Chapter 199

The warm fresh blood of the prey flowed in its throat, the sweet scent surged straight to its brain, making it unable to resist the urge to howl……

No.

Bran Fa appears. Also Bran and Stark. So names: Bran Fa, Bran, Stark.

No.

Wu…… He timely turned the loud howl into a trembling low moan, as if praising the food before him and also lamenting his own loneliness.

No, you swore an oath; I still clearly remember that you swore it while in this body. You said that on the journey north, that was the last howl—having sworn an oath, you must keep it, whether it's Brandon or Summer.

Knights will strictly keep their oaths, and the White Knights of the Palace Guard will keep theirs even more strictly.

I am not a knight, nor am I a White Knight of the Palace Guard; moreover, do I still have to obey an oath not to howl? Wolves ought to howl; only children would keep such an oath!

No, anyone upright will. "Any upright warrior will keep his oath." He still remembered that Brandon's father, Eddard Stark, had once said to his son, "The Palace Guard are the knights among knights." Another of Eddard's sons had emphasized this to him.

"But I'm just a child." He remembered Brandon's voice. "But a Stark can never be just a child." His other bastard brother knelt down and said seriously to him, "A Stark is also a warrior, a winter warrior, and warriors keep their oaths."

Oh, that bastard brother of his—he always had the ability to shut off all his emotions.

Warrior. Summer is a warrior, and more than that, a winter warrior.

He lowered his head and silently tore at the prey on the ground, ripping open its chest; warm air swirled around his nostrils, urging him onward. The delicacy lay just below his mouth, saliva flowing between his throat and teeth.

Too sweet and warm.

He could feel that when he occupied Summer's body, he had always been crouched beside him, and now he looked at him with eager anticipation, waiting for him to place his hand on its head and stroke it. As soon as he touched and stroked it, they could be together forever, could feel something even sweeter and warmer, but he knew that as soon as his hand touched it…

He pretended not to feel Summer's expectation, resisting, resisting the feeling of a warm, expansive new world.

To open the new world, one must close the old. He still hadn't figured out the old world.

He didn't know how much longer he could hold out.

He took big bites of the succulent meat in his mouth, sensing the unique aroma emanating from the prey's chest, silently enjoying a rare moment not filled with panic.

This is northern venison. He wasn't sure whether the prey belonged to the Starks, but it certainly belonged to a Stark vassal—perhaps Glover, or perhaps… of course it could also be the Night's Watch, or more likely a mountain clan.

Is it Flint's? The Starks have Flint blood! That Brandon, who loves climbing trees, has the most Flint blood, the old nurse used to tell him.

The wind wailed through the forest, and snow occasionally fell from the treetops.

The cold wind carried all surrounding information into its nostrils, various fresh scents.

The scents formed a clear map in his mind—a map of food, but one could not mark human surnames on it.

Regrettable.

He needed to go north. Didn't the three-eyed crow say he should go north? I'm not doing it to answer him; I'm doing it to find my brother. I still have a brother there—not that bastard brother, but the white-furred one who never speaks.

I not only want to see my brother, I also want to visit Summer's mother's kin; she likely still has siblings or other children there, perhaps older ones, or even their offspring.

They found that she-wolf and her six pups in the snow; the steward said that dire wolves never appear south of the Wall, so if that's true, its kin must be north of the Wall.

Oh, what's that steward's name?

It felt like something from many years ago. Fear surged again, like a tide.

Eddard, Catelyn, Robb… Brandon. At least I haven't forgotten these names; I still need to remember that I must cross the Wall, and that real dire wolves feed on corpses and on fear.

I am a wolf, a dire wolf; I should seek out the dire wolf's kin. I must cross the Wall.

He set down the prey at his mouth, left the remainder for the small-sized kin waiting nearby, trod upon the snow in the forest, and went past the deep shadows between the trees.

They are not his kin; they only eat mice and rabbits.

Gray clouds rolled over the lone crescent moon; the forest lay dim.

It moved alone, hearing only the wind and its own panting—no, Summer's panting.

Thinking of Summer accompanying him, at least he wouldn't be so lonely.

Another breeze swept through the dense black trees, brushing his thick fur. His fur had accumulated icy water and dew from his trek through the forest, damp and tangled together, not swaying in the wind.

The wind again carried the scent of prey—a herd of prey, a herd of elk.

At night, elk are blind; if you follow the scent and attack, hunting couldn't be easier—but it had already eaten its fill, and the prey lay not in the direction he wished to travel.

He stopped to listen. The elk leaned on each other, nuzzled, exchanged breaths—as if comforting each other in the darkness. How enviable, he thought.

He is a dire wolf, a lone dire wolf.

He forced himself to lift his feet, compelling himself to leave.

He stepped on the soft snow and fallen leaves of the forest; the leaves and snow made a puff-puff accompaniment under his steps. The echo spread through the woods in all directions, then returned from all sides.

Too dangerous.

He wasn't afraid of fighting, but if he encountered a vicious opponent, things would get troublesome. Injury was unnecessary, and the forest held too many potential threats—hunters, bears, wolf packs, and in the mountains there were also mountain cats prowling.

Mountain cats were the worst. They were too agile, their claws were vicious, and their tempers were volatile, tolerating no opponent operating on their turf.

He stopped in a low-lying area.

A huge tree grew out of a pile of strange rocks, then, following the slope, bent its trunk halfway. He observed his surroundings, then curled up on the bent branches of the giant tree; he should rest, and also yield his body to Summer, the true Summer.

If he stroked it, it wouldn't be necessary—he knew that.

The night belongs to Summer, not to Brandon.

The dream was like another tedious, icy, and blurry journey. The wind was louder, the snow thicker, and the temperature lower; the only difference was that he could hear people speaking, they would occasionally make up silly stories or softly sing, but he couldn't hear what story it was, couldn't make out the tune, couldn't discern the lyrics.

Sometimes he would also find himself darting through the woods, from this tree to another, looking at other trees from the canopy, or from the roots watching the bustling scene of underground insects; sometimes he could also see animals lying belly-up in deep caves, asleep.

He didn't like entering trees. Most of the time they were uninteresting: they couldn't move, wouldn't look upward, and not all trees could sense their surroundings. Most trees were like dull old geezers, needing half a day to emit one or two short sounds, 'oh' or 'eh'; occasionally one could only hear the neighboring trees singing together in that rhythm—a sluggish song that made him dizzy.

Besides returning to the dire wolf, he couldn't enter other animals' bodies; he had tried, but it was as if a thick fence kept him out. He also couldn't dream of the person he wanted to dream about.

Too regrettable.

"Brandon!" He seemed to hear it; he wanted to prick up his ears, but realized he had none; he wanted to look with his eyes, but found he couldn't open them; he wanted to reach out, but discovered he had no hands.

He wanted to cry out, but discovered he also had no mouth, no tongue.

He had no fear; fear was his food, wasn't it?

"Brandon!" He heard it again.

"Who are you?" he didn't know how to respond.

"Open your eyes!"

"I have no eyes." he didn't know how to say.

"You have the keenest eyes. Look at what you want to see."

"I can't see." How can I make him understand?

"Look with your heart." The voice was ethereal, also like an old man, but it spoke much faster and clearer than the tree.

Look with your heart. Colors were flowing, countless kinds of colors, countless kinds of vortices, countless kinds of combinations then dispersed in the next moment, again immersed in the flowing colors.

He felt he had seen a world of color. Sky and earth were no longer separated, animals and plants no longer distinguished, past and future lay left and right.

He looked down, and on the heavy gray ink floated threads of lines; further down were tumbling, leaping colors; further down still was a core emitting thick light and color; he felt continuing to look down would be tiring, so he began to look up.

Upward, like a canvas, various pale colors drifted beside strands of green and blue light, sometimes fast, sometimes slow; higher still, pale colors disturbed each other. He was drawn to one vortex after another, blocks of gray lifted up shifting shape within the colors…

He saw a multicolored thing jumping between blue and purple light. Watching it jump from one place to another.

This is a bird, he thought.

He instantly projected himself onto that bird. The fence disappeared.

He woke up.

In the morning, the mountain forest was covered with layers of thin mist, like a frozen world.

He pricked up his ears, various sounds entered: the distant birds' chirping, many hidden deep in tree hollows; branches swaying in the wind made tiny sounds, he judged they were branches striking the neighboring trees; stream water flowed over the ground, colliding, a murmuring sound…

The world was likewise alive.

He followed the wind, lightly sniffing the cold air, as always fresh and sweet.

This was not the overnight spot he had been seeking for summer.

He looked around, completely losing his bearings. He decided to go toward the sound coming from afar. After passing several gullies, he looked up.

A huge gleaming gray ice stood undulating on the hill like a silkworm crouching on the hill.

He had already reached the Great Wall, he realized.

"Gua..." he heard a birdcall and looked up.

A strange large crow, red-eyed, claws gripping a crown, flew toward the Great Wall. The crow, in flight, glanced at him offhandedly.

He wanted to howl in response, but the sound reached his throat and was swallowed back.

He smelled the path beneath his feet, stepped into the dark ravine, and went forward. In his dream, summer's mother seemed to have walked this path as well.