(Third-person perspective)
Jon and his party were trying to advance as quickly as possible, but Skadi told Aermir that the Others were closing in inch by inch because they had to rest.
Aermir knew that if he didn't do something, Jon would die. He stood atop the Wall, gazing in the direction of Jon and his companions, his heart filled with hesitation. He didn't want Jon to fend for himself, but crossing the Wall posed a greater danger.
If he couldn't suppress the Night's King's mark, he couldn't return, or he could have dispelled the magic circle preventing the Night's King's passage. If the mark were broken, the Night's King could also track Aermir's movements.
Aermir couldn't decide what to do, but just then, something on the North horizon caught his attention. Even on the mountaintop, his enhanced eyes could barely see.
That was the Fist of the First Men. The hill was almost invisible. Aermir had read about this place in a book but couldn't remember it, so he used his " Appraisal " skill to memorize its meaning.
The book says that Fist Hill is the veil between the mortal realm and the realm of the Old Gods. Towering boulders and weathered buildings, said to have been sculpted by the First Men, fill its summit.
In ancient tales and books, it is imbued with the magic of this land. In these stories, the Fist of the First Men is considered a conduit for communication with the Old Gods, a place where visions can be glimpsed and prophecies unfolded. Now, it serves as the Night's Watch's forward base.
Aermir closed his eyes, feeling the magic of this land. Just as he had thought, this was above the convergence point of the lightning lines. He could sense a weirwood tree on the mountaintop. Although it wasn't on the mountaintop, there was definitely a weirwood tree there.
He conceived a crazy plan; a plan based on an assumption he made when he reached the sixth level of Druid. His perception of magic was now far more acute, so he could now sense the magic weakening south of the Wall. No, that wasn't quite right. It was more like it was being transferred into the Wall itself.
He assumed he had gained greater control over the elements, which would allow him to more easily manipulate the magic of this land, harnessing more power in places with pure magic, such as where lightning converged. Previously, he could only train using these points. He had tried controlling the convergence points south of the Wall, and while successful, these points were depleted, only increasing the power slightly.
But considering the energy he was currently sensing, comparing the convergence point north of the Wall to the convergence point south of the Wall was like comparing a wild stallion to a foal. There was no other way but this far-fetched plan. If this plan failed, he wouldn't be able to return south until the curse of the mark was broken, but he didn't want Jon to commit suicide. He slapped himself and said nervously, "Why are you so afraid of a necromancer?"
He laughed nervously, "Haha, he just has an army of undead, nothing to be afraid of." He took a deep breath and exhaled. "Don't even think about it, Jon would do that for me." Aermir shrugged and said, "If this doesn't work, and the Night's King kidnaps me, I can just run straight to Essos. I don't care if he follows me Essos; I don't think the undead can cross the sea."
He kept talking to himself, trying to muster his courage; he first sent a servant to the Fist of the First Men so that he could teleport there. Then he flew back from the Wall to the Wall weirwood closest to it.
Aermir took several deep breaths, preparing himself for what was about to happen. He knew that once he teleported to the other side, the curse would attack him with all its might. He took another deep breath and then teleported.
Bran Stark finds himself lost in a labyrinth of dreams. A cold wind rustles through the branches of ancient weirwood, their crimson leaves whispering in the breeze. Before him stretches an endless expanse of snow-covered land, extending beyond the Wall. In the distance, a lone white Direwolf appears.
The Direwolf moved with ease through the snow and ice, its fur shimmering like sunlight on fresh snow. But as the wolf traversed this unsettling terrain, a dark and ominous shadow began to lurk among the twisted bushes. This shadow evoked a sense of coldness and death. It followed the Direwolf's every move like a relentless force, stalking the white Direwolf.
Bran stood on the edge of this surreal scene, sensing the indescribable danger permeating the dream. The crackling energy in the air was unsettling, and the leaves of the undergrowth trembled as if warning him of something.
As the Direwolf raced across the snow, its shadow drew ever closer, and a sense of dread enveloped Bran. He tried to stop it, but the shadow continued to close in until it engulfed the wolf.
Just then, Bran awoke with a start, the echoes of his dream lingering in his mind. He found himself in a familiar room in Winterfell, but the hidden imagery persisted in his heart. He had many nightmares, but this one was different, and it felt different too.
His heart skipped a beat; he knew deep down that something was wrong. After a moment's thought, Bran realized it. The white Direwolf was Jon's reflection, seemingly oblivious to the impending threat. Though the shadow was invisible, it exuded an ancient malice. He was in danger, and great danger at that.
In desperation, he jumped out of bed barefoot and ran through the corridors of Winterfell, his heart pounding. Bran's hurried footsteps echoed through the dimly lit corridors of Winterfell, the cold stone floor chilling his bare feet, but Bran felt no cold at all. Bran was anxiously searching for his father. Eddard and Robb were in the sunroom, teaching him about managing the Citadel.
"Father!" Bran burst into the room, exclaiming. Ned, who was intently performing his duties, looked up, his stern expression softening with a warm smile. "What's wrong, Bran? Are you alright?"
"No, Father, it's Jon! He's in danger!" Bran said suddenly, his words urgent and pressing. Bran explained his dream, but Eddard watched him patiently, attributing the worry to a child's longing for his brother.
Eddard smiled gently and ruffled Bran's hair. " Jon is a capable young man, Bran. I trust he can take care of himself at Castle Black. You just miss your brother, that's all. Your sixteenth Name Day has passed. You shouldn't act like a child anymore."
Bran's eyes pleaded with his father, but while Eddard felt sympathy, he remained unmoved. Eddard exchanged a glance with Robb and sighed. " Bran, dreams can be unsettling, especially for a young mind. Jon is on duty at Castle Black. There's nothing to worry about."
But Robb interrupted, "Father, it wouldn't hurt to see Jon, just to put Bran's mind at ease. Bran last saw him months ago, and you said we had to go to Castle Black sometime this year. He must miss him terribly. We can go now."
Eddard considered Robb's words and thought the suggestion made sense. He looked back at Bran, his expression softening. "Alright, Bran. Let's go to Castle Black to visit Jon." Bran nodded gratefully, relieved, but said urgently, "We have to go right away, we can't waste any time!"