Chapter 253: Mors "Crowfood" Umber
An old man, nearly identical in height and build to Whoresbane, pushed open the hall doors and strode aggressively toward Egger. "So it's you, the famous Lord Logistics Officer of the Night's Watch? Tell me, boy, did no one ever mention that House Umber has historically suffered the most from Wildling raids and hates them more than any family in the North? And that I hate them most of all?!"
Taking in the man's ruddy face, messy white beard, and the grimy white leather patch covering one eye, Egger quickly surmised his identity: Mors Umber, the other castellan of Last Hearth and the uncle of Greatjon Umber.
Legend had it that while he was sleeping by the roadside, a crow mistook him for a corpse and pecked out his eye. He supposedly woke up, grabbed the bird, and bit its head off, earning the moniker "Crowfood."
Egger didn't care to guess how much of the legend was exaggerated, but the character traits reflected in the story were likely true. Not wishing to clash with a Northern noble and ruin his plans at this critical juncture, he spread his hands in a helpless gesture of explanation. "My lord, the free folk have surrendered their weapons and grain. They have voluntarily become Gift-dwellers under the rule of the Night's Watch. The number of my personal soldiers and mountain clan warriors far exceeds these new settlers... whatever happens, we can keep the situation under control."
"Yes, yes, you have the numbers to keep control. But what happens when a Wildling deserts the column and vanishes into the Wolfswood to become a bandit? Can your numbers drag them back one by one? By the Old Gods, the North has enough trouble already without you adding to it!"
Commander Mormont had decreed before his death that the word "Wildling" should no longer be used, but the rules of the Night's Watch held no sway over Northern lords. Egger answered patiently, "The new Gift-dwellers I've brought were selected from many different tribes; they don't even know each other. Their families and friends are all living within the designated zones of the Gift under the watchful eyes of our patrols. At the slightest sign of trouble, Castle Black can react immediately. A lone man might run, but his family has nowhere to go. They simply don't have the means to just walk away."
Crowfood opened his mouth to retort, but his brother interrupted. "Mors, the Gift is the permanent territory of the Night's Watch. They've allowed the Wildlings to live there... as long as they fulfill their duty and ensure the North isn't harrassed, outsiders technically have no right to interfere."
"I don't believe for a second those savages will stay quiet in the Gift—I heard how that boy Jeor Mormont died!"
Given his age, he certainly had the right to call the Old Bear a "boy," and the old man seemed to have been drinking. Egger remembered a piece of advice his mother had given him in his youth: Never argue with a drunk. Softening his tone, he explained calmly, "The murderer has been hanged, and his tribe—which resisted with force—has been struck from the Gift forever. Over a hundred lives were taken. Warner Buckwell ignored the stigma of being called bloodthirsty to ensure a thorough purging. In his words: he's killed enough that no tribe in the Gift will dare cause trouble for fifty years. You can rest easy, my lord..."
"Will you two shut up and let me finish!" Hother Umber glared at both his brother and Egger. "Northmen have no authority to command the Night's Watch... and even if someone did, that power belongs to House Stark. What we have the right to decide now is whether to answer the black brothers' request for help and send guides to lead them to Deepwood Motte."
"Take Wildlings to Deepwood Motte!?" It was like pouring oil on a fire. Mors's remaining eye bulged as he stared intensely at Egger. "Do you know why I hate them? It's not just because they come to raid or steal. It's because years ago, they abducted my only daughter—'stole' her, as they call it! And now, you show up at my door with a pack of them... wanting us to provide guides to lead them to Deepwood Motte? Have you lost your mind? Northmen leading the way so our old rivals can steal even more of our daughters?!"
The Wildlings' peculiar marriage customs had recently caused a massive headache back at the Wall, and Egger couldn't exactly whitewash that savagery. However... Mors Umber's daughter? That would be a high-born lady of the same generation as the current Lord of Last Hearth, a sister to Greatjon Umber. How could a core female member of such a prominent family be abducted by Wildlings?
Egger didn't know if she had been forcibly taken by a raiding party or if she had run away to escape an arranged marriage... but he realized one thing: failing to keep an eye on one's children was not a trait exclusive to the Starks in the North.
(Wildlings usually only steal young women. Based on age, this must have happened at least twenty or thirty years ago. He couldn't watch his daughter decades ago, and now he's taking it out on me?)
Egger complained inwardly but dared not mock him openly.
He truly needed the support of the Northern nobility. Even with Moat Cailin occupied, the Ironborn couldn't block Robb Stark forever. He had to achieve something in the North before its master returned... only then would he have the confidence to answer the Warden of the North when questioned about the Wildlings, and only then could he return to the Wall with enough prestige to join the election for Lord Commander.
With Balon Greyjoy dead and Ironborn activity in the North visibly waning, simply patrolling and expelling a few scattered pirates wouldn't carry nearly as much weight as assisting Northmen in reclaiming a vital stronghold. It would be impossible for anyone to ignore.
"My lords, I am planning to help House Glover reclaim their ancestral home... are you certain you want to debate whether or not to 'help' us?" Egger kept his tone as non-threatening as possible. "I know Deepwood Motte isn't an Umber seat, so you aren't in a hurry. But when the south hears of this, they won't distinguish between Glovers and Umbers. People in the other six kingdoms will simply say with contempt: 'When the Ironborn invaded the North and the Gift offered troops to help, House Umber refused them!'"
"You little—" Mors Umber's temper flared at Egger's sarcastic tone, but he found he couldn't break the logic. His neck flushed red. After a moment's thought, he pivoted to another demand: "Fine! I can't out-talk you. But I recall that Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall, is currently a prisoner at Castle Black. Bring me his head to use as a chamber pot, and I'll give you your guides! One sentence—if you want me to yield, someone has to pay for stealing my daughter!"
Mance Rayder was likely still a loyal brother of the Shadow Tower when your daughter was taken; what does this have to do with him? Egger was baffled by the man's erratic logic. Just as he was crafting a response, Hother Umber shook his head. "Then the Southerners would just tell a different story: 'When the Ironborn invaded and the Gift offered help, the Umbers demanded this and that before they would cooperate.' My dear brother, go sleep off the ale and stop meddling in serious business."
Mors's neck turned crimson again. He glared at his brother for a moment, but ultimately decided that bickering with family in front of an outsider was beneath him. He threw back his sleeve in a fury, turned, and slammed the hall door behind him. It was unclear if he actually went to sleep.
"All right, Lord Logistics Officer, let's get back to business. My brother has a foul temper, but he'll forget all about it once he's sober. Don't take it to heart." Having lived with this for decades, Hother shrugged, not even glancing at his brother's retreating figure. "The Glovers and Umbers are close. The Night's Watch has our gratitude for wanting to help. But my brother's concern isn't entirely baseless—who guarantees your 'new Gift-dwellers' won't cause trouble in the North? Don't just pound your chest and make empty promises; I don't buy that."
Egger breathed a sigh of relief. Compared to the disruptive Mors, he appreciated how lucky he was to talk to someone reasonable. Despite the burly frame and the strange nickname, "Whoresbane" was at least a sensible man. He decided not to play any more games. "To be honest, I can only say I will do my absolute best to restrain them. But if a new Gift-dweller commits a crime—theft or robbery—I will compensate you double. If it's a violent crime like murder, arson, or rape, I will personally take the offender's head."
"Good. Then my answer is straightforward: House Umber will provide guides and fifty soldiers to assist you in driving out the Ironborn and retaking Deepwood Motte." Hother, satisfied with the answer, spoke readily. "But beyond that, I hope you'll keep a small matter in mind. If possible, look for the Wildling who made off with my niece. If she can be found among those who passed the Wall, that would be for the best."
It's been decades; it would be a miracle to find her. As for finding the culprit... easier said than done. But just as Hother couldn't refuse providing guides, Egger couldn't refuse such a reasonable request in this friendly atmosphere. He nodded. "I will keep it in mind."
"Good. I'll pick the guides and soldiers tonight... they'll be ready for you tomorrow morning."
"Thank you!"
Egger understood that Mors Umber's hatred was just a microcosm of the North's attitude. This suspicion and loathing would likely remain a problem for a long time. But this time, using the inherent goodwill Northmen felt for the Night's Watch, he had secured support. If he couldn't seize this opportunity, he would soon be stuck choosing between slaughtering the Wildlings or selling them across the Narrow Sea.
Tomorrow, they would march on Deepwood Motte. Failure was not an option.
Support me on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/c/MistaQuartz
On Patreon, you can explore Extra Chapters in advance!