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Chapter 296
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 23:19:25 +0000 UTCEarl Karstark volunteered to be the first northern noble to descend into the well, and Robb Stark cautiously followed, carefully stepping onto the stone protrusions along the wall. After descending a few steps, Robb suddenly looked back as if remembering something. "Ser Rodrik, keep an eye on Arya and don’t let her come down."
"As you command, my lord."
"What? Why not?" Arya stomped in frustration. Ever since taking on the mantle of family leadership, Robb Stark had grown far more cautious and strict when it came to his younger siblings. Despite Arya's efforts to behave, Robb clearly hadn’t forgotten her usual antics. "I care about Bran too! I want to find him!"
"No. The steps are treacherous. If you slip and fall, who’s going to take responsibility? I don’t want to lose a brother only to have a sister injured as well!"
"I’ll be careful!" Arya promised earnestly, but seeing Robb’s determination unmoved, she turned pleading eyes toward Aegor, hoping he might say something on her behalf. "Master~~"
This was Stark family business; what position did Aegor, a mere Night's Watch brother, have to interfere with Robb Stark’s decisions? Shaking his head, Aegor replied, "Your brother is doing this for your own good. Listen to him."
As if afraid Arya might try something rash, Ser Rodrik placed a firm hand on her shoulder, positioning himself between her and the well. Arya shook her shoulder in irritation, but unable to break free, she huffed and turned away with a stomp.
----
The stone protrusions jutting from the well wall were less than half a meter long, with noticeable gaps and uneven spacing, making them indeed precarious. According to Torgenhen Flint, they had once been slippery with moss, but he had ordered every step to be scrubbed clean to ensure their current state.
One by one, the northern nobles gingerly stepped down into the seemingly hellish depths. As a host of sorts, Aegor couldn’t very well stay behind. Once the others were mostly down, he stretched his limbs to warm up before deftly joining the descent.
The steps were narrow enough that anyone ascending or descending would find it impossible to pass each other. However, as they progressed downward, the true nature of the stairs revealed itself. Every so often, a recessed groove in the wall provided a handhold to compensate for the lack of a proper railing, allowing climbers to safely brace themselves. Hand and foot coordination ensured a relatively secure descent.
The sound of footsteps echoed through the damp stone as the faint light from the broken roof above grew dimmer and dimmer. It wasn’t long before the light was reduced to a faint glow high above them.
With each spiral downward, the air grew darker and colder. The steps gradually shrank in size while the well’s diameter narrowed as well. Finally, when the once four-meter-wide well had constricted to just three meters, and the steps barely offered space for one foot, the faint glow of torchlight revealed the dark floor below.
When they reached the bottom, Aegor glanced up. The well's opening, far above, appeared like a distant, pale moon.
From the "moon’s edge," a shadow appeared, accompanied by Arya’s voice echoing down the shaft. "Robb~ Robb~ Robb, Master~ Master~ Master, are you okay~ okay~ okay?"
"We’re fine~ fine~ fine! Stay up there!" Robb called back, his voice carrying reassurance through the reverberations. He then turned his attention to the base of the well.
The ground beneath their feet was surprisingly solid—neither muddy nor frozen, but firm and stable. By the light of the torches, they saw that the well had only three walls of stone. The fourth side opened into a vast, towering tunnel leading toward—what Flint had claimed might be—the largest weirwood in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Indeed, there was no need for Flint to elaborate. Everyone noticed it immediately. The sight was impossible to ignore—a pale, ancient weirwood, carved with a face taller than a man.
The face appeared ancient and weathered, with deep wrinkles etched into its surface. Its eyes and mouth drooped in a way that conveyed an eerie semblance of exhaustion. Its hollow cheeks, sunken forehead, and sagging chin gave it the look of a creature that had aged far beyond its years—like a man who had somehow lived a thousand years without dying.
"It's... enormous," Lord Umber muttered, standing back to take in the entire visage. Flint had not exaggerated; if the sapling aboveground was merely a branch of this massive trunk, then this weirwood’s true size was nothing short of terrifying.
The face's stark resemblance to the sapling above only further confirmed its connection. The sapling and this colossal heart tree were undoubtedly one and the same.
"Enormous?" Roose Bolton’s voice cut through the awe. "You're focusing on the wrong detail, Lord Umber. That face is still dozens of feet away, in this pitch-black well. We shouldn’t be able to see it at all—extinguish the torches."
The two torchbearers complied, snuffing out the flames. The orange light disappeared, plunging the chamber into complete darkness. Yet the face of the weirwood remained visible.
Its pale white glow, faint yet undeniable, came from within the wood itself.
The weirwood's light was subtle, akin to a mixture of moonlight and milk. It cast no illumination on the surrounding tunnel but remained clearly discernible against the oppressive darkness. It was not a trick of the mind.
"Bolton has sharp eyes," Flint remarked with a dry laugh. "But if you step closer, my lords, you will see that the tree holds even more mysteries."
Intrigued, the lords cautiously approached, eager to understand the nature of the tree’s glow. But before anyone could investigate further, the unexpected happened.
The face on the weirwood opened its eyes. The pale orbs beneath its lids shone faintly as its lips moved, and a voice echoed through the chamber:
"Who are you~ you~ you~ you~ you?"
The voice reverberated off the stone walls, low but distinct. In the tense silence of the dark tunnel, where everyone had been straining their ears for any sound, the sudden voice was a shock. Even Aegor, who had been bracing for the unexpected, felt his heart lurch. A few of the lords instinctively drew their weapons.
"What in the Seven Hells is that?" Greatjon Umber stumbled back, swallowing hard to resist the urge to unsheath his sword.
"I’m not sure," Flint answered grimly, "but I can confirm this: whenever anyone approaches within three feet of the face, it opens its eyes, asks who you are, and waits for an answer. We’ve tried countless responses, but none have worked. It seems to need some kind of... password."
Aegor clenched his fists, suppressing the urge to react further. He already knew the answer: the face required the oath of the Night’s Watch.
"We are the watchers on the Wall, the shield that guards the realms of men. From the coldest flame, the breaking dawn, and the horn that wakes the sleepers, we stand as the guardians of the kingdom."
If recited by a sworn brother, the face—known as the Black Gate—would open its mouth to reveal a passage leading beneath the Wall and out into the far north.
This was no ordinary tunnel. It was a secret pathway, likely created by the greenseers as a contingency for their chosen successor—Bran Stark. It was meant for moments when his guardians wouldn’t allow him to cross the Wall openly.
But in this timeline, with the Night’s Watch expedition canceled at Aegor’s urging, and Benjen Stark’s undead form unable to escort Bran from beyond the Wall, how had Bran and his companions managed to pass through the gate?
The answer was simple: the greenseers. They would ensure their successor’s journey wasn’t impeded. Whether through visions, magical intervention, or some other means, the gate would open for Bran regardless.
----
Aegor knew the password, but he had no intention of revealing it. Explaining how he knew it might be easy, but if the gate opened, Robb might decide to lead a party beyond the Wall to find Bran. What then—would Aegor follow?
"This... truly is miraculous," one of the lords murmured, staring in awe.
"How does it grow without sunlight?"
"That’s not the point. The real question is—why does it glow?"
The northern nobles debated animatedly, their fear giving way to curiosity. Flint waited for them to calm before addressing the group again.
"My lords, there’s another detail worth noting." Flint gestured toward the well. "Have you noticed its position in relation to this tree?"
The lords exchanged confused glances, unsure of the significance. After descending in near darkness, most had lost their sense of direction. Aegor, however, pieced it together first.
The sapling above had leaned southward, its trunk slanting toward the Wall. If this weirwood’s root system connected to that sapling…
"We’re north of the well?"
"Indeed," Flint confirmed, a note of pride in his voice. "Now consider how far below ground we are."
About ten meters, Aegor estimated. The implication hit him immediately.
"Are we... beneath the Wall?"
"Exactly!" Flint declared triumphantly. "If this weirwood grew aboveground, its height would be staggering. But buried here, its canopy must stretch entirely into the Wall itself. And perhaps..."
Flint paused dramatically, his grin widening. "Perhaps it’s not the Wall pressing down on the tree, but the tree holding up the Wall."
The lords murmured among themselves, astonished by the revelation. Aegor, however, stood frozen. Flint likely had no idea of the full implications of his theory.
But Aegor did.
The Wall’s legendary resistance to the Others, its ability to weaken wights and halt their advance, had always been attributed to "ancient spells woven into the ice." Yet now, Aegor saw the truth. The Wall’s power didn’t come from ice alone—it came from the immense, ancient weirwoods buried beneath it.
The Wall wasn’t just a barrier of ice. It was alive.
