Chapter 29

Aegor was utterly stunned—more so than when he had watched Bran Stark fall before his very eyes. In all the novels and episodes he had consumed, he had no memory of Benjen Stark being ambushed on his journey back to the Wall. Was this aimed at him? Had Jaime or Cersei sent someone to silence him? Or had the Starks uncovered his lies and come to capture him?

That didn’t seem likely.

His hesitation lasted only a second before his soldier's instincts kicked in. With a metallic shing, he drew his steel sword and placed himself in front of Tyrion, shielding the dwarf before the Lannister guards could react. Tyrion was his ticket out of the Night’s Watch, and Aegor couldn’t risk losing him.

“My lord, get to cover!” he barked.

“Benjen, come out! I’ll cover you!” he yelled toward the ranger. One of the new recruits—an unfortunate rapist—howled in pain as an arrow struck his shoulder, leaving him writhing on the ground. Yoren, the grizzled recruiter, shoved a skinning knife into the hand of another recruit. “If you don’t want to die, stay close to me!” he growled.

The flap of Benjen Stark’s tent lifted as the First Ranger emerged, weapon in hand. From all sides, shadowy figures surged from the darkness, shouting battle cries as arrows and stones rained upon the camp. It didn’t take Benjen long to assess the situation.

“Wildlings!” he shouted, his voice ringing out over the chaos. “Get on the horses—damn it, there’s no time. Everyone fall back to the stone wall! Form up and prepare to fight!”

The Lannister guards instinctively obeyed the First Ranger’s commands, even though they were technically under Tyrion’s orders. In the chaos, the group of nine pressed their backs to the old stone wall, forming a defensive ring around the injured recruit and Tyrion. Their faces were grim and tense, anticipating the inevitable clash.

“Aren’t the wildlings supposed to be north of the Wall?” Tyrion squawked, his usual composure replaced by naked fear. He crouched behind Aegor and Jon, the tallest men in the group, unable to see much of anything from his position.

Aegor, having identified the attackers, felt a wave of relief—this wasn’t some elaborate assassination plot. Jon, on the other hand, was visibly excited, eager for the chance to prove himself. In contrast, Tyrion’s guards—despite their full suits of armor—looked uneasy, especially the one who barely seemed like a soldier.

“No one told me the North was this dangerous!” the dwarf complained.

“Small groups of wildlings sometimes sneak south, but it’s rare for them to reach the Wolfswood…” Aegor began explaining.

“Can someone give me a weapon?” Tyrion cut him off, panicking. “I can’t defend myself with empty hands!”

“No time!” Aegor snapped. “They’re here!”

The wildlings charged without organization or finesse—no trumpets, no war cries, no gleaming steel. Most carried crude weapons: wooden clubs, stone spears, and axes. Aegor saw not a single decent blade among them. The first volley of arrows fizzled out weakly as one of Tyrion’s guards loosed a return shot, hitting a shadowed figure and sending them stumbling back with a cry.

It became immediately clear that this was a desperate group. Their shabby clothing hung loosely on gaunt frames, and their ill-fitting leather scraps and patchwork armor offered little protection. Aegor couldn’t fathom why they would dare attack a group that included seasoned rangers and armed guards. Were they really this desperate?

The answer would have to wait. The wildlings surged forward, shouting incoherently. But as Aegor met their charge, something felt off. They held back, staying just out of reach, waving their crude weapons and shouting more than they fought. It was almost as if they were trying to distract them.

Behind the men, wildling women darted around, their hands deftly snatching supplies from the camp. One even grabbed Yoren’s half-skinned squirrel, a detail that almost made Aegor laugh despite the tension.

Jon, full of youthful energy, struck out first. His sword clanged against a pair of crude wooden shields. The boy’s strikes left marks on the wood, but they didn’t break through. Benjen quickly called him back, worried about his safety.

Aegor’s mind raced. If the wildlings were here for supplies, fighting them wasn’t worth the risk. Let them take what they wanted and leave. It wasn’t worth dying over.

But then Yoren’s voice cut through the din. “They’re after the horses!”

Benjen turned sharply, his face darkening as he spotted several figures creeping toward their tethered mounts. The wildlings were cutting the ropes and preparing to steal the horses.

“They’re here for the horses?” Benjen growled, his anger growing. The realization hit hard: in the declining state of the Night’s Watch, their horses were far more valuable than men. Wasting no time, he raised his sword. “Stop them!”

Aegor and Yoren immediately followed Benjen’s lead, charging forward to scatter the disorganized attackers. Their sudden movement tore through the wildlings’ loose formation, and the tide of battle turned. The group that had been pinned back moments ago now surged forward, inspired by Benjen’s command.

Aegor worked in tandem with Benjen, cutting down one of the wildlings in a quick, brutal strike. The rest broke almost immediately, scattering like startled animals. They dropped their weapons and makeshift shields, retreating into the shadows as fast as their legs could carry them.

The scene was all too familiar to Aegor. Every time he had joined the Night’s Watch in driving wildlings back from the Wall, the result was the same. The wildlings were no match for trained soldiers. They ran because they knew that staying to fight meant death.

Benjen’s voice rang out again. “Don’t chase them! Protect the horses!”

The Night’s Watch rangers surged toward the remaining horses, driving the wildlings away before they could take more. Despite their efforts, many of the horses had already been untethered and driven off into the woods.

By the time the dust settled, the attackers were gone. Only three of them lay dead, their bodies sprawled in the clearing. The rest had melted into the darkness, taking eight of the group’s twenty-two horses with them.
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The camp was a mess. The wildlings had left behind chaos: spilled soup, stolen bread, and pilfered odds and ends. Even the pot used for cooking had been pierced by an arrow, leaking its contents onto the ground.

Tyrion paced angrily, lamenting the loss of his belongings. “They took my book! Why would wildlings steal a book? Do any of them even know how to read?”

“They probably don’t know what it is,” Aegor replied dryly. “It’s square and looks valuable. They probably plan to burn it for kindling—or worse, use the pages as toilet paper.”

Yoren’s scowl deepened as he surveyed the scene. “We lost eight horses,” he growled.

“That means we still have fourteen,” Benjen muttered, his tone dark. The First Ranger shook his head. The wildlings’ brazenness wasn’t just a nuisance—it was a sign of something much worse. The situation beyond the Wall was deteriorating rapidly, and they needed to act.

“We have to organize another patrol,” Benjen said grimly. “The wildlings are moving south in greater numbers. We need to know why.”
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