Chapter XIII: Pomegranate's Wrath
"What do you lot have over the Golden Company that lets you make such promises?" rumbled Donal Noye, without preamble.
Aegon was shocked still. For the last hour, he had been acting as the one-armed blacksmith's assistant, and the typically taciturn Noye had done little else but bark orders at him. Fumbling, Aegon replied, "You know about that?"
"Aye," Noye said with a grunt. "Aye, I do."
Frowning, Aegon wiped at his brow, the sweat smudging with the dust. Despite the chill of the Wall, it was hot in the smithy, especially when one was as close to the forge as he was. Donal Noye was a fairly unassuming man, and as the blacksmith, did not seem to command any official authority in the Night's Watch hierarchy, but the man was more than well respected among his fellow Sworn Brothers; Aegon supposed it was a small wonder that the man was privy to information most were not.
"Is your father richer than he looks?" Noye went on.
"We are well-off…" Aegon said, unsure of how much he could realistically divulge, and how much the man might already know through the Lord Steward. "But moreso, we are well connected. My father served ably in the Golden Company and made many friends; they owe him a great debt." It was a passable enough lie, to Aegon's ear. Even he knew not exactly how Illyrio had guaranteed their cooperation in the goal of seating him upon his throne.
"It will be too late," Noye said after a long silence. "The wildlings are already nipping at our heels; when they're done with us, there will be no Watch left to save." He indicated for Aegon to grip the tongs tightly and then struck the metal hard. "Your father has been arguing with Marsh for the last day."
Ravens had come in from the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch both. Wildlings were being sighted in greater and greater numbers at various points along the Wall. Icemark, Long Barrow, Greyguard… They seemed determined to prove true every possible strategy the Sworn Brothers had pushed forward.
The most worrying was the Weeper, over near the Shadow Tower, they said. He was a particularly savage raider, and the men of the Shadow Tower reported a particularly distressing number of wildlings beneath his banner. There were whispers that the Lord Steward was intending to take the remaining garrison of Castle Black and fly to the Shadow Tower's aid. To Aegon though, these were not whispers, as Jon had told him as much in detail.
Jon disagreed with the castellan of Castle Black. Disagreed strongly and loudly. Marsh had taken to Jon easily, and had welcomed him into his confidence in light of his great martial experience, but they had clashed over the proper course of action with regards to the wildling threat.
The Gorge, Marsh insisted, was the only path the wildling army could take that did not require them to climb the Wall or cross the Bay of Seals. If they did not halt the Wildling advance there at the Bridge of Skulls, the Watch would soon find an army at their rear and no means of repelling it.
Jon had spent a fair time consulting with Maester Aemon and the relatively few rangers that still remained at Castle Black. His conclusion was that these moves along the Wall were a feint. If their force was as vast as Jarman Buckwell believed, and the threat of Others as great as the disaster at the Fist attested to, then the Gorge was simply too narrow and treacherous a means of transporting an army that was under threat. If they were fleeing the Others, then it was likely they had women, children, and elderly with them as well. Climbing the Wall or crossing at the Bay of Seals would be nearly impossible in those circumstances. They would seek the easiest means of crossing the Wall.
Which, naturally, was the largest gate. At Castle Black.
Sending away the garrison to combat the feints was suicide, Jon said. Dig in at Castle Black, and deal with any climbers as they come. The great bulk of the wildling army would surely come to Castle Black, and every defender would be needed when the time came.
Of course, Jon would rather not be here at all, Aegon thought with something close to a sneer.
"Hold it tight, boy," Noye growled.
Aegon's concentration had slipped, but back in the present, he gripped harder on the tongs, as the blacksmith requested.
"We had hoped to arrive with the Golden Company at our backs," Aegon admitted. "The wildlings would have been of little concern with swords as skilled as they coming to the Wall's defense." Noye struck hard several times. "But they would not come. They did not believe the talk of dead men walking."
Noye made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. "Few come to the Wall willingly."
"Did you?" Aegon asked, after several more strikes. "Come willingly, I mean."
Noye stopped for a moment, and gave Aegon a long, firm look. He tipped his head to his stump of a shoulder, where the sleeve was pinned up to avoid catching. "I did, aye. The Watch has need of smiths, and I'd sooner not have been a burden on my family."
"On account of your arm?"
A nod.
"How did you lose it?"
"You ask a lot of questions for someone with such poor answers." Noye grunted for him to turn the red-hot metal over, then hammered. "I smithed at Storm's End for some years." A hit. "Early in the siege, there was a brief sortie and I was a fair enough sword." A grunt and a hit. "Our best had gone with Robert." Hit. "I took an axe to the shoulder." Hit. "It was glancing. Hadn't thought much of it." A grim laugh. "I probably should have."
"It's a good man who joins the Watch freely, I think." Few enough here were good men before they came to the Wall. "I don't know that I could."
"Yet, you're here now," Noye said.
Aegon felt himself smile as the blacksmith continued his work.
He'd known that Donal Noye had been a smith at Storm's End. Men at Castle Black were keen to share stories, so it was all too easy to learn much and more of the men who called the castle theirs. The Sworn Brothers said that Noye had even been the man to craft Robert's fabled Warhammer. The hammer that killed my father, he thought, his smile fading. He shook his head, chasing the thoughts away. All men's slates were wiped clean when they came to the Wall, he would not hold it against Noye that he had done his duty.
"The siege," said Aegon, "how was it?"
"Oh, it was right pleasant," the blacksmith answered, deadpan.
Realizing his phrasing was not exactly elegant, Aegon amended his question. "I have never lived through a siege, what was it like?"
Noye dropped his hammer, and took the tongs from Aegon. He stored the hammered metal away, and grabbed a fresh hunk of it. He gave the tongs back to Aegon.
"The siege…" He hammered. "… was the worst year of my life." The blacksmith shivered despite the intense heat of the forge. "Lord Tyrell feasted outside the walls of Storm's End, near every day while we starved."
"Truly?"
"Truly." He struck the metal with ferocity. "We ate everything. Cleaned straight through our stores. Then we went through the horses and dogs and cats and then rats. We boiled the leather of our boots; have you ever dined on leather, boy?"
Astonished, Aegon could only shake his head.
"It's a poor meal, leather." CLANG. "And every day we saw Mace Tyrell and his men happy and full." CLANG.
"Surely some tried to throw open the gates?"
A bark of laughter was Noye's reply. "Not on Lord Stannis' watch. A handful of knights tried to escape, but Stannis caught them. Wanted to send them straight to the Tyrells with the catapult." He struck the metal. "The old maester convinced him it was better to hold onto the men. In case we had to eat them, you know."
Mother's mercy.
"More might have tried something, if Lord Stannis weren't starving right alongside us." He looked up to Aegon, inspecting his face. "He was about your age, I reckon. And Lord Renly was barely more than a babe then." He returned to his work. "It's hard to hate your lord when he eats the same dinner of leather and rat as the common man."
"How did you survive?" Aegon asked, genuinely stunned.
"The smuggler." A hit. "Daven, or somesuch, I believe his name was. Weaved his way through the Redwyne blockade in the dead of night." CLANG. "Brought stores of onions and saltfish." He laughed a deep rumble of a laugh. "An onion never tasted so good as it did then, let me tell you, Griff." Another hit. "The smuggler lost his fingers for that."
Aegon almost let go of the tongs at that, but managed to grip tightly again before Noye struck. "What? He lost his fingers for rescuing the garrison? Is Stannis Baratheon mad?"
Donal Noye smirked at his confusion. "Some might say that, aye. But I think not." CLANG. "The smuggler lost his fingers for the act of smuggling, but gained land and a knighthood for the rescue. Men have made worse trades."
Was such a thing just? Aegon could not readily say. Smuggling was without a doubt a crime, and one day, when he was king, he would order men punished for it. Men will die for it.
But capture by the enemy fleet would probably have meant death for the smuggler, or at the very least seizure of his goods. It took bravery and skill both to perform such an act, and Aegon knew he would wish to reward the man that would chance it; yet the man was a criminal nonetheless.
CLANG.
"Well," said Aegon, "you survived that siege Noye, If it comes to it, I should think you'll survive this one just the same."
The Gods brought me here for a reason, he thought, and I shan't be running.
As it had happened, Aegon had been unable to extract the rest of the story from Lemore (or Wenda) in the time he had to himself. She had spent a fair bit of time in the company of the old ranger Ulmer, and he had been kept busy at various tasks, including fletching his own arrows (using fine red feathers that they'd brought from Braavos) and mucking the stables with Pyp.
It was not a regal duty, but it was a duty nonetheless. He was a guest at Castle Black, so he would earn his keep. The stable had been overcrowded ever since Aegon and his party had arrived, as they had needed a number of horses to pull the wains laden full with supplies they had brought. Normally, the stewards would have sent the horses back to Eastwatch, but in light of the events at the Fist, Castle Black had kept the men from Eastwatch as well as their horses.
Dareon had griped considerably on this fact, though he, admittedly, liked Eastwatch only marginally more than he liked Castle Black.
Pypar made a game of naming the horses rude and crude things as they worked, and Aegon had participated to the best of his ability. Anything that made cleaning horse dung and laying fresh straw out more bearable was something he thought was worth doing. The wiry grey garron he had ridden from Eastwatch became Arsefiend, as a result, though it was Pyp's doing and not his own.
Jon had kept up the argument for another day, but it was only after Donal Noye and Maester Aemon interceded that Bowen Marsh relented. Jarman Buckwell had been undecided, while Ser Endrew Tarth was inclined to take the fight to the wildlings. Other high officers or esteemed rangers (for there were still some left; the ranging had not taken them all), had offered their takes as well, but it seemed as though Aemon carried considerable pull among the Sworn Brothers.
As the appointed castellan of Castle Black, Marsh was functionally the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch until the Choosing could be held. So, he sent word to Denys Mallister at the Shadow Tower that a force of near a hundred men would be sent from Castle Black to supplement Mallister's more meager number, and that they should avoid direct confrontation.
If need be, allow the Weeper and his men through the Gorge, and loose at them as they pass. Make the crossing a costly one. They could be dealt with later, when horse could be more easily utilized on the close side of the Wall. Ravens flew to the mountain clans of the North, and those whose lands most closely bordered the Gift and New Gift, as warning and call for aid both, but the Watch expected little from the Northmen.
Or at least, that is how Jon had explained it all to him. As much as Aegon might have liked it, he was not allowed into the discussions with Marsh and the senior officers. Jon was ostensibly the leader of their party, and the avenue by which the Golden Company would arrive. Marsh was careful to keep Jon in his confidence, but he probably would have taken it as an insult if Jon demanded his inexperienced son into the meetings, even as "experience he will one day need."
Aegon yearned for the day when he would be a participant in every meeting, and be allowed to share his own thoughts and input. He was a man grown, and so it rankled him to be cast aside as a child might be, but he understood Jon's position. Being present for such discussions would only raise more questions, and he was not accomplished enough in his own right to be accepted by any beyond his own small party. Secrecy was still of great import, even if it was now known by at least a handful more that they bore a link to the Golden Company.
The allotted number of Night's Watch men had left Castle Black with great speed, all ahorse and clad in black mail, boiled black leather, and dyed black wool. Aegon heard much in the way of chatter and grumbling in the wake of their departure.
Perhaps that was why, what seemed like scarce a day later, Bowen Marsh was changing plans. Jon tried valiantly to talk him down from this course of action, but the Lord Steward was going to take all but the greenest, weakest, and most aged men of Castle Black, and they were going to strike hard at the Weeper. He could not be allowed to cross the Bridge of Skulls. They would leave to reinforce the Shadow Tower shortly after dawn.
Jon was infuriated, and had been about ready to take the garrons they had ridden from Eastwatch back and take the soonest ship back to Essos. They would not aid the Lord Steward in his folly, and it would surely be doom to stay at Castle Black with so few men remaining.
It was fortuitous then, that circumstances changed overnight.
Aegon woke with a vision of ice and a yearning for fire. He had been a dragon again, though if he was red or black or brown he could not say. His heart hammered in his chest and a thin sheen of sweat covered his body. He felt hot, even though he knew this was far from the warmest room he had ever slept in.
Throwing off the rough, but usable enough, blankets and thick furs that the stewards had provided him with, Aegon got to his feet. Glancing around, he saw that Jon's and Duck's beds were already empty. The fire was low, somehow, despite the heat of his flesh.
He heard a clamor outside, and going to the nearest window, saw that the castle yard was a flurry of activity.
Aegon quickly clothed himself in the wools and leathers he had taken to wearing and made to leave. Just as he crossed the threshold of the quarters', he thought better of his current state, and returned to retrieve Brightfyre's scabbard. He tied the swordbelt firm at his hips, and, feeling more prepared, swiftly exited the King's Tower.
He had thought it humorous at first, that he would have his chambers in the King's Tower, but Duck had made a thousand and one japes about it, and slain Aegon's good cheer.
Near as soon as he was in the courtyard, he was pulled aside by a black brother.
Still more than a tad drowsy, it took him a moment to realize that it was Grenn, the Aurochs. The coarse, thick beard he had still not shaved made him a sight to behold, and the frenzy in his eyes gave him a half-mad look. He grabbed Aegon's shoulders.
"Jon's back!"
It was only years of lessons and reprimands that prevented Aegon from blurting out "Connington?" Instead, what he said was, "What Jon?"
"Jon Snow! He's back!"
That shocked him out of his daze. "The traitor?" he asked, more alert. "Was he not riding with Mance's army?"
Grenn shook his head wildly. "He's no traitor! He came back, he was spying on the wildlings!"
Aegon had not expected the Stark bastard's story to end well. In Essos, there was not quite the same disparagement of bastards, but here, the stain on one's honor was considered immense; men were driven to harsh actions when their every move was questioned. Aegon had thought Snow must have sought to escape the taint that was made felt by those from the Seven Kingdoms.
"But there's more, he brings news."
"News? Of what?"
"Your father, he was right," Grenn said. "It's all a feint. The wildlings do not mean to cross the Bridge of Skulls at all; they're coming here." He pointed out south. "From this side of the Wall."
Aegon pieced the story together quickly.
Jon Snow had returned only an hour or two hence. He had raced into the courtyard on a horse that was all but blown, and began ranting to the first brother that had grabbed at him. He was wearing a sheepskin cloak, they said, and it was only for the fact that he was recognized by an already awake Pyp that he wasn't turned to a man-shaped hedgehog by archers; the men had been preparing to make for the Shadow Tower, and so many were ready with bows already at the crack of dawn.
Snow had taken some sort of wound in the leg, and was delirious from the pain of it. He had immediately begun to talk of the wildlings coming for Castle Black. Marsh had been up early as well, and so quickly got the story from the supposed turncloak. Many were suspicious, but Aemon, who had been aroused from sleep to tend to Snow's wound, attested to his loyalty.
Many of the Sworn Brothers had been armed and armored already in their preparations to leave for the Shadow Tower, and so now, many were anxious to ride out and clash with the wildlings making for Castle Black.
But when Aegon had finally managed to track down Jon (Connington, he added mentally, for now there were two Jons which he might think of), his suspicions as to why they had not already ridden out were confirmed.
Jon was in the lower vaults of Castle Black. In these vaults they stored not just the Watch's foodstores and prisoners, but their great dusty library as well. Duck was at Jon's side, as was Haldon. They sat in on a loose circle of stools; several more empty stools were arranged beside them. All three were lightly armored, with their swords at their hips, and their wools somewhat less heavy than usual.
"Stark's bastard says these wildlings are all afoot," Jon said. "Marsh means to meet them with a storm of horse and steel." Aegon could hear the vindication in Jon's tone. Hells, he thought, I can almost taste it.
"And the land past Mole's Town is wide and flat," Aegon said.
Duck and Haldon nodded. "Aye, it is," Haldon said.
"So he waits for the wildlings to follow the kingsroad past Mole's Town before taking the fight to them."
Aegon had been to Mole's Town some number of times. Duck had made many more trips there than he had, and Aegon sadly knew why. "Digging for treasure," the men here at Castle Black called it, and Duck had taken kindly to the turn of phrase as well. He was a rather avid treasure hunter, as it happened. Mole's Town was a strange outpost, with most of its structures underground, but it was pleasant in its own way. He hoped that the wildlings would not burn it. Jon Snow had warned the people of Mole's Town, they said, and so they were expecting refugees to begin appearing at Castle Black's gates at any time.
"We will go with the Watch," Aegon said.
The smug victory dancing in Jon's blue eyes vanished in an instant, replaced with a frantic fear, "No, out of–"
"Father," Aegon interrupted, nearly shouting the word. "I can't live in the shadows of better men forever." He said, more softly. "I have never seen true combat. Is it not better to face it when victory is certain and our adversary weak?"
Jon looked torn. He glanced to Haldon for support, but it was Duck who answered his call.
"They say there's Thenns among them wildlings."
He had heard mention of Thenns. It was rarely a kind mention.
"They are the best equipped and most disciplined of the wildlings," Haldon said. "They even have a lord, called a magnar, if Jon Snow tells it true." He fingered his sword hilt. "The Thenns use bronze rather than bone; and the raiders among the group are experienced, with many carrying stolen steel. The battle will not be so easy as the rangers expect, Aemon believes."
"Even still," said Aegon, "I will have to fight one day. Against the Others and their dead men, or southern knights when I claim my throne." He laughed a thin and brittle laugh, "Of those, I should think the wildlings the weakest, and I shall be ahorse while they are afoot." He caught Duck's gaze. "And I have my loyal sworn shield Ser Rolly beside me!"
Duck smirked. Aegon rarely used his full name and title except to goad him.
Jon let out a long-suffering exasperated breath. "I best see you covered head to foot in steel," he said. "I will not have it said that the last dragon was felled by wildling savages due to my negligence."
"I shall go as well," Haldon said, patting at his sheathed blade. "My blood has not been raised high in some years."
"Good, good," Jon said. He looked to and from each of them, scratching at his blue beard. His red roots were beginning to become apparent in his facial hair. He would either have to shave or re-apply the dye. Tyroshi dye was not so easily found this far north, so he would probably opt to shave. "You will stay at our sides. Do not split off under any circumstances. Side by side we are a wall of muscle and metal that is not easily pierced; alone, you are a green boy in expensive armor."
Jon informed Marsh of their intentions to ride alongside the Night's Watch during their attack on the wildling band. He accepted the aid, but only after some persuasion (for he feared the Jon's untimely death might deprive the Watch of the Golden Company's eventual assistance). The Lord Steward sent scouts out to Weatherback Ridge to watch for the wildling advance, and over the course of the day, the men, women, and children of Mole's Town made their way to the courtyard of Castle Black.
Duck knew many of the whores' names, to Jon's chagrin. "Sky Blue Su, the beautiful Zei, and the ever elegant Lady Meliana," he'd said, pointing to each of them in turn.
Several of the Mole's Town residents had brought their horses with them, which the Watch had promptly commandeered for the offensive. For safety, the very old and very young were sent up to the top of the Wall by way of winch, while those of fine health and age were allowed to take the long switchback stair to the top, or take refuge in the vaults.
Aegon went to their chambers in the King's Tower to take up his armor, for Jon had kept it there. During his spars, he had used the Night's Watch's spare armor. It was best to be prepared; the wildlings could be upon them sooner than they thought.
Lemore helped him with his armor, while Duck helped Jon with his.
"Are you content to sit it out, Lemore?" Aegon asked.
Lemore smiled softly. "I am not quite so eager for battle as I once was." She tied the knots at the back of his breastplate. "Twenty years ago, I would have relished this chance."
Haldon sat to the side, already fully armored. He looked considerably more impressive than he usually did; it felt weird to think of him as a halfmaester while he looked as he did, for he looked every inch the warrior. "I should think the Night's Watch would take offense if we brought a woman to battle." He splayed his hands out. "They might consider it mocking."
Nodding, Lemore affixed his left spaulder. "The Kingswood Brotherhood was a very singular institution," she said, "we were all brothers and sisters, then."
As she tied his right spaulder tight, Aegon asked what he had been thinking since the old ranger Ulmer had spilled her secret. "How did you escape? How did you end up… involved, in all of this?" Aegon gestured vaguely at himself.
"Toyne," she replied. "Simon Toyne. He had family across the Narrow Sea."
"Blackheart," supplied Jon. "He led the Golden Company in those days, before Strickland turned them craven." He growled the last words. "Blackheart was a good man, and took on many an exile. I met Lemore there… after the Battle of the Bells."
Lemore moved on to his lower armor. "Illyrio brought me on first, for while you are a babe, one woman is about the same as any other. But quickly enough, you were toddling about, and the touch of a single woman becomes more significant."
He remembered those early years cloudily. He had thought Lemore his mother then, he knew. His father had been away fighting, they told him, but the truth was that Jon was not yet aware of Illyrio and Varys' plot. He was fighting, that much was true, but he had known nothing of his supposed son.
"And they had need of one with special knowledge of the Seven, besides," she said.
"Were they septons in the Kingswood Brotherhood?" Aegon asked laughingly.
"No, they were a decidedly impious lot." She laughed in remembrance. "But I had not always been an outlaw, either. Before the Brotherhood, I was a young lady, actually."
Aegon's eyes scanned over to Jon. Jon had generally preferred to refer to Lemore as "Lady" over "Septa". He supposed that now made some sense, though she had never truly carried herself as the women of smallfolk tended to.
"Wenda is not my true name, though it is not false, exactly. Gwendolin, I was, so many years ago. Gwendolin Cafferen."
Duck snapped his fingers, dropping the vambrace he had been helping Jon with to do so. "Ha-ha! And there is the white fawn!"
Lemore blushed. "Yes, the white fawn of my house." She paused from her armoring and brandished her seven-pointed star pendant. "My father had many daughters, rather too many, really. And as I was one of the younger girls, he decided to send me away to a motherhouse, where I would become a woman of the Faith. I stayed there some years, but eventually… Well, I left." She laughed.
Aegon felt his lips curl into a grin. "So, you are no true septa at all! My my, Lemore, how scandalous." He teased.
She swatted at the back of his still uncovered head. "And you are no true squire."
"Seems we are a troupe of mummers and exiles," he replied. He looked over to Haldon. "And you, Halfmaester! What is your story?" Aegon knew that he had left the Citadel over disagreements with their methods, that while had studied rigorously, he had never forged a proper chain; but he knew little else. "Should I die on the battlefield today, I would like to die knowing my closest friends and allies."
Aegon realized his misstep immediately, as the humor and good cheer in the room seemed to vanish in a heartbeat. Jon gave him a hard look, and Lemore held a hand to his side. "Do not jest in that manner," she chided. "It is not becoming."
"Forgive me," he said.
They were his closest friends. They were his family, truly.
That was why it had stung so fiercely to discover they had hidden his identity from him. Jon was his father and Lemore his mother. Haldon was his… uncle, he supposed. And Duck was without a doubt his brother. That they (other than Duck) had kept him in the dark for so long had shaken his very world. They meant everything to him, and so it had hurt.
Now, his battles were beginning. As much as he believed in his grander purpose, he knew that the Stranger could come at any moment. In an instant, everything could change.
I am not my sire, he thought, I will not repeat his mistakes.
He would know his family; know them truly while he still could.
"I'm sorry to say that there is no story to tell." Haldon offered a dry chuckle. "I come from the Vale, and wished to study at the Citadel. Eventually, I left and made my own way. I have no tales of derring-do or branding highborn wastrels," he said. "Some men are as they seem and nothing more."
Aegon smiled to the Halfmaester. "I will badger you for tales of your youth another time then," Aegon said, "after the battle. I cannot imagine you lived your entire life sedate and collected."
Fully armored, Jon was a sight to behold.
Jon Connington was a mighty swordsman in his younger days, even all these years since his last engagements with the Golden Company, he looked every bit a fighter. His armor was particularly eye-catching. It bore no sigils of House Connington, for Jon was not fool enough to wear his identity on his sleeve, but it very much showed his connection to the legendary mercenary band. The armor was plain steel, in truth, Aegon knew, but it had been worked by a skilled smith. The armorsmith had worked gold coloring (not true gold, but some substitute) into the metal.
From head to foot, Jon shone gold.
It was so wonderfully brilliant and garish and completely at odds with the man himself that Aegon could do nothing but laugh. The armor fully encased him, but it was not wrought in the traditional Westerosi style; it very much bore the flair of an Essosi smith. Any man that bore witness to it would not mistake him for a Lannister. If one pictured "The Golden Company" in their mind's eye, surely this was what they saw.
Duck and Haldon's armor, meanwhile, was plain steel. Neither wore a surcoat or any special adornment. While not yet being worn, Aegon knew Duck preferred a greathelm. Haldon held a frog-faced helmet at his side.
Aegon's armor too, was simple in comparison to the glory and radiance of Jon's. He bore no ornamentation, but the one flair he was allowed was its color; it was black. It was not the black of the Night's Watch but something subtly different, though no less dark than the blackened plate the Watch called their own. One day, he might wear a Targaryen surcoat or tabard over the armor, but for the nonce, he must remain incognito.
It was the first time he had worn this new suit, in fact. He had worn several different sets of armor throughout his youth, though never one full plate, for his growth had come in fits and starts. Jon had commissioned this new armor in Braavos while he attempted to convince the Golden Company to sail to the Wall. ("You are about done growing; it is high time you had a proper suit of plate," Jon had said, "When your identity is known, you will have true Targaryen armor. But until that time, this will serve.")
He wore chain, gambeson, and wool beneath the armor. It was a tight fit with so many layers, but in an environment this cold, it was important not only for the protection it offered. They each had cloaks that fastened around their shoulders as well: black and warm, courtesy of the Night's Watch.
Less than an hour later, they saw the smoke rise in grim grey pillars from Mole's Town, and the beacon on Weatherback Ridge was lit.
Aegon patted Arsefiend as he waited. The garron's ears flicked all around, and it was slowly digging a trench in the muddy ground beneath them with its hooves. Clearly, the horse was not immune to the sense of anxiety that was permeating the men of the Night's Watch.
Jon sat tall and brilliant on his short brown mare (he had not cared whether he rode the same horse from their initial journey or not). Pyp had called that one Sword Swallower, but Aegon hoped that its fate in the battle would diverge from its name.
Haldon looked somewhat uneasy in his armor, but his horse was not quite as bothered as he was.
Duck… Well, Aegon couldn't tell. His helm was on, and the slit in it for his eyes betrayed precious little of his expression.
The men of the Night's Watch varied considerably in arms and in armor. Some wore crude halfhelms, others a mail coif, and yet others a full helm. Each wore the black of their order, though the more highborn of them wore clearly higher quality cloaks. Some wore full plate, and others only certain pieces. There seemed to be little rhyme or reason to their choices. Some clutched the fine steel swords Aegon had brought from Braavos, but others held well-used axes or long spears. But for all that they seemed a loose collection of individuals in look, most every one shared the solemnity of their duty.
There were near two hundred men assembled. Many of them Aegon knew from his assistance in various duties and his roamings during supper. Calum was there ("It's been too long since I've had a good fight," he told Aegon), having been kept on since their arrival from Eastwatch. Dareon was all too glad to have not been ordered to fight, and Pyp was considered too green by the Lord Steward, but it had rankled Grenn some to not be taken along. ("I survived the Fist," he had griped).
The one they called Dolorous Edd was there, picking at his face and grumbling. ("I hope it's a Thenn that gets me; bronze cuts cleaner than bone.")
There was Lemore's old comrade Ulmer, and Dywen as well. Both had returned from the mutiny at Craster's Keep together, and were among the more experienced sworn brothers, though they were near the back, as their specialty was more bow than sword. Ser Endrew Tarth was near the head of them with the Lord Steward, both clad in near full black plate and mail. Marsh looked less like a great fruit when in armor, though there was still some resemblance.
Arsefiend whickered. Aegon leaned forward and stroked the horse on the side of its head. "They'll break easily," Aegon said to the horse, "you will survive another day, I'm sure."
Near the door to Maester Aemon's quarters, Aegon saw Pyp and Grenn and a third man. Grenn stood with his arms crossed, but Pyp looked happy enough to not be involved. The third man stood with a crutch. His hair was near shoulder length, a fair bit shorter than Aegon's own, and dark, almost black. Must be Snow, then, Aegon thought.
Jon Snow had done his part. There was much in the way of muttering and accusation when it came to the brother-turned-traitor-turned-brother, but none could say he had not given the garrison time to prepare. If the wildlings had been allowed to infiltrate Castle Black in the night… Aegon shuddered at the thought of it.
Aegon felt strangely calm as he waited for Marsh to order them forward.
He had trained with a sword (and lance too) for most of his life. Hours and hours of sparring, near every day for over ten years. He had absorbed countless lessons from Haldon, and Jon, and even Duck about battle. When to push forward and when to retreat. When a certain weapon might be a better choice. When heavy armor might be a liability. How to rally men in defeat and how to ensure victory did not turn a disciplined force into fools.
How to fight… How to lead… Aegon knew it all.
But do I really?
He had never taken a man's life. He had never taken a wound more serious than what he might accidentally inflict on himself when carving up a rabbit.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahooooooooooooooooooooo, rang out the Lord Steward's horn, aaaaaahoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
And then the anxious mass of black clad men and their whinnying mounts lurched forward like a drunken giant.
"Put down your visor!" He heard Duck yell as he spurred Arsefiend into movement. Ever dutiful, Aegon slammed it shut. He didn't like having his sight restricted so much, but he knew all too keenly the value of safety.
The storm of hooves and the clank of shifting armor was all Aegon heard. He had never ridden among so great a number, and the sheer scope of it was almost astounding to him. He felt the rumble of hooves echoing within himself. His heart hammered.
He saw Jon shining and gold, Duck leaning forward in excitement, and Haldon cautious. He saw the Sworn Brothers of the Night's Watch, each preparing for the oncoming attack in his own manner. He saw Marsh at the head, and he saw Dywen and Ulmer and the other archers with their bows already drawn.
Aegon was near the middle of the formation, Jon had made sure of that.
The horses were a rolling thunder as they rode, and the sky above them a dim, smoky purple. Stars were beginning to show, but they had more enough light to see.
They crested a low hill, and then Aegon finally saw the wildlings; he was immediately struck by their number.
This will be a slaughter, he thought grimly. If they are smart, they will yield.
Jon Snow had said there were less than one hundred and twenty, and it seemed to ring with truth. They nigh doubled the number of wildlings, and any one of their own force was better equipped than the best of these raiders. The majority of them bore some glint of bronze, but not a one had something comparable to a suit of plate. Most wore skins and leather.
The Thenns (For they must be, with their bronze, he thought) marched in some a formation, but the twenty odd beside them were loose. They seemed to freeze as the Night's Watch neared.
"Nock!" called the high voice of the Lord Steward.
They were almost close enough that arrows would hit.
"Draw!"
Aegon saw a few arrows come sailing from the wildlings' ranks, but they were too far, and not a one even made it to Marsh at the front. Aegon offered a quick prayer to the Warrior, for courage, and the Smith, for strength.
"Loose!"
Dywen and Ulmer and the rest of the archers loosed, and Aegon almost felt the thrum of the bowstrings. Perhaps twenty of their two hundred had come with bows, and of those twenty arrows flying from their ranks, not a one seemed to strike a wildling. Some met shields, others hit the ground. But not a single wildling fell.
… they did not fall. But they broke.
"They're scattering!" He heard someone shout over the pounding of hooves.
The wildlings were shouting and screaming and running every way but north, but they were not throwing down their weapons.
Drawing Brightfyre from its scabbard, Aegon steeled himself for the storm that was about to break. He heard a great shout rise up from the front ranks of the Night's Watch, and he picked it up despite himself. "For the Watch!" someone cried. "For Mole's Town!" yelled another.
The hurricane of horseflesh and metal and black cloaks fluttering rolled over the wildlings like a tide.
Their own formation began to splinter within moments, chasing after the wildlings wherever they went. He heard the crunch of bone and the scream of a horse wounded. He saw a half-helmed man fall from his horse, an arrow catching him in the eye. He saw the shining gold form of Jon Connington, and the glinting grey steel of Ser Rolly as they cleaved through already fractured wildlings. He couldn't find Haldon.
And then he was flying, floating. Falling.
His horse had been hit, he thought. It slammed to the ground with an ear-splitting cry of pain, and only his quick reaction had prevented his leg from being crushed beneath the garron's considerable weight. Brightfyre had flown from his hands.
He saw it ahead, glinting in the mud even then as he heard horses all around him.
Something struck him in the back, but it couldn't pierce the thick, well made plate, let alone what was beneath it. He kicked out at whatever it was and quickly crawled forward, grabbing at his sword, but a weight fell on him and moving was difficult.
He heard grunting, and dimly realized that it was a person.
Aegon rolled and kicked and saw the sheepskin-clad figure fall away, fumbling and spitting.
He drew himself to his knees and then his feet and took a hurried step toward Brightfyre, but the wildling threw himself at him and he was falling again. He managed to right himself before he was trapped and struck out at the hooded wildling with a plated fist. He saw sharp grey eyes well up with tears and struck again, but the man was still holding on. He was gripping a carved bone dagger and stabbing at his armpit, but he was too small, too weak, compared to Aegon. Aegon knocked the dagger from their hand, and the wildling cursed in a low, hissing voice. He kicked out, sending the wildling away again, and he scrambled the last few feet to his sword.
He rose, and held the three and half feet of steel that was Brightfyre before him. "Yield!" He shouted.
But the wildling did not yield, he stood, with a reclaimed spear jabbing out at him. "Others take you, crow!" The wildling spat, half rabid.
Aegon closed the distance between them, and the spear came flying at the slit of his visor, but he ducked below it and to the side and dashed forward and Brightfyre–a steel extension of his arm that he'd never known he had– was leaping forward into the sheepskin, and then it came out the other end, red with life's blood.
He heard a gasp and a grunt and then the wildling fell to the mud.
And then it was as if a haze had lifted. All around he heard cheers and shouts and hollers.
It had been less than a minute, perhaps, and already, it was over. He saw Thenns in their scaled bronze armor held at sword point. He saw a wildling holding a wicked wound on his shoulder as a Sworn Brother laughed. He saw a tall Thenn with no ears drop a bronze axe inlaid with runes he did not recognize.
He looked down at the wildling. They were breathing still, shallowly, but Aegon had taken him in the gut; he would not live.
Faintly, he remembered what Jon had always told him. "Every man deserves a quick, clean death. Look him in the eye. Do not draw it out."
Aegon knelt down and brandished Brightfyre. The neck would be fastest, I think.
He threw back the wildling's hood, and his sword nearly fell from his hand.
"Do it, crow," the woman growled. "Finish it." Her eyes were blue grey, and her hair a tangled mane of red. But not so red as the blood that leaked from her lips as she coughed. She clutched tightly at her stomach, and her breaths were wet gasps.
She might have been Jon's daughter.
It–he couldn't.
No. He'd get Haldon, Haldon could fix it, he could save her.
Brightfyre trembled in his grip.
"Let me see your face, crow," she hissed through clenched teeth. "Let me see the man that kills me."
He lifted a shaking hand to his visor, and raised it up, baring his face to the cool air of the encroaching night.
She coughed suddenly. "J-Jon?" A violent spasm coursed through her, and he belatedly realized she was laughing. "No," she said, "not Jon. You're too dark."
"Aegon," he said. "My name is Aegon, and I'm no crow."
"Be quick about it, Aegon. Strike true." Then, when he hesitated, "Do it, please."
He remembered everything he had ever learned about knighthood. About protecting women and children and the innocent. He thought of his mother, raped and savaged before she was allowed to die. He thought of Rhaenys, cowering under her bed, and stabbed a hundred times. He thought of the mercy they deserved, that they should have been granted. He remembered that a king ought to be able to do what he would have another do in his name.
Brightfyre fell in a sharp arc, even as he shook.
It was clean, and it was quick.
Later, Aegon discovered that Haldon had been wounded. It was not mortal, but it was severe enough that they would be unable to travel for some time. A wildling's spear had gotten him through a crack in the armpit, but had not managed to pierce deeply enough into his flesh to kill him.
"It's high time you had a decent scar," Duck had jeered, but they all knew it for the empty jest that it was. It had been a narrow thing. An inch or two more, and Haldon would have breathed his last.
The black brothers had lost only three men and two horses, Arsefiend, miraculously not among them. It seemed his horse had simply slipped in the mud.
The wildlings were brought back to Castle Black as captives, and the Old Pomegranate glowed in the light of victory.
For a time, the eyes he saw in his dreams were not blue like stars, but blue and grey like an overcast sky. A shroud of fire fell all about her face. Then her skin would darken, and her eyes become brow, the shape of her chin akin to his own. Then, a child's face, with eyes and skin that mirrored his, and dark brown curls. Wide dark eyes, staring up at him.
"Do it," she would whisper, as blood trickled from her lips, and she would be the wildling again. "Do it, please."
And every time, he did.