wtfbengt
patreon
Chapter 290
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 23:17:32 +0000 UTCFor the first time in history, the Night's Watch election for Lord Commander concluded with a one-man-one-vote system. As the voting results from other strongholds were delivered to Castle Black via ravens, the final tallies revealed a shift that had been quietly brewing.
The brief pause in voting—intended to give the Watch’s brothers time to reflect and clear their minds—had reduced the emotional sway over the results, which became evident in Castle Black. Aegor’s votes at the headquarters experienced a slight decline. Yet, across the Wall, his momentum proved unstoppable.
The losses at Castle Black were more than offset by the newcomers sworn in under Melisandre’s guidance, along with significant support from other keeps: Shadow Tower sent eleven votes his way, while Eastwatch contributed forty-six. Even among the newer, smaller outposts that had reopened recently, only a handful of votes were abstentions or defections.
Despite these minor setbacks, Aegor’s total vote count surged to nearly 500. Factoring in abstentions, his share of the vote now exceeded the majority threshold.
Victory was within reach.
----
“Forty-six votes from Eastwatch?” Cotter Pyke’s face twisted with fury as he read the results. “A quarter of my men voted for him? Impossible! I’ve fought alongside those men for over twenty years—they wouldn’t betray me! This has to be a Stark trick—those counters must have tampered with the numbers!”
“Lord Stark could have simply declared Aegor the winner outright if he wished,” Jon Royce interjected, though the tension in his voice betrayed his own unease. “Your men may not have betrayed you, but don’t forget: Eastwatch has over thirty rangers recently transferred from Castle Black. They’ve worked directly with Aegor.”
“Even if all thirty voted for him, where’d the other votes come from?”
“Shadow Tower gave him over ten votes, and that’s with Ser Denys Melisandre himself present to oversee things. Let’s face it—no matter how much loyalty you think you command, there will always be those who secretly resent you or think the man filling their bellies is more deserving of leadership.” Royce paused, then leaned forward. “But Aegor hasn’t reached the two-thirds majority yet. If we enact the plan I proposed, no matter his current lead, we can still crush his chances.”
Cotter Pyke grimaced. He knew the plan well—a calculated move to undermine the settlement project by targeting Mance Rayder and inciting chaos among the new settlers. But the plan had stalled. Their attempts to recruit allies had failed disastrously. Denys had publicly denounced their scheme before leaving in anger, and Castle Black’s chief steward had hesitated for days before ultimately refusing to join.
Without enough conspirators to ensure success—or at least cover their tracks—Pyke hesitated. For all his bravado as a hard-bitten warrior of the Iron Islands, even he balked at taking sole responsibility for such a risky operation.
“Do you hear them?” Royce pointed toward the window, where the sounds of training drifted in. “Those are the new recruits—wildlings, mountain clan folk, and settlers from the Gift—all seduced by Aegor’s promises of warmth, food, and coin. Once they finish their training and swear their oaths, who do you think they’ll vote for? The man who recruited them, or us?”
“They’re not lords or knights; it’ll take time for them to complete training and join the Watch.”
“True. But who decides when training is complete? The training master at Castle Black—and Andrew Tarth has already pledged himself to Aegor’s side. Time is running out. If we don’t act now, we’ll lose everything.”
Pyke’s fists clenched as he stared out at the training yard, his expression cycling through frustration, resignation, and anger. Finally, he slammed a fist on the table.
“Damn it all. Gather our men. We’ll act.”
“Yes, my lord!” Royce replied, bolting toward the door. But before he could leave, the door was thrown open, and a pale-faced knight from the Vale hurried in.
“Bad news,” the knight stammered. “The Kingslayer and his men are at Hardin Tower. They’re moving Mance Rayder’s family!”
----
At the base of Hardin Tower, a large but weathered wagon stood ready. Mance Rayder and his family, flanked by several Westerlands soldiers, were loading their belongings.
“Stop right there!” Pyke stormed forward, his men following close behind. He blocked the path to the wagon, glaring at the gathered soldiers. “Who gave you permission to move the wildling king’s family?”
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances but remained silent. As ordinary rangers of the Watch, they had no authority to argue with the commanding officer of Eastwatch.
Their leader, Jaime Lannister, emerged from the tower with his usual smirk.
“We received intelligence about a potential threat to Mance Rayder’s safety,” Jaime said smoothly. “To ensure the stability of the Gift, we’ve decided to move him somewhere safer.”
“Decided?” Pyke growled. “Who decided this? You’re a mere ranger—this isn’t your call to make.”
“And it’s not yours either,” Jaime shot back with a casual shrug. “Mormont’s orders were clear—no changes to Mance’s status without approval from the new Lord Commander. Since there isn’t one yet, my decision holds as much weight as yours.”
Pyke sputtered, searching for a retort. “Return them to the tower. Now!”
“Apologies, but Mormont came to me in a dream,” Jaime said with mock solemnity. “He commanded me to move Mance and his family to Holdfast.”
“A dream?!” Pyke roared. “You just said this was a decision you discussed!”
“Indeed, I dreamt it and discussed it—with Aegor. We agreed to proceed.” Jaime’s smirk widened as laughter rippled through the crowd of onlookers. Even Jaime felt a twinge of embarrassment at his own absurd excuse.
“You—” Pyke’s face turned red with rage. He yanked his axe from his belt, brandishing it toward Jaime. “I don’t care about your dreams or discussions. Mance Rayder stays here!”
Finally. Jaime’s grin turned wolfish.
“Gladly.” He reached for his sword. “Let’s settle this your way.”
And so, the stage was set for yet another clash—not of ideals, but of steel and resolve.
