Without further hesitation, Cregan scooped a small portion of the paste, steeling his nerves as he raised it to his mouth.
As soon as Cregan swallowed the thick paste, the effect was immediate and overwhelming. Unlike with Hodor, whose body had struggled to absorb the magic, Cregan felt the power rush through him like a raging torrent. The magic hit his veins like fire, coursing through every part of his body, making him feel as though his skin would split apart from the pressure.
His own magic swelled, growing at an alarming rate. The sensation was both exhilarating and terrifying. He had never felt so much power within him, yet it was too much, too fast. His body convulsed, his muscles tightening, his head pounding as if it might split in two. His nose began to bleed, dark rivulets of blood staining his lips.
Images flashed through his mind, vivid and chaotic. Faces, places, memories from a life long forgotten, memories from his previous world came flooding back to him. He saw moments he hadn't thought about in years, fragments of his old life colliding with the present in a whirlwind of emotion and sensation.
And then, as the magic continued to surge, he felt his connection to the weirwood trees intensify, growing deeper and stronger than ever before.
Cregan gasped, his vision blurring as a new image filled his mind—a tree. But not just any tree. A massive weirwood, towering above all, its roots and branches stretching into the endless blackness of the void. It was larger than anything he had ever seen, like the Yggdrasil of legend, connecting realms beyond understanding. This was no ordinary tree; it was the heart of everything.
He felt the pull of the tree, dragging his awareness deeper. His mind stretched across Westeros, and in an instant, he could feel every weirwood in the land. He saw them all, from the trees in Winterfell's godswood to those scattered across the North. He glimpsed the ancient weirwoods in the Wolfswood and beyond, each one connected to the others like threads in an immense web.
And then he saw it—the poisoned weirwood at House Blackwood, its withered branches oozing with dark memories, a tree steeped in sorrow and old curses. The twisted tree at Casterly Rock, long forgotten by the lions of the West, but still pulsing with an ancient power that whispered through the stone halls. Cregan's vision swept to the godswood on High Heart, where the winds carried whispers of prophecies lost to time, and the trees on the Isle of Faces, shrouded in mystery, their secrets guarded by the Children of the Forest.
The weirwoods beyond the Wall called to him with a different kind of magic, stronger and untouched by the hands of men. Their power felt raw, untamed by the centuries. He saw the trees where the Night's Watch took their vows, their faces carved deep into the bark, watching over the brothers who pledged their lives to the Wall. And further north still, deeper into the frozen wastes where no man dared tread, he glimpsed the weirwoods in the heart of the haunted forest—old, untouched, and teeming with power.
Then, in the farthest reaches of the North, where the land gave way to endless snow and ice, Cregan saw a weirwood unlike any other. Its gnarled branches stretched out like arms, its face carved with a deep, knowing expression, as though it had borne witness to every secret the world had ever known. Hidden within those ancient branches was a figure—Bloodraven, the three-eyed crow. His presence was palpable, his awareness sharp, like a cold, invasive whisper brushing against Cregan's mind.
The sensation chilled him to his core. Bloodraven was watching, waiting, as though he had been expecting Cregan all along. But Cregan, still overwhelmed by the flood of images from the weirwoods, found himself too distracted to focus on the three-eyed crow. A connection had begun to form with each tree he had glimpsed—strong, ancient bonds—but none as potent as the one at Winterfell. Slowly, the visions began to fade, like the receding tide, leaving only a distant echo in his mind. And then... darkness. Cregan lost consciousness.
As if sensing something had befallen Cregan, Hodor came rushing to the Godswood, his feet pounding the ground. The connection between them wasn't one-way after all. Hodor must have felt Cregan's distress. Without hesitation, Hodor scooped Cregan's limp body into his arms and rushed from the sacred grove, panic etched across his usually placid face.
The guards who crossed their path were left aghast, uncertain of what they were seeing. Was Hodor rescuing the boy, or had he somehow harmed him? When they asked, all they got in return was the familiar, frantic chant, "Hodor! Hodor!" But when the giant of a boy pointed urgently toward Maester Luwin's rookery, the guards understood.
Without wasting time, they followed Hodor, who moved with surprising speed given his burden. The group burst into Maester Luwin's chambers, the unconscious Cregan still bleeding from his nose and mouth, limp in Hodor's arms.
Maester Luwin looked up in shock, hurrying to his feet as he saw the state of Lord Stark's younger brother. "Set him down, quickly!" the maester commanded, gesturing to the table. Hodor carefully laid Cregan down, a look of deep worry clouding his usually vacant expression.
Luwin rushed to Cregan's side, already grabbing for his tools and herbs. "What in the name of the Old Gods happened to him?" he muttered as he began to examine the boy. "Fetch some water!"
Hodor stood anxiously by the bed, muttering "Hodor... Hodor" under his breath. The guards lingered uncertainly near the door, exchanging worried glances as Maester Luwin examined the unconscious Cregan.
Word of Cregan's condition had spread quickly, and soon Ned, Benjen, and Catelyn had come to see him. They found him lying still, his face peaceful but unmoving.
OOO
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