"Is Wylla still in Starfall?" Daenerys asked again.
"If nothing unexpected happened, she should still be there. My brother treated her well. Later, he arranged for her to marry a knight instructor under his command. I heard she had several children."
Daenerys couldn't help but feel a sense of respect for Eddard. Choosing to settle Wylla in the remote Starfall was a clever move. Letting someone who knew such a dangerous secret live on—was an act of mercy.
"You never suspected anything?" she asked again.
"Suspect what?" Ashara asked in confusion.
"That Eddard was lying."
"Why would he lie? Besides, Eddard was a man of honor, a true knight like Ser Barristan. He valued his honor and never lied," Ashara said firmly.
"Ah..." Daenerys sighed.
An honest man who has never lied in his life—when he finally does, he can deceive the entire world.
"Lady Ashara, I understand now. Since Princess Elia really did plan all this, then Aegon must indeed be her and Rhaegar's son," Daenerys said seriously.
Hearing the Dragon Queen personally acknowledge Young Aegon's identity, Ashara finally breathed a sigh of relief.
"It's getting late. Time for lunch. Come with me to the camp and try some Dothraki cuisine!"
The Wall, Commander's Tower
Jon, his face pale, pinned a distressed Gilly against the corner wall.
There was reluctance in his grey eyes, but he steeled himself and said, "It's not too dangerous. When Ser Gerold Dayne's fleet arrives, your son will head south with the Free Folk."
"Mmm... why me? Why not someone else?" Gilly sobbed quietly.
"You're the wildling prince's wet nurse. You and your son are inseparable. Stannis can't tell which is which. And you're braver than most of the Free Folk."
Gilly looked at Jon with hope and said, "The wildling prince could seek refuge with the Dragon Queen! You said yourself—her fleet is on the way. The King with the Red Heart wouldn't dare touch him."
Jon released Gilly and paced the room, troubled. "You don't understand. You don't understand how much the Dragon Queen's dragons provoke Stannis."
"He wants to summon a demon-dragon. He needs king's blood—a great deal of it.
He didn't even try to hide this idea from me.
Mance Rayder can still keep the wildlings in check, so there's no immediate danger. But his son... that's uncertain."
"What about the Queen? Won't she intervene?"
"She's in Slaver's Bay, far away. Even if she wanted to interfere, it would be too late. Don't worry—if Stannis really tries to sacrifice the prince, I'll tell him the truth immediately.
Your son has no royal blood. Sacrificing him won't earn R'hllor's favor.
At worst, Stannis will be furious with me, but he won't harm your son again.
I swear, I'm not lying," Jon said, trying to comfort her.
"Your oath means nothing. I'll only believe it if the Dragon Queen swears it herself," Gilly replied.
Jon's expression twisted, a flush of blood rising on his pale cheeks.
"Why?" he asked hoarsely.
"You're a man of the Night's Watch! The Night's Watch broke guest rights—killed my father, took his castle, his food, and his women. The Dragon Queen keeps her word. Targaryens speak with authority—everyone knows that," said Gilly.
Yes, Gilly was both daughter and wife to Craster.
"I—" Jon felt suffocated and ran a hand through his messy hair, frustrated. "My father was a Stark. Haven't you heard of the Starks' reputation in the North and beyond the Wall?"
"No." The wildling girl answered honestly.
Jon was momentarily speechless, then asked, "Sam is also a man of the Night's Watch. Don't you trust Sam?"
"I do. But you told me not to tell Sam about the baby swap."
Jon stared into the wildling woman's frightened yet unyielding blue eyes and said solemnly, "If we don't use your son to replace the wildling prince, Stannis will eventually sacrifice him.
When that happens, Mance will lose his mind.
The only reason the Free Folk have remained orderly since the Queen left is because Mance is still in charge.
He sends groups of wildlings to Eastwatch and continues recruiting more from beyond the Wall.
Mance has saved countless Free Folk and kept the North stable.
If he sees his son burned alive, he will surely lead a rebellion. How many people will die then?
Gilly, for the greater good, can't you make a small sacrifice?"
"I..." The resilience in Gilly's eyes collapsed, leaving only fear behind.
Then she wept again.
After a while, the wildling woman choked out, "Swear to me my son won't be harmed."
"I swear!" Jon breathed a sigh of relief.
Knock, knock, knock.
Not long after sending Gilly away, someone knocked on the wooden door of the office.
A flicker of light passed through Jon's dim eyes. Snapping out of his guilty thoughts, he asked, "Who is it?"
"Lord Commander, it's me."
"Saathen, come in."
The door opened and in walked a pretty boy.
He had large, moist black eyes, fair and delicate skin, and flowing black curls. He looked more like a girl than a boy.
Yes, Saathen came from a brothel in Oldtown.
"Ser Janos Slynt refuses to leave Castle Black," Saathen reported.
"He refuses?"
A cold gleam flashed through Jon's eyes—excitement mixed with cruelty. He stood up, took his sword from the wall, and strode out of the Commander's Tower.
Considering winter was approaching and the snow had piled more than ten meters high, burying houses and roads, Castle Black had activated its underground tunnels and cellars.
The tunnels were densely woven, connecting all the storerooms and towers.
The cellars were spacious and solid, with the largest one able to accommodate hundreds of people.
At the moment, Janos Slynt was in one such cellar that had been repurposed as a dining hall.
Under the dim yellow lights, he drank oat porridge while loudly chatting and laughing with several Night's Watch brothers.
The arrival of the Lord Commander brought an abrupt silence to the hall.
The sounds of chewing, conversation, laughter, and the clinking of spoons against bowls vanished instantly.
The Night's Watch, wildlings, and Baratheon knights all widened their eyes, staring at Jon as he approached Slynt.
"Lord Janos, you refuse to go to Greyguard?" Jon asked calmly.
"You little brat, go yourself!" Slynt laughed heartily, showing no regard for the Lord Commander. "You bear the mark of beasts. That direwolf of yours is proof enough.
If you ask me, it's trash like you who should be sent to Greyguard, far away from us proper god-fearing folk. Get lost, you bastard, hahahaha!"
The coldness in Jon's eyes turned murderous. He raised his voice and questioned, "You refuse to carry out the Lord Commander's orders?"
Slynt's fat chin quivered. He raised a finger and sneered, "Bastard, kiss my ass!"
"Hehehe," Ser Alliser and a few Targaryen loyalists chuckled quietly.
The cellar filled with a festive air.
"Very well," Jon said with a calm expression. He turned to a few of his companions and ordered, "Take Lord Janos to the stables."
"Let go of me! I have friends in King's Landing! I serve Lord Tywin—!"
Slynt shouted threats, but he was still dragged out into the courtyard, half-pushed and half-carried by "Dolorous" Edd and "Giant" Grenn.
By now, all of Castle Black had come out to watch.
Even Stannis stood on the steps of the King's Tower, flanked by Melisandre and a group of knights.
Slynt assumed Jon intended to tie him to a horse and forcibly send him to Greyguard. He shouted at the top of his lungs, "I will not yield, bastard! I would rather die than go to Greyguard!"
"You're mistaken."
Jon dragged out a thick oak chopping block from the stable entrance, its surface covered in crisscrossing blade marks.
It was what the stable hands used to cut horse fodder.
"Edd, hold him down," Jon said, drawing Longclaw from his waist and pointing to the chopping block.
"Ah!" A collective gasp came from the crowd.
Slynt's face suddenly turned ashen, and he looked completely stricken. Before he knew what was happening, he had been dragged to the stable and forced down onto the block.
The cold, rough wood pressed against his cheek, snapping him out of his stupor.
Like a fish out of water, Slynt began to writhe and struggle, pleading miserably, "No, mercy! My lord, please, have mercy, I…"
Jon looked directly into his eyes, just as Eddard had taught his sons since they were young.
If you are going to take a man's life, you should at least look him in the eye and listen to his last words. If you cannot do that, then perhaps he does not deserve to die.
Father, he deserves a thousand deaths. Not only can I look him in the eye—at this moment, I dare to meet Death itself!
Crack—
Longclaw met almost no resistance. Slynt's head rolled across the ground, leaving a trail of blood.
"Go, go now," Ser Alliser, pale-faced and panicked, kept urging his lackeys. "We leave immediately for Eastwatch. If the queen doesn't return, I'm never coming back to Castle Black."
"That boy…" The red-nosed old maester atop the rookery looked shocked. "I actually see a bit of her in him. He's a ruthless one, too!"
"Brother Seledar, sew Lord Slynt's head back onto his body and burn it before nightfall."
Jon felt a surge of satisfaction like never before, though his face remained expressionless. He wiped Longclaw clean with horse fodder and passed through the crowd as if nothing had happened, climbing up to the rookery.
"My lord, what are your orders?" Pyp came forward immediately.
His voice was quieter, his posture more stooped, and his demeanor considerably more respectful.
Seeing his expression and attitude, Jon sighed inwardly and said, "I'm sending Sam to the Citadel. He'll not only prove the existence of the White Walkers but also recruit a few maesters—at least apprentices who can read, write, and tend ravens.
With the large amount of supplies provided by the queen, and the wildling youths we've 'borrowed,' we're now capable of stationing men at all 17 castles along the Wall.
Beacon towers are only good for emergency alerts. For daily communication, we rely on ravens. Once winter comes and snow blocks the roads, ravens will be more critical than ever. So I need at least thirteen maesters."
The ravens in this world were not ordinary birds, and unlike pigeons, caring for them was no less a science than arithmetic or literature.
Aside from maesters, common folk simply couldn't manage them.
To illustrate: an ordinary person could use a raven much like a pigeon—carry it around, and when urgent, tie a message to its leg and release it to fly home.
But maesters were different. They could determine where a raven had been, where it could go, and even instruct it to deliver messages to specific locations.
"Don't worry, Lord Commander. The moment the queen departed, I notified the Citadel," said Pyp.
"I don't want anything happening to Sam. Do you understand me?" Jon looked directly into the red-nosed old man's eyes, hinting at something unspoken.
"I understand," the old maester replied with an awkward smile. "You can rest assured, my lord. I know exactly how those Citadel archmaesters operate.
When I first sent word, I clearly warned them I'd be writing to Lord Randyll Tarly as well. If Sam doesn't arrive safely, the consequences will be unpredictable.
After all, Lord Tarly's a fierce one. He even dared threaten the High Sparrow with soldiers and vowed to bathe the Great Sept in blood!"
(End of chapter)
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