Chapter 30

The Chief Ranger, his expression dark, ordered the remaining horses to be tied closer to the camp and took Aegor and Yoren to set traps and alarms among the surrounding trees. Once the defenses were in place and the night watch rotations assigned, he finally released everyone to resume their interrupted dinner.
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“What did I say earlier?” Tyrion said, sipping the last remnants of the meat stew. “One moment, you’re a philosopher, and the next, you’re a true warrior.” His voice still carried traces of his earlier fright. He’d been protected by Aegor during the wildling ambush, and now his impression of the ranger had grown even more complex. “I used to doubt the claims that the Night’s Watch was the most elite force in the Seven Kingdoms. Now, I’m starting to believe you might’ve really killed an Other.”

Aegor found the statement amusing. Fighting a band of weak, desperate wildlings would make any unit look like the Seven Kingdoms’ finest. But he couldn’t dismiss his own brothers in arms so easily. “Thank you for the compliment, my lord,” he said with a slight smile. “I assure you, I’ve never lied to you.”

“Call me Tyrion,” the dwarf said, waving his hand dismissively. “I owe you a debt of gratitude. As for what we discussed earlier, I’ll do everything in my power to honor my promise.”

“Then let me thank you in advance, Tyrion.” Aegor gave a small cough, trying to adjust to addressing the Lannister informally. After weeks of rigid adherence to Westerosi hierarchy, dropping the titles felt almost unnatural.
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The fight had been brief, the resolution even briefer. Aegor wasn’t sure what impression he’d left on Tyrion during the skirmish, but he knew the truth: he hadn’t done anything extraordinary.

The most capable wildlings were all gathered under Mance Rayder, plotting how to survive the coming winter and the threat of the Others. The group they’d just fought was a weak band, even among wildling standards. Any trained soldier with decent luck could have won that fight as long as they weren’t struck by the opening volley of arrows. Their quick formation, standoff, and eventual counterattack were just a matter of following the Chief Ranger’s orders and executing them promptly. Another ranger could’ve done just as well.

The only deliberate choice Aegor had made was to shield Tyrion during the attack. That decision was purely self-serving—he needed the Lannister’s favor to leave the Night’s Watch. Even if he hadn’t acted, the wildlings’ feeble arrows were unlikely to harm Tyrion. But perhaps that single protective gesture had struck a chord with the dwarf, creating an impression of bravery and loyalty.

Regardless, Aegor saw no reason to undermine the image Tyrion had formed. The dwarf, likely seeing true battle for the first time, had overestimated Aegor’s actions. And while the misunderstanding wasn’t intentional, it wasn’t a bad thing either.
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“Why were wildlings here at all?” Jon Snow asked, his face flushed from the mix of adrenaline and guilt after his first kill. He was visibly shaken, the blend of youthful hormones and the weight of taking a life leaving him restless. “I almost never heard about such attacks back at Winterfell.”

“It’s rare,” Aegor admitted, his tone grim. “Crossing the Wall is dangerous. If they just wanted to survive, they could live off the resources in the Wolfswood. But this group wasn’t just looking for food—they were trying to flee south, to escape the winter and the Others. Without supplies or transport, they wouldn’t make it past the patrols of northern lords, let alone reach the Neck. So, they took a gamble and attacked us. If they hadn’t, some nearby village or farmstead might’ve been their next target.”

“The Others…” one of Tyrion’s more skittish guards shuddered. “You mean those things from children’s tales? They’re real?”

Under normal circumstances, none of them would have believed in the Others. But coming fresh out of a fight, with their nerves frayed and the trees casting ominous shadows in the firelight, the possibility suddenly seemed chillingly real. Everyone around the fire was uneasy.

“Don’t worry,” Jon said proudly, his earlier anxiety replaced with excitement. “This man has killed one before.” He nodded toward Aegor, clearly reveling in the fact that he was privy to a secret most weren’t. “If one of those monsters does show up… Aegor, you still have your dragonglass dagger, right?”

“It’s right here,” Aegor replied with a smile, patting his bag. “Don’t worry. The Wall keeps them out, but even if it didn’t, I’d take down every last one that crossed my path.”

He spoke confidently, though his mind was far from at ease. He knew all too well the growing horrors beyond the Wall. The scattered wildlings were either being driven south in desperation or absorbed into the undead army of the Others. While he planned to leave the Wall behind and avoid fighting them altogether, he couldn’t ignore the looming threat. If the Wall fell and the Seven Kingdoms were overrun, his survival—even as a lone transmigrator—would be far from guaranteed.
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The group finished their interrupted dinner without further incident, though no one felt like sleeping. After some idle chatter around the fire, Benjen Stark emerged from his tent. He surveyed the group with a serious expression before speaking.

“Enough talk. Get some rest. We were fortunate tonight, but the road ahead is far more dangerous. This stretch of woods is the last place we’ll find natural cover. Once we cross into the Gift, it’ll be open plains. Based on our current pace, it’ll take us three more days to reach Castle Black, camping in the open for two nights. That’s too risky. After some thought, I’ve decided we’ll push for a forced march. We’ll leave at first light and ride through the night. It’ll be hard on the horses, but it’s safer than camping in the wild.”

The group nodded in agreement. Aegor noted the subtle shifts in the timeline. The ambush, something outside the original story, had already introduced unforeseen complications. He wasn’t sure if it was caused by his presence—his “butterfly effect”—or if this group of wildlings had originally been meant to die fighting the Others. Whatever the reason, the story’s trajectory was clearly changing. With each deviation, new risks emerged. Even a stray arrow or thrown rock could mean death.

“I’ll take first watch with Jack,” Aegor volunteered. “You all should rest. We’ll handle the cleanup.”

The others didn’t argue. Within moments, the camp was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire and the distant rustle of the forest. Before retreating to his tent, Tyrion gave Aegor a firm pat on the shoulder. “Be careful,” he said.
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The first half of the night passed without incident. When Jon and another recruit took over the watch in the latter half, the calm persisted. By dawn, the group was ready to move. They packed up quickly, securing their gear to the remaining horses before setting off.

The journey north grew harsher with each passing hour. The temperature finally dropped below freezing, and snow began to accumulate on the ground. For the rangers, forced marches were a familiar ordeal, especially for Aegor, who had only recently survived a ten-day pursuit. But the others fared worse. By the time they reached the gates of Castle Black after riding non-stop for over a hundred miles, Tyrion and his guards could barely dismount. Their legs trembled, and their faces were pale with exhaustion.
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The gates of Castle Black loomed before them, an imposing silhouette against the bleak northern sky. Aegor couldn’t help but glance back over his shoulder. The journey south had been an escape. The journey back was a return to chains.