GOT: Chapter 297/298

Chapter 297: Black Gate and Weirwood

Karstark volunteered to be the first Northerner to descend into the well, followed by Robb Stark, who carefully stepped over the rim and onto the stone steps. After a few steps down, he suddenly turned back as if remembering something.

"Ser Rodrik, keep an eye on Arya. Do not let her come down."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Ah? Why!" The girl stamped her foot. Robb Stark, having taken on the full responsibility of family head, now seemed like a different person, cautious and strict with his younger siblings. She had been well-behaved all along and did not expect that he still had not forgotten about her. "I miss Bran too! I want to go find him!"

"No why. These steps are dangerous. If you slip and fall, who will take responsibility? I will not risk failing to find my brother and end up breaking a sister!"

"I will be careful!" Arya promised quickly, but seeing that Robb had no intention of changing his mind, she turned her pleading gaze to Aegor, hoping he might speak for her. "Master~~"

The heads of House Stark were all present. What right did Aegor, a brother of the Night's Watch, have to interfere in family matters? He shook his head. "Your brother is doing this for your own good. Be obedient."

Fearing that the girl would still not listen, Ser Rodrik put a firm hand on Arya's shoulder and stepped between her and the well. Arya stamped her foot in frustration, tried to shrug him off but failed, and finally turned her head with a huff.

...

The stone steps set into the well's inner wall were less than half a meter wide, with wide gaps and uneven heights, looking quite dangerous. According to Torghen Flint, they had originally been slippery with moss and grime. He had sent men to scrape them clean, so now they could be used.

One after another, the Northerners carefully stepped over the rim and onto the passage that seemed to lead into the depths of the earth. As a half-host, Aegor could not remain above. After most had gone down, he stretched his limbs and stepped in as well.

The steps were narrow, so if someone went up or down, there was no way to pass another. But once on them, they were not as terrifying as they appeared. Whether by design or accident, every so often a stone block jutted slightly from the well wall, forming a shallow recess to grip, making up for the lack of a railing. As long as one hugged the wall and used both hands and feet, it was relatively safe.

The sound of footsteps echoed among the damp stone walls. The light from the hole in the kitchen roof above grew dimmer and dimmer.

Turn by turn, the surroundings darkened and the air grew colder. The stone steps slowly became shorter, and the wide well gradually narrowed. When the four-meter-wide shaft had narrowed to three meters, and the steps were barely a foot in length, torchlight finally revealed the ground at the bottom.

One after another, they reached the bottom. Aegor looked up, and the well mouth above was now a tiny circle of light, like a pale full moon.

A black dot appeared against that "moon," and Arya's voice echoed down. "Robb~ Robb~ Robb, Master~ Master~ Master, are you alright~ alright~ alright?"

"Alright~ alright~ alright, don't come down!" Robb shouted back, then began to inspect the ground.

There was no mud, as they had imagined. The ground was hard, dry, or frozen solid. In the torchlight, three of the walls came into view.

To be precise, there were only three walls.

At the bottom of the well, three sides were ordinary stone. The fourth side opened into a tall and wide tunnel, leading to what Torghen Flint had said might be the largest weirwood in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Indeed, they did not need him to explain. It was impossible to miss. On a pale weirwood trunk, a face taller than a man had been carved.

The face was ancient and pale, more withered than Maester Aemon in his frail state. Its eyes and mouth were closed, its cheeks sunken, its brow deeply furrowed, chin slack... If a person could age for a thousand years without dying, their face would look like this.

"It is truly enormous." Umber took one glance at the carved wooden face and knew that Flint had not been exaggerating. If the small sapling that had broken through the kitchen floor above was just an upper branch of this tree buried beneath, then this heart tree's size could only be described as terrifying.

Looking at the identical white color of the sapling above and the connection in position, it was almost certainly the same tree.

"Huge?" Roose Bolton sneered. "You have the wrong focus, Lord Umber. That face is still dozens of feet away. In this darkness, we should not be able to see it at all. Extinguish the torches."

The order was to the attendants holding the torches. They obeyed, and as the orange-red flames died out, everyone finally understood what Bolton meant.

The pale wood was not reflecting light. It was glowing.

It was like a faint mix of milk and moonlight, too weak to light up the tunnel, but against the total darkness, it stood out as clearly as if drawn in white ink.

"Lord Bolton is indeed observant. He saw its strangeness at once." Flint laughed. "But once you get closer, you will find even more extraordinary things about it."

Everyone was intrigued. After their eyes adjusted, they moved in groups toward the face, intending to examine why the weirwood glowed. But then, something terrifying happened.

The carved face opened its eyes. Pale white eyeballs appeared beneath the lids. At the same time, its lips parted slightly, and a voice came forth.

"Who are you~ are you~ you~ you~ you?"

The echo was deeper than a human voice, but still clear. In this silent, underground space, with all ears listening intently, the unexpected voice startled everyone. Even Aegor, who had known in advance, felt his heart skip a beat. Several people instinctively drew their weapons.

"What in the seven hells is that?" Greatjon Umber stepped back two paces, swallowing hard, resisting the urge to pull his sword.

"It is unclear. But one thing is certain. Whenever someone comes within three feet of that face, it opens its eyes and asks who you are," Torghen Flint said. "We have tried many answers, but it never responds. We suspect it requires some sort of password."

Torghen Flint was poor with words, but he was not without sense. He was right: to receive a reply from the wooden face, a password was required.

Aegor even knew what it was: "I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the Wall. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men."

After a sworn brother of the Night's Watch recited these words, the wooden face, known as the "Black Gate," would open its mouth wide, revealing a hidden passage leading directly to the lands Beyond the Wall.

It was a secret path, a safe crossing of the Wall. More precisely, Aegor guessed it was a backup path left by the greenseer for his chosen successor, for times when the guardian of the successor would refuse to let him travel North.

Thinking further, Aegor suspected that this so-called "password" was just a pretense.

In the original timeline, Bran and his group fled Winterfell and, after a long and difficult journey, reached the abandoned Nightfort. They slept in the kitchen to avoid the snow, and there they "happened" to be saved by Coldhands and met Sam and Gilly, who had climbed up through this very well. From them, they learned the words to open the gate, and so they passed Beyond the Wall to find the greenseer.

Such a convenient coincidence was unreasonable. It had to have been arranged by the greenseer.

But in this timeline, Aegor had prevented the ranging. The sworn brothers who could open the door were still stationed at their castles. And Benjen Stark, turned into Coldhands, could only wait Beyond the Wall. How then had Bran and his companions opened this gate?

The answer was clear even without much thought. The greenseer would have arranged another way.

He had prepared for his successor for too long to allow Bran to arrive here, only to be trapped in front of the Black Gate because he did not know the words or lacked the oath of the Night's Watch.

Whether by sending another guide to replace Sam, whispering the words in Bran's dreams, or simply using magic to open the gate as they approached—for a being who could reach anywhere weirwood grew, such a thing was easy.


---

Aegor knew the password, but he had no intention of saying it. Explaining how he knew would be simple, but what if the gate opened? If Robb Stark decided to march North at once to find his brother, should Aegor follow or not?

"This is... truly a miracle!"

"Buried underground, without sunlight, how does it grow?"

"That is not the point! Why can it glow?"

After making sure the strange tree was not hostile, the Northerners began to discuss the glowing weirwood.

"There is one more thing I need to tell you, my Lords," Torghen said, unfazed by their reactions. "Have you noticed the position of the well compared to this tree?"

They fell silent and turned to look back at the well mouth behind them, then back at the tree. After climbing down dozens of meters, spiraling in darkness, all sense of direction was gone.

Aegor was the first to react. The weirwood sapling above the kitchen had leaned toward the south. If it was part of this buried tree...

"Are we standing on the north side of the well?"

"Lord Aegor is indeed a Ranger. Your sense of direction is excellent. And how far is it from here to the well?"

A dozen meters or so. Why? Aegor narrowed his eyes. The question was not meaningless. After all, the kitchen building stood right against the Wall, less than ten meters from its base.

Then...

"Are we beneath the Wall?" Aegor's body trembled. This was a detail Flint had not mentioned in his letter. If so, then this tree was more than a secret passage.

"Exactly. If this weirwood were growing in the open, it would be at least a hundred feet tall. But it is now buried beneath the Ice Wall. Its massive canopy must have spread entirely inside the Wall." There was pride in Flint's voice, as if he had discovered a great truth. "And think of it this way—why should we say that the Wall is pressing down on the heart tree, and not that the heart tree is holding up the Wall? At least this section of it."

The Northern lords whispered among themselves, while Aegor stood shocked and silent. Torghen Flint himself might not realize what his words implied. But Aegor, who knew much more than those present, thought immediately of an important fact: wights could not enter a weirwood cave where the greenseer dwelled. They would crumble the moment they tried.

And the Free Folk had long said that the White Walkers avoided the Wall. The Night's Watch had discovered in battle that the closer the dead came to the Wall, the weaker they became.

Before, these phenomena had been attributed vaguely to "magic woven into the Wall." Today, Aegor began to suspect the truth: the Wall's magic came from these massive weirwoods beneath it. It was their presence that made the Wall more than just a two-hundred-meter-high wall of ice.

(To be continued.)

Chapter 298: Looking for Brother

Aegor approached the giant weirwood and carefully touched it.

Just looking from the tunnel, one could not be certain this was a weirwood. Torghen Flint's confidence that it was the largest heart tree in the Seven Kingdoms came entirely from the enormous human face carved into the wood—and in Westeros, only those who follow the Old Gods carve faces on weirwoods.

Together with the presence of a weirwood sapling on the kitchen floor above, which supported this speculation, no one doubted his claim.

As for the theory that the crown and roots of this immense tree extended into the Wall, or that the weirwood gave the Wall its strength to resist the White Walkers, that was still a matter of association and inference.

But it was just like how Melisandre believed Aegor was the Prince That Was Promised: many ideas, once accepted subconsciously, appear true in everything, with proof everywhere, even when there is no clear evidence.

Leaving these speculations aside, based only on what lay before their eyes, there was another possibility: they might simply be looking at a magical door carved from weirwood, and it was a coincidence that a twisted weirwood sapling had sprouted in the kitchen above.

This was not impossible.

Aegor examined the door carefully, looking for more clues to prove or disprove that this was part of a living tree. If everything went as he hoped, he would soon become Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, leading the Watch and the settlers of the Gift against humanity's greatest enemy. A deeper understanding of the magic woven into the Wall could only be a benefit.

(I wonder if this glowing wood is radioactive?)

Aegor muttered to himself as he touched it through his glove. He found nothing unusual. Thinking that a bit of fur could not shield him from anything harmful anyway, he took off his glove and touched it with his bare hand.

The surface of the wood was cool, but not freezing. It held a peculiar temperature. If he had to guess, it was about ten degrees Celsius—not warm, but at the foot of the cold Wall, it was noticeably higher than the surrounding air.

(Is this from the magic that makes it glow? Or is the glow just a side effect?)

One question after another surfaced in Aegor's mind, but none could be answered. After feeling around the surface for a while, he noticed a new detail: the door was not flat, but curved.

The central line of the carved face was the most prominent. From there, the cheeks and outer edges gradually curved inward, an extremely slight curve, but present nonetheless. The whole thing formed a very shallow arc.

Though not decisive evidence, this shape was strongly consistent with the surface of a huge cylinder.

People live on a round world, but do not feel the curve beneath their feet. The larger the surface, the less its curve is felt. The exposed section of this door was about three meters wide, and the curve from side to side looked, by estimation, like part of a circle—perhaps one-twenty-fifth to one-thirtieth of a full circle, an arc of about thirteen to fourteen degrees.

If this face had been carved into a cylindrical trunk, then the full circumference of the trunk would be seventy-five to ninety meters. Dividing by pi, Aegor quickly calculated that the diameter of the trunk would be between twenty-three and twenty-eight meters.

And that matched the thickness of the Wall's base.

Yes, it could still be coincidence. But everything in the world is connected; all coincidences are, in a way, inevitable.

If this speculation is true, if a giant weirwood really does stand buried within the Wall, then the greenseer—or rather, the Old Gods—are far more than the indifferent, withdrawn force Aegor had once imagined. They may have fought side by side with Azor Ahai in the Dawn Age, may even have guided him, and later had a hand in the building of the Wall and the founding of the Night's Watch. In the song of ice and fire, they had once held immense importance.

(I wonder how many such weirwoods lie hidden beneath the Wall?)

Aegor shook his head, beginning to suspect his thoughts were being influenced. He admitted to himself that, despite trying to remain objective, Torghen's introduction had shaped his view.

No more pondering. Whether there was a giant weirwood buried here would be proven one day when there were enough men to dig through the permafrost.

Aegor set his thoughts aside and pulled his gloves back on. Around him, most of the Northerners had also calmed down. Awe and reverence began to appear on their faces.

If carving a face on a weirwood made it a heart tree, a symbol of the Old Gods, then this glowing, speaking tree before them might well be accepted as the very presence of the Old Gods.

After a few minutes of silent prayers and murmured discussion, some of the Northerners finally remembered the true reason they had come here.

Robb Stark broke the hush. "Such a heart tree is indeed extraordinary. But what does this have to do with my brother's disappearance?"

"Hmm." Torghen Flint nodded and replied, "The men who searched below after Bran went missing found signs of their passage. But strangely, the trail ended right here, before this face, and there was no trace of them returning. It was as if they had passed through it."

Someone quickly questioned him. "Traces? With the ground frozen so hard, how can there be any tracks?"

"As for footprints, only the big stable boy's were faintly visible, and those were soon trampled over. But Bran could not walk. He was carried on a makeshift stretcher. The scratches the wooden poles made on the ground were very clear."

There was no other choice. At Robb's request, the attendants who had followed them down relit the torches and held them close to the ground.

In the flickering torchlight, amid a chaos of faint footprints, there were indeed two deep parallel scratches leading straight to the wooden face, ending right beneath it without any sign of turning back.

"I see nothing," Roose Bolton said in a flat tone after looking for a few seconds. "And how can you prove these marks were not scratched in the dirt by you, to mislead us?"

Torghen Flint's face darkened. "Lord Bolton, your words are too harsh. The Flint Clan are devout followers of the Old Gods. Before this sacred heart tree, under the gaze of the Old Gods, how could we dare to deceive our liege? Lord Stark, if there is even half a lie in what I say today, may my clan suffer hunger and cold this Winter, die beneath the swords of the White Walkers, and never live to see another spring dawn!"

Such an oath, in another place, would depend entirely on the speaker's reputation and the listener's trust. But here, in the far North, under the heart tree, it was different.

The descendants of the First Men hold the Old Gods sacred. They walk and pray in the godwoods, hold naming days, weddings, and funerals under the watch of the carved faces. In old tales, the petty kings met in the densest groves, made peace or swore their oaths under the eyes of the weirwoods.

To swear before a heart tree is as serious as any vow. And this oath was deadly. To doubt it after it was spoken would be close to a public insult.

The Flint Clan aided in manning the Wall and had no real fault in Bran's disappearance. They had hosted the northern lords warmly. As guests, there was no reason to repay them with hostility.

And more than that, before this huge glowing face that could speak, everyone in the tunnel felt the invisible weight of a watching presence. Without more reason, they chose to believe Torghen Flint.

"Enough, Lord Flint. Take back that oath. We all trust your word." Robb Stark had not been Lord of the North for long, but he understood the weight of things. He spoke at the right moment to calm them. "But my brother is missing, alive or dead I do not know, and the trail ends here. So where has Bran gone? Has this weirwood swallowed him? I must have an explanation, to give to my family and my people."

It was a fair demand. But the trail really did stop here. What could Torghen Flint do? If anyone was to blame, it was him, for not posting guards around the well that day.

"The tracks end here, and I cannot explain it. If my Lord insists on knowing more..." Torghen Flint gritted his teeth. "Just give the word, and we will cut this face apart to see what lies behind it, that could make Bran Stark vanish here!"

It was a frustrated outburst. Even though Robb had found the Flint Clan's strictness toward a small sapling amusing, he would not dare, for all his boldness, to order the destruction of this vast, sacred heart tree.

The tunnel fell silent again as everyone pondered. At last, Hother Umber, who had met Aegor once before and come here with his nephew, spoke. "Lord Stark, I heard at Last Hearth that Bran, when he was at Winterfell, once spoke of wanting to go Beyond the Wall?"

"That is true. From what I know, it was because of the Reed children. They came north from the Neck for the harvest feast, and after that stayed at Winterfell with him. It was then that Bran began asking about Beyond the Wall, and often spoke of visiting the Wall," Robb Stark said with a deep frown. "My mother realized Jojen and Meera were filling Bran's head with strange ideas. But the Reeds have always been loyal bannermen, so it was hard to send them away. I never thought he would end up running away from home!"

"The two Reeds... I have not heard much about the girl, but I know of the boy called Jojen," said Galbart Glover. "It is said that he nearly died of greywater fever as a child, and after he recovered, he claimed to have the green sight, to see things in his dreams. I thought that was just a way to speak kindly of a sickly child... But if a heart tree can glow and speak, is it so strange for a boy to dream of visions?"

"What are you saying?" Robb looked at him. "That my brother's flight, and his disappearance here at Nightfort, is the will of the Old Gods? That the trail ends here because he was taken away by Them? What use could the Old Gods have for a boy who cannot walk?"

"That is not for us mortals to guess. But it gives us a way to think of it: your brother, heir to the North, has not come to harm. He came to this tree, answered its question, and was taken under the care of some power. He is safe, and may even be lending his strength to a greater purpose. Does that not give you a little peace of mind?"

"Heh..." Robb's face twitched. He wanted to say it was nonsense, but after a moment of silence, he let out a long sigh. Thinking of it that way, he did feel a little calmer. Hope is a precious thing.

But when he returned to Winterfell, how was he to explain this to his mother and little brother? Should he bring them all this way just to look upon this strange heart tree?

Robb thought long and hard, but in the end, he found no better answer. He looked once more at the shining heart tree, and understood that his search for Bran would have to end here, unsatisfying as it was. To press further would make things difficult for the Flint Clan or for Aegor. Both were his friends. In such troubled times—no, in this winter of troubles—why burden them?

"Enough," the young Lord of the North finally said, shaking his head helplessly as he turned to Aegor and Torghen Flint. "I will accept this explanation for now. But I ask the Night's Watch and the clans along the Wall, including the Flint, to keep watch. If my brother is seen again, inside or beyond the Wall, do everything to send him back to Winterfell."

The two men nodded, both relieved. With Robb's words, the matter of Bran's disappearance was settled. The Flint Clan could remain at Nightfort, and Aegor could turn his full attention to the settlers of the Gift and the true inspection to come.

After a while longer in the presence of the heart tree, they regained their composure. They agreed to climb back up and return to Nightfort, to inspect the stronghold and the section of the Wall the Flint Clan held.

Robb loved his brother dearly, but even so, the disappearance of one Stark was not as important as the safety of the North, or even the realm.

They began to ascend in silence, one by one, each lost in their thoughts.

In that silence, Aegor seized a moment to speak. "Lord Stark, there was a small incident at Castle Black today that I believe you should know of."

(To be continued.)