Thoughts of the Wall
The morning mist of Winterfell, carrying the warmth of the hot springs, lingered among the gray stone walls.
Brandon Stark, carrying a wooden sword, was already waiting at the main gate. Fine snowflakes clung to his black leather armor. Seeing Daemon group emerge, he immediately waved and shouted, "Quick! Before the fog clears, let's take you to the Godswood. The weirwood trees are most spiritually potent at this time!"
Daemon followed him through the courtyard, the stone slabs beneath his feet radiating a subtle warmth—the temperature emanating from the underground hot spring pipes, which would never freeze even in the dead of winter.
Along the way, several House Stark servants were practicing swordsmanship on the training grounds. The crisp sound of steel blades clashing together, mixed with shouts, was particularly clear in the morning mist.
Rupert Crabb couldn't help but slow his pace, his gaze fixed on their moves, his fingers unconsciously stroking the hilt of the steel sword Rodrik had given him.
"Don't rush, you'll get to know them in a bit." Brandon patted Rupert on the shoulder and grinned. "The North kids are strong, it'll be good for you to practice."
The iron gate of the Godswood was ajar, and when pushed open, it made an old "ouch" sound.
Stepping inside, the dense shade of the trees instantly blocked out the morning mist. In the three acres of woodland, the ancient weirwood branches intertwined, weaving a dark green canopy.
The snow on the ground had long since melted, revealing moist black soil that felt soft underfoot and carried the fresh scent of earth and pine needles.
"Look there!" Brandon pointed to the center of the woods, where a pool of Blackwater shimmered faintly. Beside the pool stood a colossal fish-shaped tree, so thick it would take two people to encircle it—its trunk gleaming with a silvery-white sheen. The human face carved into its bark, though blurred, still revealed the outline of the eyebrows and eyes, as if the light of the sky still shone in its depths. "This is the Heart Tree of Winterfell, eight thousand years old, even older than Brandon the Builder founded the city."
Mysaria approached the pool and stared curiously at the reflection in the water. Suddenly, she pointed to the tree roots and said, "There's moss there!" Everyone looked and saw that the tree roots were entwined with a layer of emerald green moss, which looked even brighter in the Blackwater —it was the life that the hot spring water had nurtured by seeping through the cracks in the rocks.
Gael walked to the Heart Tree, her fingertips gently tracing the carvings on the trunk, and whispered, "It's older than the Heart Tree of Riverrun." She looked up, and the dappled sunlight filtering through the branches fell on the Blackwater like scattered silver.
"This way!" Brandon led the group around the pool, past a few young weirwood trees, and suddenly three small, steaming ponds appeared before them—the water shimmering with a pale blue hue, the banks lined with moss-covered stone walls, and hot spring water gushing from the cracks in the walls. "These are the hot springs. The House Stark children love to play here during the coldest part of winter."
Beren squatted by the pool, dipped her finger in the water, and exclaimed in surprise, "It's warm! The hot springs in Winterfell that the books described really are this warm!"
Leaving the Godswood, the group walked up the stone steps toward the main fortress.
The granite walls of the main castle gleamed coldly. A sealed Stonebridge connected the main castle to the armory. Brandon pulled Daemon onto the bridge and pointed out the window. "You can see the entire drill ground from here. Last year, William and I had an axe-throwing contest here, and he cried when he lost!"
Daemon looked in the direction he pointed. The servants on the training ground had been replaced by archery teams, their arrows hitting the bullseye with precision. In the distance, the Broken Tower stood out against the morning mist—it was a towering stone tower, its watchtower at the top intact, completely different from the image of it "struck down by lightning" that Daemon had read about in books from his previous life.
"What is that?" Daemon's voice was tinged with surprise. In his previous life, he had only seen records of the Broken Tower in history books, but he had never imagined that it would stand so tall a hundred years ago.
"Spectacular, isn't it?" Brandon nodded. "The tallest Watchtower in Winterfell, you can see the edge of the Wolfswood. What's wrong? Do you know it?"
"I just heard about it." Damon looked back and sighed in his heart - this journey after his rebirth always allowed him to see many scenes that "disappeared in history". This intact ruined tower was actually more vivid than any history book.
For the next half day, Brandon led everyone through every corner of Winterfell.
They climbed the clock tower, looked at the enclosed Stonebridge connecting the clock tower and the Snowbeard King's nest, and listened to Brandon recount the story of Edric building the outer city walls—"The outer city walls are eighty feet high and took twenty years to build. My ancestor was afraid because people kept coming to Winterfell, so he gritted his teeth and built them!"
They entered the maester's tower, and below it, outside the library tower, a stone staircase wound its way up the wall. Upon seeing the library tower, Beren immediately grabbed the maester and bombarded him with questions, her eyes shining as if she had found a treasure.
They also went to the Hunter's Gate, where the barking of hunting dogs could be heard from the kennels beside it. Beyond the gate lay open wilderness, with the outline of the Wolfswood visible two miles away—"Hunting from here is so convenient, no need to go around Winter Town!"
What impressed Daemon the most was the crypt of Winterfell.
Pushing open the huge, tilted ironwood door, a chilling aura rushed out.
The winding stone steps extend downwards, and the deeper you go, the more you can feel the weight of history.
The crypt was long and narrow, with stone pillars standing in pairs on both sides. On the stone platforms between the pillars, the statues of the Stark ancestors sat like thrones. In front of each statue stood an iron sword, and at their feet were carved howling Direwolf. The statues' eyes and brows also revealed the House Stark's unique fortitude.
"This is Brandon the the Builder," Brandon said, pointing to a stone statue deep inside, its crown adorned with tiny runes. "He built Winterfell and also helped the Giants build part of the the Wall."
Daemon walked up to the statue, his gaze falling on the iron sword—though the blade was rusty, it still exuded a chilling killing intent, as if it were still guarding the sleeping soul.
He recalled the countless Stark recorded in the history books of his past life, those Wolf of the North who fought in the past and stood firm in the harsh winter, now all turned into cold stone statues, lying quietly in the depths of the earth.
"The kings of the the North are all buried here." Benjen had arrived unnoticed, his voice echoing through the cemetery. "The sword before each statue is a offering to their wandering souls."
After touring the crypt, dusk was falling. When the group returned to the hall, Duke Ellard was sitting in his wheelchair, drinking mulled wine. Seeing them enter, he smiled and asked, "Did you enjoy your visit today?"
"That was so much fun!" Myles, that silly boy, answered first, his dark eyes brimming with excitement. "The Broken Tower is taller than I imagined, the hot springs are especially warm, and there are books in the library tower. Beren said he could stay there for three days!"
Beren blushed and nodded, still clutching a copy of "The History of the First Men of the the North" that she had borrowed from the Library Tower.
Looking at everyone's smiling faces, Daemon suddenly spoke up, "Your Grace, I'd like to visit the the Wall."
The hall fell silent instantly. Ellard paused, then chuckled, "The Wall? That's Night's Watch territory, cold and remote, what's there to see?"
"I want to see that barrier that has protected the the North for eight thousand years," Daemon said with a hint of determination. "And I want to see what the Night's Watch looks like."
"I'll take you!" Brandon suddenly stood up, patting his chest. "I have an uncle who's Night's Watch on the the Wall, a ranger at Castle Black! I've been wanting to visit him, and we can take the Kingsroad, which is shorter than other routes!"
He paused, then added, "It's quite a coincidence, really. My Stark lineage happens to be settled in Barrowton, and my father is very close to William's father, Earl Rodrik. If I hadn't gone hunting in the Wolfswood with my friends last time, I might have run into you in Barrowton!"
Benjen nodded slightly. "Brandon's uncle is indeed at the the Wall, his name is Rodrik Stark, a reliable Ranger. Brandon has been to the the Wall several times with friends, so with him as your guide, you'll be safer going to the the Wall."
Duke Ellard pondered for a moment, then nodded and said, "Very well. Winters in the the North are cold, but the snow on the Kingsroad has cleared, so the road won't be too dangerous. Just make sure you bring plenty of warm clothes; the wind at the the Wall is fiercer than the the Neck."
Daemon was about to thank him when he noticed Larys Strong standing in the corner, his body wrapped in a black robe, his dark eyes gleaming with an unusual light. He couldn't help but recall Lucamore Strong, whom Daemon Targaryen had mentioned in Harrenhal; in fact, he should be Larys's great-uncle.
"Larys," Daemon looked at him, "Are you coming too?"
Larys snapped out of his reverie, a familiar faint smile playing on his lips. "Wherever Your Highness goes, I'll naturally follow. Please don't leave me behind just because of my mobility issues. It would be wonderful if I could have the chance to see the the Wall."
Though his voice was soft, a hint of expectation lingered in his eyes—everyone knew Lucamore Strong's reputation wasn't good, but for Larys, this uncle he'd never met was perhaps his only "acquaintance" in the North.
As night deepened, people began packing their belongings in the main hall of Winterfell.
William Dustin wanted to stay at Winterfell as a squire, while Beren excitedly clutched his book, saying he would write down his observations of the the Wall;
Rupert sharpened his steel sword, saying he was going to the the Wall to cut it with the Night's Watch.
Jarman Waters examined his bow and arrows, his one eye sweeping over the Glutton outside the window, seemingly calculating the security arrangements for the road.
Daemon stood on the terrace, gazing at the distant Broken Tower.
Moonlight fell on the top of the tower, casting a silvery glow. This tower, which would collapse a hundred years later, stood perfectly intact on the land of Winterfell, as if guarding some possibility that had not been altered by history.
He thought of the ice walls of the the Wall, the oath of the Night's Watch, and the warriors who had shed their blood on the the Wall in his past life—this journey to the the Wall might not just be about seeing the scenery, but also about the unknown threat.
"What are you thinking about?" Gael walked over, wearing an animal skin cloak and carrying a hand warmer.
"I was thinking about the ice wall of the the Wall. Is it really as high as the legends say, so high that you can touch the clouds?" Daemon smiled casually as he took the hand warmer, the warmth spreading through his palms.
"Brandon said the ice on the the Wall is blue and sparkles in the sunlight," Gael, leaning close to him and gazing north. "When we get there, we have to touch it."
A few night birdsongs drifted from the distant Godswood, mingling with the steam from the hot springs, creating a particularly gentle ambiance in the Winterfell night.
Daemon knew that their the North pilgrimage was about to take them further north, towards the ice wall that stretched across the continent.
The ancient shadows of Winterfell, the warmth of House Stark, and all the people and events they encounter on their journey will become part of their baggage as they head towards the the Wall.
The following morning, as the first rays of sunlight shone on the Direwolf banners of Winterfell, Daemon's party set off once more.
Brandon rode at the very front, brandishing the House Stark wolf banner with abandon;
Larys rode a gray donkey, his black robes fluttering in the wind:
The Glutton and Dreamfyre spread their wings, skimming low over Kingsroad, their dragon shadows landing on the snow like two black lightning bolts;
As for Alys Rivers, this "witch" has kept a low profile since arriving in the the North, and it seems that her magic has "withered" with the cold. At this moment, she is warming herself by the stove in the carriage, giving lessons to Mysaria, Beren, and Myles, the guy who's just joining in the fun.
The outline of Winterfell gradually faded into the distance, the shadows of the Broken Tower, the Godswood, and the crypts were all left behind. The road ahead led to the end of the Kingsroad, to the snow-covered Wall— where the Night's Watch campfires burned, the winds of the frozen plains blew, and new stories awaited them.