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CHAPTER 273
297 AC
POV THIRD PERSON
Jon and his group were trying to move as fast as possible, but Skadi had informed Aermir that because they had to rest, the white walker was closing the distance inch by inch.
Aermir knew if he didn't do something, Jon was going to die. As he stood on top of the Wall, He looked in the direction of Jon's group with great hesitation in his heart. He did not want to leave Jon to his own demise, but passing the Wall was a greater danger.
If he could not suppress Night King's Mark, he wouldn't be able to return again, or he could have neutralized the wards that prevent Night King from passing. If the mark got unsealed, Night King could track where Aermir was, too.
Aermir could not decide what to do, but at this moment, something on the northern horizon caught his attention. Even the summit was barely visible to his enhanced eyes.
It was The Fist of the First Men. This small mountain was barely visible. Aermir had read about this place but couldn't recall it, so he used his Authenticate skill to remember its significance.
The books had spoken of the Fist as a focus where the veil between the mortal realm and the domain of the Old Gods grows thin. The towering monoliths and timeworn structures, shaped by the hands of the First Men, are said to fill its peak.
In old stories and books, it seeps with the magic of the land. In those stories, the Fist of the First Men is considered a conduit for communion with the Old Gods, where visions may be glimpsed and prophecies unfurled. Right now, it was used as a forward base for the Night's Watch.
Aermir closed his eyes and felt the magic of the land, and as he thought it was on top of a convergence point of the ley lines, and he could feel there was a weirwood tree on top of the hill, not at the top, but there was definitely a weirwood tree.
He thought of a crazy plan; the plan was based on a hypothesis he had when he reached the 6th-level druid. His perception of magic was more sensitive, so he could now feel the magic of the south of the Wall was getting dampened. No, that would be wrong to say that. It was more like it was being diverted into the Wall.
He hypothesized that his control over the elements was better, and it would be so much easier for him to control the magic of the land and harness more power in locations with pure mana, like the convergence of ley lines. Before, he could only use those points for training purposes. He had tried controlling convergence points south of the Wall, and he was successful, but it only added a little to his power because of their exhausted state.
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But considering the energy he feels now, comparing the convergence points north of the Wall to those south of the Wall would be like comparing a wild stallion to a pony. There wasn't any other idea other than this wild plan. If this doesn't work, he can't return to the South until he can break the marking curse, but he doesn't want to leave Jon to his own demise. He slapped himself and nervously said, "Why are you so afraid of a necromancer?"
He nervously laughed, "Haha, he just has an immortal army, nothing to be afraid of." He took a deep breath and exhaled, "Huuuu, Jon would do the same for me." Aermir shrugged and said, "If this doesn't work and Night King corners me, I could just run to Essos; I wouldn't care if he follows me to Essos, and I don't think undead could pass the sea."
He kept talking to himself to give himself the courage to do it; he first sent one of his familiars to the Fist of First Men so he would be able to teleport there. After that, he flew back down from the Wall to the weirwood tree closest to the Wall.
Aermir kept taking deep breaths to get himself ready for what was to come. He knew the second he teleported to the other side the curse was going to attack him in full force. He took one more deep breath and teleported.
...
A FEW DAYS AGO
Bran Stark found himself lost in the labyrinth of dreams. The chill wind whispered through the branches of the ancient weirwood trees, their crimson leaves rustling in the unseen breeze. Before him, a vast expanse of snow-covered land unfurled, stretching beyond the Wall. In the distance, a lone white direwolf emerged.
The direwolf moved with an urgent grace, navigating the frozen landscape, its fur glinting like sunlight on fresh snow. But as the wolf traversed the haunting terrain, a shadow, ink-black and foreboding, began to slink through the twisted trees. This shadow felt like ice and death. The shadow mirrored the dire wolf's every move, a relentless force tailing the white dire wolf.
Bran stood on the fringes of this surreal scape, feeling the weight of an unspoken danger that permeated the dream. The air crackled with an unsettling energy, and the weirwood leaves shuddered like they were warning him about something.
As the dire wolf darted through the snowy landscape, the shadow grew ever closer, casting a palpable aura of dread into Bran's heart. He wanted it to stop, but the shadow kept creeping up to the wolf until it swallowed it.
As this happened, Bran awoke with a jolt, the echo of the dream lingering in the recesses of his mind. He found himself in the familiar confines of his room at Winterfell, but the cryptic imagery haunted him. He had many nightmares, but this was different; it felt different.
His heart tightened; he knew in his bones something was wrong. After thinking for a few moments, Bran realized it. The white direwolf, a reflection of Jon, seemed oblivious to the impending threat. The shadow, though formless, radiated an ancient malevolence. He was in danger; it was a grave danger.
In his urgency, he jumped out of bed with bare feet, his heart racing as he made his way through Winterfell's corridors. Bran's hurried steps echoed through the dimly lit corridors of Winterfell, the cold stone floor chilling his bare feet, but Bran didn't even feel the cold. Urgency etched on his face, Bran sought out his father. Ned was in his solar with Robb, teaching him things about running the castle.
"Father!" Bran exclaimed as he burst into the room. Ned, engrossed in his duties, looked up, a warm smile softening his stern features. "What's the matter, Bran? Is everything alright?"
"No, Father, it's Jon! He's in danger," Bran blurted out, his words rushed and urgent. Bran explained his dream, but Ned regarded him with a patient gaze, attributing the concern to a child missing his older brother.
Ned chuckled gently, ruffling Bran's hair. "Jon's a capable young man, Bran. I'm sure he can handle himself at Castle Black. You're just missing your big brother, that's all, and your 16th name day passed. You should stop acting like a child."
Bran's eyes pleaded with his father, but Ned, though sympathetic, remained unconvinced. Ned exchanged a glance with Robb, and a sigh escaped his lips. "Bran, dreams can be unsettling, especially for a young mind. Jon is at Castle Black, fulfilling his duties. There's nothing to worry about."
But Robb intervened. "Father, it wouldn't hurt to visit Jon, just to put Bran's mind at ease. He must have missed him; many moons have passed since the last time Bran saw him, and you had said we had to go to Castle Black sometime this year. We could do it now."
Ned considered Robb's words, recognizing the merit in the suggestion. He turned back to Bran, his expression softening. "Alright, Bran. We'll visit Jon at Castle Black." A sense of relief washed over Bran, and he nodded gratefully, but with an urgent tone, he said, "We have to go now; we can't waste time!"