Chapter 297

Aegor approached the massive weirwood cautiously, extending a gloved hand to touch its surface.

At first glance, it wasn’t immediately obvious this was a weirwood. Torgenhen Flint’s confident declaration that it was the largest heart tree in the Seven Kingdoms relied entirely on the massive carved face adorning its pale surface—because only followers of the Old Gods would carve faces into weirwoods. The sapling growing aboveground in the kitchen further supported this idea, leaving little room for doubt.

As for its supposed roots and crown extending into the Wall, supposedly imbuing it with the power to resist the Others? That was pure conjecture.
----


It was much like Melisandre’s belief that Aegor was Azor Ahai reborn: once a notion took hold in the subconscious, every detail seemed to align, becoming further "proof." Strip away these preconceived notions, and another possibility emerged: the massive face wasn’t part of a weirwood at all, but simply a magical gate carved from weirwood wood. Its location beneath a sapling might be nothing more than coincidence.

Still, Aegor couldn’t ignore the possibility. If the Wall’s resistance to the Others truly stemmed from something hidden within its foundation—perhaps a weirwood—then understanding this mystery could provide critical insight. After all, he was poised to become the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, responsible for defending the Wall and its people against humanity’s greatest threat.
----


He hesitated briefly, a morbid thought crossing his mind. What if the glowing wood is radioactive?

Shaking his head at the absurdity, he rubbed the surface through his gloves, finding nothing unusual. Realizing the gloves wouldn’t protect against "radiation" anyway, he removed them and pressed his bare hand against the wood.

The surface was cool, but not freezing—perhaps ten degrees Celsius. While not warm by any means, it felt distinctly less cold than the frigid air of the Wall’s shadow.

Is the warmth a byproduct of magic? Or perhaps linked to its glow?

As these questions swirled in his mind, Aegor ran his hands along the surface, inspecting it more closely. That’s when he noticed a detail: the wood wasn’t flat—it was curved. The face protruded slightly in the center, and the sides sloped gently inward, curving toward the frozen earth. Overall, the surface formed a faintly concave, non-spherical arc.

It wasn’t definitive proof, but it did suggest the surface was part of a larger cylindrical structure.

The thought sent his mind racing. On Earth, humans live on a spherical planet yet perceive it as flat due to the vast scale of its curvature. Similarly, the larger the curve of a surface, the flatter it appears up close. Judging by the exposed width of roughly three meters and the gentle curvature, Aegor estimated the arc spanned approximately 13–14 degrees of a circle.

Assuming the face was carved on the trunk of a cylindrical weirwood, the tree’s circumference would range from 75 to 90 meters. Dividing by pi, its diameter would measure 23 to 28 meters.

This coincided almost exactly with the Wall’s base thickness.
----


It might still be a coincidence, but Aegor doubted it. The universe is full of interconnected phenomena, and what seems like coincidence is often inevitability in disguise. If a massive weirwood did underpin the Wall, the implications were staggering. The Old Gods—or more likely the greenseers—weren’t passive observers. They may have played a pivotal role in the Long Night, aiding Azor Ahai and facilitating the Wall’s construction and the founding of the Night’s Watch.

How many of these trees might be buried along the Wall?

Shaking his head, Aegor dismissed the thought, wary of overthinking. Flint’s introduction had clearly influenced his judgment, whether he admitted it or not. If he truly wanted answers, the simplest solution was to excavate the frozen earth and verify it firsthand.

Pulling his gloves back on, Aegor turned to observe the gathered nobles. Most had recovered from their initial shock and now stared at the tree with reverent awe.

If a carved face on an ordinary weirwood symbolized the Old Gods, then this glowing, speaking tree could easily be mistaken for a divine manifestation of the gods themselves.

Yet amidst the murmured prayers and whispered debates, someone finally remembered the reason for their descent.

Robb Stark broke the reverent silence. "This heart tree is truly awe-inspiring, but—what does it have to do with my brother’s disappearance?"

Flint nodded solemnly. "My lord, when we descended into the well to search for Lord Bran, we found traces of their passage. But the trail ends here. There are no signs of them returning. It’s as if they… passed through the face."

Skepticism rose immediately. "Traces? The ground here is frozen solid. How could there be tracks?"

"Footprints were faint, mostly from the stable boy. But Bran, as you know, cannot walk. He was being dragged on a makeshift stretcher. The grooves left in the ground were unmistakable."

Reluctantly, Robb ordered torches relit, and the group examined the ground. Amid scattered footprints, two deep, parallel grooves led directly to the wooden face, where they vanished without any sign of retreat.

"I can’t see much," Roose Bolton muttered, unimpressed. "And how do we know this isn’t some trick to mislead us?"

Flint bristled, his voice rising with indignation. "Bolton, we are devout followers of the Old Gods. How dare you accuse us of deception in their sacred presence? If even one word of mine is false, may my clan perish in this winter and fall to the blades of the Others!"

Such an oath held weight in the North, particularly beneath the watchful gaze of a heart tree. To question it would risk open enmity with Flint’s clan, which had faithfully defended the Wall for generations.

Sensing the tension, Robb intervened diplomatically. "Enough, Lord Flint. We believe you. But my brother is still missing, and we’ve found no trace of him beyond this point. What am I to tell my family? That a tree… ate him?"

"If you wish, my lord, we can—" Flint hesitated before biting the words out. "We can break through the face and see what lies beyond."

The suggestion hung in the air, heavy with blasphemy. Robb, like the others, recoiled at the idea. Even as a boy, he’d heard stories of the Old Gods’ wrath. Dismantling this sacred tree wasn’t just sacrilege—it was inviting ruin.

A grim silence fell over the group, each person lost in thought. Finally, an older voice broke the stillness.

"My lord," Hother Umber ventured cautiously, "I’ve heard talk that Bran expressed an interest in going beyond the Wall."

Robb frowned. "He did… the Reed siblings came to Winterfell for the harvest feast. Since then, he’s been obsessed with stories of the far north. My mother suspected Jojen and Meera had filled his head with strange ideas. But the Reeds are loyal vassals—she couldn’t send them away."

"If Jojen Reed is involved, his so-called ‘green dreams’ might hold weight," Glover interjected. "What if Bran’s disappearance was the will of the Old Gods?"

"The will of the gods?" Robb echoed skeptically. "What would the gods want with my brother? He’s just a boy—crippled, at that!"

"Who can say?" Glover shrugged. "But if the Old Gods did take him, then perhaps he is safe in their care, serving some greater purpose."

Robb sighed, struggling to reconcile the possibility. It was a flimsy explanation, but it offered some comfort. Still, how could he convince his family?
----


Ultimately, Robb shook his head. "So be it. For now, I’ll accept this. But hear me: if my brother reappears, within or beyond the Wall, send word immediately and bring him home—no matter the cost."

Flint and Aegor both nodded, relieved. For now, the search for Bran was at an end.

As they prepared to leave the tunnel, Robb turned to Aegor. "Something happened at Castle Black today, didn’t it? Tell me everything."