give him the opportunity, and he will prove himself a worthy Lord Commander.”

Under normal circumstances, when an argument reached this point, anyone with a bit of sense would yield and let the matter drop. But Aegor had no intention of stopping. This was not just a clash of egos—it was a matter of survival. He couldn’t allow someone who hated him to become Lord Commander. There was no retreat.

“‘Will prove himself’?” Aegor turned his gaze on Ser Denys and sneered. “That’s interesting. Tell me, what great deeds has our Lord Yohn Royce done that make you so sure? ‘Bronze Yohn’ is famous in the Vale and the South, true. But how much of that comes from respect for the Vale’s second-largest house? And how much from the Lord himself?”

Ser Denys answered calmly. “It’s a name earned in recognition of Lord Royce’s loyalty, perseverance, and martial skill.”

“Loyalty and perseverance? Fine. But to be blunt, I know many Northmen. In this icy, gods-forsaken land, loyalty and perseverance are hardly rare. As for martial skill... I heard House Royce possesses a set of ancient bronze armor, thousands of years old, inscribed with magic. It’s said to protect the wearer from harm.” Aegor turned back and locked eyes with Royce, walking toward the platform at the front as he spoke. Turning to face the growing crowd, he raised his voice so all could hear.

“I can’t help but wonder—maybe ‘Bronze Yohn’ just means he owns that armor!”

Royce’s face turned deep red, veins bulging in his neck. For a moment, it looked as if he might suffer a stroke. Unfortunately for him, when it came to wit and words, he was no match for Aegor. He struggled in silence, searching for a reply, until finally Ser Denys stepped forward again to scold Aegor.

“Lord Aegor, it is exceedingly rude to mock a man’s title and name.”

“I apologize!” Aegor declared, without hesitation, leaving Ser Denys momentarily stunned. But he didn’t stop. “Still, for a noble who inherited Runestone only because he was the eldest son, who failed to hold the Bloody Gate despite its natural defenses, who led the Vale’s second-largest house into decline... I find it difficult to trust his ability, or believe this nonsense about how ‘he will prove himself.’”

“And more importantly—” He turned to the assembled brothers and raised his voice, “—faced with the greatest crisis in a thousand years, do we really want to settle for someone who might prove himself a qualified Commander?”

(To be continued.)