Chapter 295: Nightfort
The attitude of the Northern lords toward the Gift Settlement Plan was of paramount importance, but at least for today, Egger did not need to be overly anxious. Nightfort was not a part of the settlement plan; its reactivation had occurred before the acceptance of the surrendering wildlings and had received the unanimous approval of the Night's Watch high command.
The reason for choosing this as the first stop after leaving Castle Black was not how many former free folk lived here, nor how much of a threat they might pose to the North should trouble arise—it was because of another reason entirely. Bran Stark had vanished here. Since Robb's own son had not yet been born, the first in line to the North's succession had disappeared from this very spot.
The residents within the walls of Nightfort were the Flint clan from the mountains. They had been invited by the Night's Watch to descend from the peaks and garrison the Wall, though legally they remained subjects of the North. Although their clan chief held no castle and was as poor as a church mouse, he was equal in rank to an earl within the feudal hierarchy; though his clansmen neither farmed nor paid taxes, they were nonetheless subjects of the North.
To Egger, the mountain clans were the filler that patched the holes in the Wall's manpower, cheap labor for the development of the Gift, and the first wave of new residents. To the Night's Watch, the clans were reinforcements invited with great effort, the backbone that forced the wildlings to surrender, and reliable allies who would soon stand shoulder-to-shoulder against the enemies of humanity. And to the North, they were semi-civilized subjects who were usually ignored but had now voluntarily moved from their mountains without orders to defend the northern border. One could hardly be anything but grateful; how could one possibly drive them away?
The special status of the mountain clans made them nearly immune to political targeting—even the most stubborn Conservatives would not think to attack these people just to embarrass the Progressives. Not only had Egger notified Nightfort in advance to prepare for the inspection party, but even if something went wrong, Robb would not blame these mountain folk too harshly, nor would he develop an aversion to the settlement plan because of them.
When two parties who rarely meet and share neither old grudges nor conflicting interests encounter one another under a lord-vassal relationship, the atmosphere is naturally one of courtesy. At this moment, the chief of the Flint clan was speaking eagerly with Robb Stark, expressing a warm welcome and mourning the late Lord Eddard Stark, while introducing the latest conditions of this resurrected ancient fortress.
The pleasantries did not last long. After finishing his exchange with Torghen Flint, Robb tucked away his smile and asked with gravity about the matter he cared for most: the specific circumstances of his brother's disappearance.
"The Night's Watch entrusted the heavy responsibility of garrisoning Nightfort to the Flint clan. We dared not take it lightly. Our sentries and patrols remained vigilant at all times to ensure any threat from the north or south was detected immediately. One day a few months ago... our boys on watch atop the towers spotted suspicious figures moving through the brush in the wilds outside the fort. After sending a party to investigate, we caught a giant of a man and three children," Torghen said in a gravelly voice. "They didn't look like wildlings at all, so we were cautious. After questioning them, it was confirmed—it was indeed Bran Stark, whom Castle Black had ordered us to look out for, along with the Reed siblings and a tall stableboy from Winterfell. We took the matter very seriously, settled them in rooms within the main keep, assigned men to look after them, and notified Commander Mormont."
"We are already familiar with these details," Roose Bolton interrupted coldly. "Tell us specifically how they managed to mysteriously vanish under the 'care and supervision' of the Flint clan and why their whereabouts remain unknown."
The Lord of the Dreadfort's tone made the Flint chief slightly uncomfortable, but the fact remained that the Duke's brother had disappeared under the eyes of a thousand clansmen. On that point alone, he couldn't afford to be indignant.
After hesitating for a few seconds, he began his narration with a grimace. "It happened like this: Commander Mormont's initial reply was to keep Master Bran safe and wait for Winterfell to send men. We did so... but later, Lady Reed was harassed near Nightfort. Commander Mormont changed his mind; he decided to come to Nightfort personally to resolve the incident and take the three young nobles back to Castle Black upon his return. That... is when it happened."
"Commander Mormont arrived the afternoon before the incident. The next day he rose early; there was a light snow... so he decided to head to the New Gift settlement outside the fort to handle the matter of Lady Reed's harassment first, planning to set out for Castle Black after noon. Following his orders, we carried Master Bran from his room and had him wait in the hall with his two companions and the stableboy, Hodor, after they had packed their bags." Torghen's face took on a look of regret. "Near midday, the brothers who had accompanied the Commander returned to the fort carrying Lord Mormont. He was unconscious, his head covered in blood. They were shouting for a maester or a healer... The scene turned to chaos. Everyone in the hall, myself included, ran to see what had happened. No one thought to stay behind—to watch the three children waiting to head east with the Commander. In the blink of an eye, they were gone."
Old Flint was clearly not skilled at organizing his words. This explanation was far too vague; not only Robb Stark, but even Egger felt that this sounded as though a Stark of Winterfell had been treated as an afterthought. He couldn't sit by and watch his tongue-tied ally ruin things, so he stepped in to prompt him: "Lord Flint, tell us about your subsequent investigation."
"Ah, right." The rough man from the mountains was not slow to take the hint. "When Master Bran disappeared, the walls the Night's Watch required us to build were mostly finished. Given that your brother's legs do not work, it was impossible for him to climb the walls to escape. Therefore, there were only four paths out of Nightfort: the east and west gates, the tunnel leading beyond the Wall, or the steps up to the top of the Wall... where one might walk to another fort with stairs and descend there."
The results of the investigation successfully captured the attention of the Northern lords. Everyone listened in silence.
"Of those, the tunnel to the north was blocked when the Watch abandoned Nightfort, and we were told there was no need to clear it. As for the two gates and the stairs... we closed or guarded them immediately after discovering Master Bran was missing. After questioning the guards and sentries, we confirmed that on that day, no group consisting of 'one giant and three children' had left via those routes."
"Could they have split up?"
"Er... no. There aren't many children that age in Nightfort. The guards confirmed that no one they didn't recognize had left."
"Then did the brother of the Lord of Winterfell simply evaporate into thin air!?" Lord Karstark glared at Flint. "I heard you have over a thousand people living here. It's impossible they all ran off to look at Mormont when it happened. Just an old man—what's there to see!"
"Lord Karstark is right. Later, we expanded our questioning to all residents of the fort, and we soon made progress. At the time of the incident, several women hanging laundry saw Master Bran's party leave the hall and enter the kitchen used by the Night's Watch in the old days."
The kitchen, or the "Gallowkitchen," was an octagonal stone building. Though the vaulted roof was broken, the overall structure appeared to be in relatively good condition. Curiously, compared to the crowded nature of the rest of Nightfort, this place seemed exceptionally deserted.
Robb looked at the exterior of the ancient kitchen with confusion and asked, "With a little repair, this place would be in better condition than most of the buildings and tents around it. Why is it sitting here unused?"
"If the Lord follows me inside, he will see for himself."
Thus Egger and the Northern lords followed the Flint chief across a threshold that had been nearly worn flat and entered the kitchen used by the Night's Watch two hundred years ago.
The massive room was empty. The only remaining furnishings were the giant brick ovens, the scarred and stained butchering blocks lining the walls, and the rusted meat hooks hanging from the rafters. The atmosphere was one of decay and desolation. In the geometric center of the room lay a well that was eerily large. A gnarled tree had burst through the floor beside it, its trunk reaching toward the roof. Its topmost branches extended through a hole in the ceiling, pointing elegantly toward the sky. It was unclear if the tree had broken the roof, or if it chose to grow toward the hole that was already there.
Robb was initially perplexed, waiting for Torghen's explanation, but after staring at the tree by the well for a few moments, he quickly understood why the clansmen refused to use this nearly intact kitchen. "This... this is a weirwood?"
Hot air rises; along the cold Wall, any building with a hole in the roof, no matter how sturdy, is uninhabitable. A kitchen is a functional building; to repair and use it, one would inevitably have to cut down the tree growing in the center.
Weirwoods are inextricably linked to the faith of the Old Gods. Here, whether it was the Northerners, the mountain clans, or the former free folk who had just moved south of the Wall, all followed the Old Gods. Their refusal to cut down a weirwood seemed understandable.
But... was this degree of reverence necessary?
The faith of the Old Gods is a natural religion. Even the most devout believers acknowledge that a weirwood is a symbol of the Old Gods, not the gods themselves. Followers of the Old Gods are not like certain extremist religions; they do not view a weirwood as a deity and do not consider any harm to it an unforgivable sacrilege. On the contrary, because weirwood is strong and does not rot, it is an excellent material for crafting various items and is highly sought after across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond the Wall. Many Northerners take pride in owning a weirwood bow or shield—even the meeting room of the Kingsguard in far-off King's Landing features a weirwood table.
Furthermore, weirwoods are typically massive trees with thick trunks and sprawling, knotted roots. But this one? It was thin and crooked. The bark was pale; if it weren't for the red, hand-shaped leaves still clinging to it, it would look like a flayed bone. This was clearly a malformed sapling of no great age, so spindly it didn't even have room for a carved face. It didn't qualify as a "heart tree," so where was the sanctity? Why would these mountain clansmen prefer to live in broken, drafty shacks or tents rather than occupy such a sturdy building?
Robb couldn't speak for others, but if a sapling pushed through the floor of the Great Hall at Winterfell, the Starks wouldn't care if it was a weirwood; they would have the servants pull it up and repair the floor, rather than move out of the keep to make room for it.
"Is the Lord thinking that for such a small sapling, there's no need for such fuss?" Torghen Flint seemed to read Robb's mind and smiled. "No, this is absolutely no ordinary weirwood. It is very likely the oldest heart tree in all the Seven Kingdoms—"
"It needs a face to be called a heart tree. Don't tell me the members of the Flint clan are master micro-sculptors?"
"No, what you see now is merely the tip of one of its branches. The size and span of this heart tree's trunk beneath the ground is absolutely beyond anyone's imagination!"
"It's buried underground; how could you tell how big it is?" Mors Umber grunted. "And aren't we discussing the whereabouts of Lord Robb's brother? Do you think because we follow the Old Gods, our attention will be distracted by a big weirwood?!"
"I have no such intention! In fact, the largest heart tree in the Seven Kingdoms is indeed related to Master Bran's whereabouts." The Flint chief pointed toward the great well in the center of the room. "Everyone who witnessed the three children and the stableboy enter this kitchen reported the same: they were never seen coming out. We searched this room over and over and found no second exit or secret passage... eventually, we thought of this well."
Had Bran Stark jumped down a well?
Many present felt a chill. They glanced at Robb, not daring to speak, until Chief Flint performed a puzzling series of actions. He walked straight to the great well and, under the astonished gazes and gasps of the crowd, lifted a leg over the rim and stepped into the well.
"What are you doing!" Even if losing her brother was terrible, he shouldn't be so guilt-ridden as to commit suicide. Arya, who had been following her brother quietly, immediately let out a scream, only to cut it short halfway. "Eh—"
Indeed, before everyone's eyes, Old Flint was "standing" inside the well. Quite a few Northern nobles, including Arya, were ready to grab him, but after he stepped in with his second leg, he did not plummet down. Instead, he stood firmly on the inner side of the well wall, looking at the crowd and shrugging.
Arya shook off Robb's hand and was the first to run over. Soon, everyone crowded around to study the great well.
The first impression was correct—the well was truly massive, a full four meters wide. The walls were thick, wet, and covered in limescale and moss, descending into a bottomless dark. A soldier from House Bolton helpfully handed over a torch. By the light of the fire, everyone understood why Old Flint hadn't fallen: there were stone slabs extending from the inner wall to form a staircase, spiraling down into the darkness beyond where the torchlight could reach.
The group observed the well for a moment like it was some strange treasure until Arya finally couldn't contain her curiosity. "A well... why does it have stairs?"
Someone ventured a guess. "Probably because the Wall is so cold the water freezes, and they needed to send people down to break the ice?"
"Oh." Arya blinked, not questioning this obviously illogical explanation. "So Bran went down these stairs?"
"From what we can tell, yes." Old Flint nodded. "Do you want to go down and see?"
She did, but with Robb there, he would hardly let her act recklessly.
Arya was eager but eventually restrained herself and asked, "Is there no water down there?"
Roose Bolton said nothing. He silently took the torch from his man's hand and tossed it into the mouth of the well.
The torch fell rapidly, soon becoming a tiny speck in the black pit. After about two or three seconds, it hit the bottom, sending out a spray of sparks before finally being swallowed by the darkness with a soft thud.
Both the sound and the sight of the torch hitting the bottom confirmed Torghen Flint's words: there was no water at the bottom of the well. A person could move down there.
Concern for his brother overcame his slight fear of the dark pit. Furthermore, judging by Old Flint's words, he or his clansmen had already been down to look. The mountain clans had no reason to harm the Warden of the North. After a moment of hesitation, Robb nodded. "Lead the way. We're going down to see."
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