Chapter 207

The makeshift camp was quickly set up, and the first fire was lit in front of the leading tent. However, before any food could be cooked, Aegor commandeered it for his own purposes, boiling several pots of water in succession. He carried the hot water into the tent and then stepped back out, sitting outside as if waiting for something. To the soldiers watching, it was a strange sight, though none dared to question their commanding officer's peculiar behavior.

Thankfully, the hustle and bustle of setting up the camp and preparing dinner kept everyone preoccupied, leaving little attention on Aegor's odd routine. Once Arya had finished washing and changing clothes, Aegor re-entered the tent, dumped the dirty water, and threw away her soiled pants.

He felt like a nanny.

If only the trouble had ended there, he might have accepted his temporary role as caretaker. But, of course, things rarely went his way. After dinner, Arya grumbled that her stomach hurt.

“There’s no maester or healer in the group,” Aegor said, scratching his head in frustration. Was it food poisoning or menstrual cramps? He had no way of knowing. “I’ll get you a warm towel. Just press it against your stomach.”

This solution brought peace for a short while. But as Aegor finished cleaning up after dinner and laid down his bedding, Arya approached him again, her face contorted in discomfort. “Master, it still hurts… It’s like someone’s stabbing me in the stomach with a knife.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Aegor sighed, resisting the urge to scratch his head again. “You want me to rub it for you?”

It was meant as a joke—a line he’d often used to tease female friends in his previous life whenever they complained of stomach pain. But he had never actually done it. Arya, however, failed to pick up on the humor—perhaps due to her pain-clouded mind. Her tear-filled eyes met his, and she hesitated before whispering, “Will rubbing help? Can you… try?”

“Why me?” Aegor rolled his eyes, suspecting his young squire was losing her senses. “Don’t you have hands of your own?”

“Oh… right.” Arya blinked, then mumbled, “I’ll try rubbing it myself.”

...

“Uh… it sort of helps,” she said after a while.

“Good. Keep rubbing, and stay in the tent. Don’t wander around,” Aegor replied before heading off to inspect the camp.

...

Robb Stark’s one hundred Northern soldiers were no fools. They had clearly noticed the additional “volunteers” in the group, recognizing them as Jaime Lannister’s disguised bodyguards. Yet, these Westerlanders kept a low profile, and the Northerners chose not to provoke them. This uneasy truce had held throughout the journey so far.

Aegor, however, wasn’t one to leave things to chance. Ever-vigilant, he kept a close eye on the group, ensuring there were no signs of internal conflict. After arranging the night watch rotations, he walked the camp, talking with the soldiers and gauging the mood of the two hundred men under his command. Satisfied that there were no brewing disputes, Aegor stretched and made his way back to his tent as the sun dipped below the horizon.

To his surprise, Arya was still in the tent and hadn’t run off as usual. She sat on her bedding, clutching her stomach with a grimace of pain. “Does rubbing help?” Aegor asked.

“It does… but when I stop, the pain comes back,” Arya replied, her voice weak and defeated.

“Then keep rubbing,” Aegor suggested with a sigh, the only advice he could offer. Her only response was a pitiful groan as he lay down on his bedding, pulled a blanket over himself, and prepared to end the day.

This journey north was supposed to reduce his troubles, yet here he was, dealing with one issue after another. Aegor smiled bitterly in the darkness, reminding himself that handling a bleeding, complaining child was a small inconvenience compared to the potential disaster of losing the Night’s Watch's southern enterprises due to Renly Baratheon’s wrath. Once they reached Winterfell, it would all be over.

Or so he hoped.

...

Just as he was about to drift off to sleep, Aegor heard the soft patter of footsteps. Arya knelt beside his bedroll and gently shook him. “Master—I can’t rub anymore. Can you do it for me?”

“What? You can’t rub anymore?” Aegor turned to face her, incredulous. “How much energy does it take to rub your stomach?”

“I can rub, but I get sleepy while doing it. And then, just when I’m about to fall asleep, the pain wakes me up again,” Arya said, her voice filled with misery.

“Ugh… so troublesome!” Aegor grumbled, turning away. “Go back to your bed. You’re a young lady, and it’s improper to ask a man to rub your stomach.”

“Master, please… it hurts so much I can’t stand it…” Arya whimpered, tugging at his blanket and crawling under it.

“What are you doing?” Aegor snapped, sitting up and glaring at her. “What’s next? You’ll claim I ‘slept with you’ to ruin me further?”

“I’m sorry, Master! I promise I’ll never joke about things like that again!” Arya’s voice cracked with desperation, tears brimming in her eyes. “I can’t take the pain anymore—please…”

...

Her tone didn’t seem fake. Could it really hurt that much? Aegor frowned, skeptical but reluctant to dismiss her suffering. The northern night air was freezing, and he quickly lay back down, pulling the blanket over both of them. “You’re shameless, you know that? This morning, you rolled your eyes at me, and now you’re crawling into my bed asking for help. What a mess.”

“Master, I promise I’ll never disobey you again,” Arya sniffled, nestling against him like a wounded animal seeking warmth. She grabbed his hand and placed it on her stomach, forcing him to rub it.

Aegor sighed, resigned. He couldn’t bring himself to scold her. It wasn’t her fault this time. If a bit of comfort could ease her pain, so be it. He adjusted his hand and began gently massaging her abdomen.

“Here?” he asked.

“A bit lower,” she murmured.

“Here?”

“Lower… yes, that’s it!” Arya’s tense body visibly relaxed, and she snuggled closer, her small frame fitting snugly against Aegor’s chest. His large, warm hand worked like magic, and the stabbing pain in her stomach began to fade. She let out a contented sigh, feeling as though she’d found the safest place in the world.

“Better now?” Aegor asked.

“Much better… don’t stop,” Arya mumbled, her voice drowsy. “Master, you said the bleeding is normal… but is the pain normal too?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Aegor admitted. “It’s probably not, but people’s bodies are different.”

“Ugh… I must be cursed. I’ve never heard of anyone else being in this much pain. Will it always be like this?”

“The bleeding will happen every month, but the pain… who knows? Maybe it’ll get better once your body adjusts. Stop running around so much, and it might improve.”

“Every month?!” Arya’s voice cracked with panic. “I’d rather die! Isn’t there a way to make it stop?”

“There is. Find a man to… uh, ‘give you a needle,’ and it’ll stop for about ten months if you’re lucky.”

“A needle?” Arya asked, confused. “Master, can you give me one?”

Aegor nearly laughed out loud, his irritation momentarily vanishing. He ruffled her hair with his free hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s your future husband’s job.”

It took a moment for Arya to piece it together. Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she let out a small, indignant huff. Still, she didn’t complain further. For now, the pain was gone, and she was too exhausted to argue.

“Master, will my father be okay in King’s Landing?” she asked after a long silence.

“That depends on Renly, Stannis, and Robb’s decisions,” Aegor replied honestly. Adjusting his position, he held her more comfortably and spoke in a soothing tone. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. Now go to sleep.”

Arya murmured a soft “Okay,” letting herself relax completely in the warmth of Aegor’s embrace. For the first time in days, she drifted into a peaceful sleep, her pain forgotten.