An old man, whose height and build were nearly identical to the Hother, pushed open the door and stormed into the hall, striding aggressively toward Aegor.
"You're that famous Chief Logistics of the Night's Watch? Kid, has no one ever told you—the Ambers have always been the Northmen who've suffered the worst from Wildlings, and we hate them the most. And I'm the one among us who hates them the most!"
Judging by the man's ruddy face, messy white beard, and the filthy white leather eyepatch covering one of his eyes, Aegor quickly guessed his identity: the other acting lord of Last Hearth, Mors Umber, second uncle to Greatjon Umber.
It was said that this man had once fallen asleep by the roadside, and a crow, mistaking him for a corpse, swooped down and pecked out one of his eyes. He supposedly woke up, grabbed the bird, and bit off its head. The tale earned him the nickname "Crow Food."
Aegor wasn't interested in verifying how much of the legend was true, but the personality reflected in it certainly seemed accurate. He didn't want to get into a conflict with any Northern lord at such a crucial moment and jeopardize his mission, so he raised his hands in a helpless gesture and explained, "My lord, the Free Folk beyond the Wall have already surrendered their weapons and food, voluntarily becoming Grey Area citizens under the rule of the Night's Watch. The number of trusted soldiers and Mountain Clans warriors I've brought far exceeds the New Gift settlers. Whatever happens, we can keep the situation under control."
"Yes, yes, you've brought enough people to keep things under control, but if any Wildlings escape and slip away into the Wolfswood to become bandits, what then? No matter how many men you have, can you hunt them down one by one? By the Old Gods, the North already has enough problems, and now you're adding more!"
...
Before his death, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont had ordered that the term "Wildling" no longer be used. But the rules of the Night's Watch held no power over the Northmen. Aegor could only maintain a patient tone and respond without rising to anger.
"The New Gift people I brought were carefully selected from various tribes. They don't know each other, and their families and friends all remain within the territory we've designated in the Gift, under the constant watch of Night's Watch patrols. At the first sign of trouble, Castle Black can respond immediately. Individual Wildlings may run, but their families and children have nowhere to go. Under such conditions, how would they even survive?"
"Crow Food" was about to speak again when his brother interrupted.
"Mors, the Gift is the Night's Watch's permanent territory. If they let Wildlings live there, so long as they uphold their vows and prevent trouble for the North, it's technically not our place to interfere."
"I don't believe those savages can stay peacefully in the Gift. I heard how that boy Jeor Mormont died!"
Given his age, the man was certainly old enough to call the late Lord Commander "boy." And judging by his breath, he had clearly been drinking. Aegor remembered a saying his mother once told him—never argue with a drunk. He softened his tone and continued.
"The murderer has already been hanged, and his tribe resisted with violence. That tribe has been expelled from the Gift. Over a hundred were killed. Jarman Buckwell, disregarding the reputation for cruelty and bloodlust, turned the land into a bloodbath. In his words: kill enough so that no tribe in the Gift would dare cause trouble for fifty years. My lord, you can rest assured…"
"Will you two let me finish speaking?" Hother Umber glared at both his brother and Aegor. "Northmen don't have the authority to command the Night's Watch. And even if we did, that right belongs to the Starks. What we do have the right to decide is whether or not to answer the Black Brothers' call for help and send guides to Deepwood Motte."
...
"Send Wildlings to Deepwood Motte!?" It was like throwing oil on a fire. Mors's one good eye widened instantly, glaring at Aegor.
"You know why I hate the Wildlings? It's not just because they rob and steal. It's because they kidnapped my only daughter years ago and called it 'stealing!' Now you bring a whole horde of them to my doorstep… and ask us to send guides to escort them to Deepwood Motte? Are you mad? You want Northmen to personally lead our old enemies right to our daughters so they can steal more of them?!"
The Wildlings' peculiar marriage customs had just stirred up plenty of trouble at the Wall, and Aegor couldn't defend their actions. But… Mors Umber's daughter? That would be a noblewoman of the same generation as the current Lord of Last Hearth, Greatjon Umber's sister. A central figure in such a powerful family—how could she be kidnapped by Wildlings?
Aegor didn't know whether she'd been abducted during a raid or had run off to avoid an arranged marriage. But one thing was clear now: being unable to control one's daughter wasn't a trait exclusive to the Starks.
Wildlings generally only kidnapped young women. Judging from the timeline, this happened at least twenty or thirty years ago. He couldn't protect his daughter back then, but now he's taking it out on me?
Aegor grumbled internally but didn't dare voice it.
He desperately needed the support and cooperation of the Northmen. Even though the Ironborn held Caitlin Bay, they wouldn't be able to keep Robb Stark out for long. Aegor had to achieve results before the Warden of the North returned, to have something to show when questioned about allowing Wildlings past the Wall—and to return to Castle Black with enough merit to run in the Lord Commander election.
Now that Balon Greyjoy was dead and Ironborn activity in the North had decreased significantly, simply patrolling the region and "expelling" a few scattered raiders wouldn't make much of a mark. But helping Northern lords reclaim a stronghold like Deepwood Motte? That would be hard for anyone to ignore.
"My lords, I'm preparing to help House Glover reclaim their ancestral seat. Are you truly going to hesitate over whether or not to help us?" Aegor tried to keep any hint of threat from his voice.
"I know Deepwood Motte isn't the Ambers' castle, and you're not in a hurry. But when people in the South hear of this, they won't differentiate between Glovers and Ambers. They'll just say, with scorn: 'When the Ironborn invaded the North, the Night's Watch offered aid… and the Ambers turned them away.'"
"You son of a bitch—" Mors Umber's rage flared at Aegor's mocking tone, but he found no flaw in the logic. His face flushed red. After a moment of silence, he turned and offered a different demand.
"Fine, fine. I can't outtalk you. But I remember—Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, is imprisoned at Castle Black, isn't he? Bring me his head and serve it as a chamber pot. Then I'll send you guides. One condition—if you want my help, someone has to pay for kidnapping my daughter!"
When your daughter was taken, Mance Rayder was likely still serving faithfully in the Night's Watch at the Shadow Tower. What does this have to do with him? Aegor was left speechless by the man's warped logic, searching for a response, when Hother Umber shook his head beside him.
"Then the Southerners will say something else entirely: 'When the Ironborn invaded the North, the Gift offered aid, but the Ambers demanded terms before they'd help.' Brother, if you've been drinking, go to bed and stop interfering in serious matters."
Mors's face flushed again. He glared at his brother for a while but, realizing it would be undignified to argue in front of outsiders, flicked his sleeve angrily, turned on his heel, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Whether he truly went to sleep was unclear.
...
"Well then, Chief Quartermaster, let's get back to the real business. My brother has always had a temper, but he'll forget all about this once he sobers up. Don't take it personally." Having lived through many such scenes, Hother simply shrugged and didn't even glance at his brother's retreating back.
"The Glovers and Ambers are close allies. Since the Night's Watch is willing to help us, let me thank you on behalf of all Northmen. But my brother's concerns aren't entirely unfounded. Who can guarantee your 'New Gift people' won't cause trouble in the North? Don't beat your chest and make rash promises—I won't believe them."
Aegor breathed a sigh of relief. Compared to the unruly Mors, speaking to a reasonable man like Hother was a blessing. Although this "Prostitute's Nightmare" had the appearance of a brute and a strange nickname like "Crow Food," he was clearly a rational thinker.
After some thought, Aegor decided not to play tricks. "To be honest, I can only say that I will do my utmost to keep them in check. But if the New Gift people do cause trouble—stealing or looting—I'll pay double compensation. If serious crimes like murder, arson, or even rape occur, I will personally carry out the sentence and take the heads of those responsible."
"Very well. Then my answer is also straightforward. The Ambers will send guides and fifty soldiers to help drive out the Ironborn and retake Deepwood Motte." Hother nodded in satisfaction and added cheerfully, "But one small request, Lord Quartermaster—if possible, investigate the Wildlings who took my niece all those years ago. If she's among those who passed through the Wall, even better."
Decades had passed. Finding her would be a miracle. As for tracking down the culprit… it sounded easy, but execution would be anything but. Still, just as he couldn't refuse the guides, Aegor couldn't reject such a reasonable request in such a cordial atmosphere.
He nodded. "Very well. I will keep it in mind."
"Good. I'll select the guides and soldiers tonight. They'll be ready to depart with you tomorrow morning."
"Thank you."
Aegor understood that Mors Umber's hatred for the Wildlings was only a small reflection of the North's overall view of the Free Folk. This suspicion and resentment would remain a thorny problem for a long time. But for now, he had won Northern support on the strength of the Night's Watch's reputation. If he failed to seize this opportunity… the day would come when he'd be forced to choose: kill the Wildlings, or sell them across the Narrow Sea.
Tomorrow, the march on Deepwood Motte begins.
Victory is the only option. No defeat allowed.
(To be continued.)
***
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