Chapter 463

In the modern world before Aegor’s transmigration, certain conflict zones frequently produced headlines that, while absurd on the surface, spoke volumes about the ingenuity of human adaptation: reports of militant groups assembling cannons from seamless steel pipes, factions converting gas pipes into rocket launchers, or even liquefied gas tanks being repurposed as grenades. Toy drones became battlefield reconnaissance tools. What seemed laughable at first glance was no joke but rather a testament to the advanced metallurgy and manufacturing capabilities of the modern world. When technology reached a certain threshold, the line between military and civilian applications blurred.

Unfortunately, the world of A Song of Ice and Fire was far from achieving such a technological baseline.

The first batch of cannon barrels produced in Hearthguard’s foundry had been cast and cooled two months earlier. Yet, no test fire had been conducted—they were ordered to be sealed away immediately. Aegor’s decision wasn’t due to any secretive plans to save these weapons for fighting humans, but because he had run into genuine technical difficulties.

The current techniques for casting cannon barrels in the Gift were essentially borrowed—or rather entirely based—on Westeros's existing bell-casting methods. The process went as follows: hire experienced bell-founders from major cities like King’s Landing or Oldtown at great expense, bring them to the Gift, and show them diagrams personally drawn by Aegor. Then, instruct them to work according to his specifications. After much effort, the final product might generously be called a bronze cannon, but in truth, it was little more than an elongated, slender bell. Hang it up, and it would ring beautifully. Turning it into an actual cannon, however, required far more work.

The use of bronze, a material with superior physical properties compared to iron, reduced the risks of cracking or exploding barrels. But transforming these “bells” into functioning cannons still required several critical steps: first, removing rough edges and imperfections that could cause stress concentrations by grinding the surface of the barrel. Next, the interior needed to be bored smooth to ensure straightness, critical for firing accuracy and velocity. Finally, a touch hole had to be drilled at the base of the “bell” to allow for ignition. Only then could it be called a workable bronze cannon.

With enough time and effort, these steps were achievable, even within Westeros's technological constraints. The real obstacle, however, lay not in craftsmanship but in the supply of gunpowder—specifically, saltpeter.

Even if a proper cannon was fully cast and processed, there was no one in this world who knew how to use it. While throwing grenades was simple enough, operating artillery required specialized training. Artillerymen had to be taught through rigorous exercises and live-fire drills to determine optimal gunpowder loads and techniques. Soldiers needed to memorize operating procedures, grasp the basics of ballistics, and develop aiming skills. Most importantly, they had to grow accustomed to the deafening roar of cannons so they wouldn’t panic during battle.

None of these posed theoretical challenges, but they all required gunpowder. Without a stable supply chain, the Gift relied solely on less than two tons of saltpeter that Aegor had risked his life smuggling out of the King’s Landing industrial zone. Launching a cannon program under such constraints would lead to one of two disastrous outcomes:

Either the Night’s Watch would face battle with inadequately trained artillery crews, rendering the cannons ineffective, or they’d burn through precious gunpowder resources during training, leaving them with none for actual combat.

Moreover, the effectiveness of cannons against wights and White Walkers remained questionable. Crude but effective solutions like grenades and wildfire proved far more reliable. In the Battle of Hearthguard, for example, the Night King had stood shrouded in darkness 300 yards away. A dragonglass cannon would have been useless against him—too far for shrapnel, too inaccurate for solid shot, and explosive shells were out of the question. Developing even a simple fuse wasn’t feasible in such a short time.

In hindsight, the Long Lake battle proved that Aegor’s decision not to prematurely field untested weapons had been correct. The success of dragonglass grenades underscored their practicality, even as their stock dwindled to less than a hundred.

But correct decisions had their time limits. Grenades were effective but unsuited for world conquest. As word arrived of new saltpeter deposits discovered in the Last Hearth region and the success of resource-gathering efforts elsewhere in the North, it was time to revive the once-abandoned, top-secret project.
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Preparing for war was simple; preparing in secret was not. Remote coordination wasn’t enough. Though Aegor understood that leaving Daenerys at the Last Hearth while he departed would be impolite, he had no choice but to explain matters to her in person and bid a temporary farewell. Leaving Warner Buckwell in charge of a thousand elite guards to protect Daenerys and her injured dragon, Aegor led the bulk of his forces back to Hearthguard, dragging the first batch of saltpeter behind them.

The moment he returned, the theatrics began anew. Aegor made no mention of helping Daenerys reclaim the Iron Throne, instead organizing the "Beyond the Wall Expedition." After a brief celebration to mark their survival at the Long Lake, the first set of orders flew across the Gift via raven and messenger:Mobilize manpower to reclaim and repopulate fortresses abandoned or overrun by White Walkers between the Gorge and Castle Black.Reinstate pre-war patrols, prohibit unauthorized departures from garrisons, and intensify daily training. Select able-bodied residents to expand the ranger corps.Order the rebuilding of tunnels beneath the Shadow Tower, Castle Black, and Eastwatch, previously flooded and sealed, to prepare for the upcoming expedition.

These measures, while strengthening the Gift's defenses, also served as a smokescreen. Meanwhile, Aegor convened his weapons development team for a concise but impactful meeting. He assigned tasks for cannon testing, redesign, and artillery training, sharing every scrap of knowledge he remembered from his modern education to minimize mistakes and wasted effort.

While cannons were the “hard” aspect of war preparation, Aegor knew the “soft” aspects were equally critical. After dismissing most of the participants, he kept one outsider in the room: Tobho Mott, a renowned metallurgist from King’s Landing.

Mott had been lured north to reforge Lightbringer, offered one-fifth of the sword’s dragonglass value as payment—but only after the war. Unwilling to risk being cheated, Mott chose to stay at Hearthguard, where, bored and impressed by the Gift’s industrious atmosphere, he began mentoring the Night’s Watch craftsmen. Over time, he became less of an outsider and more of a trusted collaborator.

“Tobho,” Aegor began with a smile, gesturing for him to sit. “Your contributions have been invaluable. Without your skill, the Night’s Watch would have suffered far greater losses. As promised, I’ll pay your share—fifteen dragonglass arrows.”

Tobho waved him off. “Ten is enough. Fighting alongside the Watch in this world-changing battle was an honor. Those arrows are a gift to commemorate your victory.”

Aegor smirked, knowing full well Mott had spent the battle cowering indoors. Still, he accepted the gesture graciously. “Very well. But I need your help again.”

With practiced intrigue, Aegor leaned closer. “How would you feel about crafting more arrows to 'complete' the legendary seventy-seven Lightbringers? After all, history is written by the victors.”