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Chapter 150: Barrow of the First Men
🕑 Added 2025-02-14 12:32:05 +0000 UTC"I hate the North, and I never want to set foot in this damned place again in my life!"
Just as they were passing through the Moat Cailin bog, Joel, who had dismounted to relieve himself, was suddenly attacked by a lizard-lion lurking in the swamp. Fortunately, he reacted in time; otherwise, he might never have been able to use his manhood again.
The attack, combined with the countless discomforts he had endured while traveling through the swamp, finally pushed him over the edge. His frustration erupted, and he cursed furiously, showing not the slightest concern for the Northern guide sent from Moat Cailin.
Lynd watched as Joel Flowers vented his rage and chuckled. “Ser Joel, don't be so sure,” he said. “With your current temper and attitude, it might not be long before some lord sends you to The Wall in chains. By then, these people will all be your brothers.”
At that moment, the prisoners seized the opportunity to make a scene, and several of them even called out to Joel, "Brother Joel."
“Shut up! Even if I die, I will never wear the black.” Joel glared at Lynd in anger, then turned his fury on the prisoners who had joined in. “Your spirit is dangerous,” he sneered. “Tonight, all rations are canceled. I think hunger will teach you that not everyone is to be mocked.”
“That’s not fair! We weren’t mocking you!” someone protested.
Joel Flowers swung himself back onto his horse and shouted, “No! You laughed in your hearts, and I heard you!”
Vortimer didn’t allow the commotion to escalate further. With a sharp order, he silenced the rabble, and the halted procession resumed its march northward.
The last time Lynd had traveled from King’s Landing to Moat Cailin, it had taken him just over a dozen days. This time, however, they had been on the road for more than a month. The original group of four hundred prisoners had swelled to over seven hundred, with more than a hundred from King’s Landing and nearly two hundred from Harrenhal, Riverrun, The Twins, and Seagard.
The lords of these castles, knowing that Lynd’s procession would pass along the Kingsroad near their territories, had prepared prisoners in advance. As the escorting party approached, these additional convicts were brought to the roadside and merged into the ranks of those destined for the Wall. Naturally, this only slowed their pace further.
The slow progress had long worn down the patience of the escorting party, and even Joel Flowers—who was usually carefree and quick to laugh—had grown irritable from the grueling journey.
After finally leaving the swamp, the road became marginally easier to traverse, but only just. The once well-constructed Kingsroad had fallen into disrepair, littered with loose gravel, overgrown weeds, and rotting wood. Sinkholes had turned into hidden pitfalls, their openings concealed beneath thick vegetation, making them deadly traps.
Several men stepped into them unwittingly, some breaking their necks on impact. Others were luckier, escaping with shattered limbs that left them unable to walk.
Vortimer initially intended to deal with these injured men on the spot, but Lynd intervened. He saw an opportunity to test the extent of Glory’s healing white light on external injuries.
Before the watchful eyes of the escort and prisoners alike, the broken leg bones—once set into place—began to mend beneath the glow of Glory’s radiance. Though not completely healed, the visible improvement was undeniable, leaving onlookers in awe.
“Is this the legendary miracle of healing?” Vortimer exclaimed in awe as he took in the sight before him.
Soldiers, prisoners, and even devout followers of the Seven knelt down in silent prayer, overwhelmed by what they had witnessed.
Once the external wounds had fully healed, Lynd ceased Glory’s light and examined the bones. Though the fractures had mended, the joints remained weak and required time to regain their strength. With this in mind, the injured prisoners were placed on the supply carts and continued the journey with the rest of the group.
After this brief delay, they marched on for another half a day. As dusk settled, they climbed over a small hill and entered an open expanse.
“Damn the seven levels of hell! Have we walked into a graveyard?” Joel cursed loudly as he surveyed his surroundings.
On both sides of the Kingsroad, apart from barren land, there were countless grave mounds stretching into the distance, densely packed until they vanished at the horizon.
“This is the Barrowlands. These barrows belong to the First Men of the North,” Vortimer said solemnly, his gaze lingering on the ancient burial grounds. “They date back to the time of the Barrow King. Before the North was unified under House Stark, powerful First Men clans—the Red King, the Warg King, the Marsh King—ruled over these lands. It took the King in Winter a thousand years to conquer them all, and now, these heroes of ancient legend rest in these desolate barrows.”
“Vortimer, is this really the time for sentiment? Should I fetch you a harp so you can sing like a bard?” Joel said impatiently. “We should be finding a decent place to camp. I have no intention of spending the night among tombs.” With that, he turned to the guide from Moat Cailin and asked, “Is there anywhere around here suitable for camping?”
The guide remained silent for a moment before pointing to a clearing at the foot of the hill, encircled by grave mounds. The way the grass had been trampled and worn suggested that many travelers had camped there before.
“By the Seven, is this really the only damn place to camp?” Joel grumbled, then asked, “The nearest inn, outpost, or even a ruined fortress—anything with walls?”
The guide gave him a blank look, then gestured westward. “Cross the Great Barrow and walk for eight days—you’ll reach Barrowton. That would be suitable for rest.” Then he pointed north. “Follow the Kingsroad for nine days, and you’ll reach Winterfell. That, too, is a place fit for living. Beyond that, there are few sites better than this one. Further on, we may have to camp directly on the Kingsroad.”
“You forgot to mention that if we head east, we could reach White Harbor,” Lynd interjected, pointing in that direction. “We might as well travel to White Harbor, take a ship, and sail up the White Knife River. From there, we’d be closer to Winterfell and could continue on land.”
Joel was visibly tempted. White Harbor, one of the five great cities of Westeros, was as prosperous as King’s Landing or Oldtown. Compared to trekking through the wilderness, resting in White Harbor sounded far more appealing.
“Enough of that. We camp here. Don't make this more difficult,” Vortimer declared, shutting down the discussion. Without room for further argument, he gave the order to set up camp in the clearing.
Joel, dejected, didn’t argue further and simply went to set up his tent with the help of his attendant.
Lynd, on the other hand, had no need to pitch his own tent—several prisoners had taken it upon themselves to do it for him. Along the way, many had grown devoted to him, treating him with reverence much like the Septons and worshippers at the Redemption Sept.
After surveying the camp, he noticed a waterhole in the distance beyond the barren tombs. He borrowed a brush from a soldier, took Ebon by the leash, and led Glory to the pool to clean their mud-caked fur.
Night fell swiftly. A bonfire crackled in the camp, and Joel’s curses could be heard again—this time, likely due to the discovery that Vortimer had found and finished off all the wine he had hidden.
Though the waterhole wasn’t far from camp, the grave mounds between them obscured both sight and sound. From the camp, the waterhole was nearly invisible, and only faint echoes of movement could be heard.
A thin layer of white mist drifted over the water’s surface, the temperature drop between day and night thickening it into a ghostly veil. Moonlight cast an eerie glow upon it, causing the mist to shift like a living thing.
Lynd finished washing Glory and Ebon, but just as he was about to leave, he noticed something strange—the mist above the waterhole was gathering unnaturally, twisting rapidly into the vague outline of a human figure.
He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer to observe, but in the blink of an eye, the shape dissipated, melting back into the fog. Though the apparition had only lasted a moment, he was certain his eyes hadn’t deceived him.
Cautiously, he activated his shared vision with Glory, scanning the surroundings for any traces of unusual magic. Yet, despite his efforts, he found nothing.
Still unsettled, he returned to camp, exchanged a few words with the others, then entered his tent. He instructed Glory to keep watch at the entrance, then, as part of his routine, took the dragon egg in his hands and used dragon runes to preserve it.
After preserving the dragon egg for a while, Lynd didn’t put it back in his backpack. Instead, he held it in his arms and drifted off to sleep.
This time, he slept deeply. As soon as he lay down on the straw-covered bed, he slipped into a profound slumber.
Then, he realized he was dreaming.
Yes, even within the dream, his mind was remarkably clear. He was fully aware that he was dreaming and could think as normally as if he were awake.
This puzzled him. Ever since he had come to this world, he had never experienced a dream before. Yet now, without reason, he was dreaming, and that was certainly not normal.
As he pondered this strange occurrence, he observed the dream’s unfolding scene. He seemed to have taken the form of an eagle, soaring higher and higher into the sky. The earth beneath him grew smaller and smaller until it completely vanished into nothingness.
For a brief moment, he had the eerie sensation that he was being drawn into a vision by the Three-Eyed Crow, much like what had happened to Willas. But he quickly dismissed that thought. This was different.
As the world below disappeared from sight, massive figures emerged in the void beneath him. Some of them were familiar—he recognized the Many-Faced God with its countless faces, the same deity Willas had seen in Winterfell. He also saw Garth Greenhand, whom he had glimpsed in Highgarden.
One by one, deities—some lost to history, others still worshipped—manifested in the void below him. And at the very bottom, where the earth should have been, there lay a dragon egg.
Unlike any dragon egg he had seen before, this one was completely transparent, its shell seemingly formed from pure light. Inside, a sleeping dragon curled within, its breath causing radiant light to pulse from the egg, illuminating the gathered deities.
Then, in the distant void, a blood-red comet appeared. However, instead of a meteorite at its core, there was a colossal clock, its hands trembling as if about to strike. With each movement, the hammer struck the walls of the clock, emitting a sound powerful enough to wake even the deepest sleeper.
Yet, the red comet was too far from the dragon egg to let its sound reach.
At that moment, the vague human figure that Lynd had seen by the waterhole appeared once more. It extended a hand and pointed in a direction.
Even though there was no true sense of direction in the void, Lynd instinctively understood—the figure was pointing east.
The figure then began shouting something at him, but no sound reached his ears. Still, strangely enough, he seemed to comprehend its meaning.
Just as he was trying to make sense of it, rain began to fall in the void. The droplets hit his face with a cool, tangible sensation.
Then, in an instant, everything shattered.
Lynd awoke, jolted back to reality. He was still inside his tent. The dream, or rather the vision, had been nothing more than an illusion caused by Glory’s presence. But the rain was real. Outside, a downpour raged, with water seeping through the tent’s cracks and dripping onto his face.
Beyond the tent, loud noises echoed through the camp—someone’s tent had collapsed. The bonfire had been extinguished by the rain, and only a few torches flickered in the darkness, held by those trying to keep the camp illuminated.
Despite the chaos, none of the prisoners attempted to flee. There was no point. In this desolate land, no one would survive alone for more than two days. Those who tried to escape would likely fall prey to the beasts lurking in the shadows. It was safer to stay and rely on each other.
Lynd set the dragon egg aside and stepped out of his tent, surveying the camp. As he let Glory’s fur turn white, its radiant light cut through the darkness, casting an ethereal glow over the camp. The chaotic scene quickly settled. Soldiers efficiently went about restoring the fallen tents, while the prisoners huddled together for warmth against the cold rain.
Lynd ordered the prisoners to bring him several pieces of tent cloth used to cover the supply wagons. He had them hold the edges aloft, creating makeshift canopies to shield themselves from the rain. Then, he supervised the transfer of supplies and the wounded from the wagons into tents for better shelter. After ensuring the camp was stabilized, he went to stay with Joel and Vortimer.
Once things were in order, he returned to his tent and sat down. Joel and Vortimer shook off the excess rain from their clothes, took a couple of sips of heated wine, and soon went back to sleep.
Lynd, however, had other matters on his mind. He activated the Storm Dragon rune, summoning a controlled hurricane around his body. The swirling air instantly dried his damp clothes and shook off all remaining water.
Afterward, he let Glory lie down behind him, using its soft belly as a pillow. Leaning against it, he closed his eyes, his thoughts returning to the dream.
East. Go east. Go east. That was the meaning behind the human figure’s silent shouts.
Yet, the words made no sense to him.
After mulling over the vision repeatedly without arriving at a conclusion, he decided to set the matter aside for now. Instead, he turned his focus to his nightly routine—checking for any lingering effects from the Dragon Communion Ritual and ensuring there were no unusual changes in his body.
Then, as he habitually glanced at his cheat progress bar, he suddenly noticed something shocking.
Previously, the progress bar had been creeping forward at a sluggish pace—barely one-tenth complete. But now, inexplicably, it had surged past the halfway mark.
His mind immediately jumped back to the dream, to the cryptic message about the east.
Could it be a sign? A revelation that something in the East could help him complete the cheat progress bar?
