On the promise of a feast lasting a full week, the simple and honest boy had agreed to drink the thick, nearly black paste. The first attempt was a disaster—Hodor gagged and vomited before Cregan could observe any effects.
But Cregan had anticipated this and prepared a jar full of the paste. Ignoring Hodor's teary eyes and protests, Cregan forced the second dose down his throat, clamping his hand over the larger boy's mouth until the paste was swallowed.
Hodor's reaction was immediate. His eyes rolled back, leaving only the whites visible. For a brief, hopeful moment, Cregan thought he might be witnessing the signs of warging or greenseeing. But no, poor Hodor had simply lost consciousness from the sheer foulness of the concoction.
Still, Cregan considered it a small victory. At least Hodor hadn't thrown up the second batch.
Cregan immediately summoned his magic, directing it carefully into Hodor's body. He had practiced this before on animals, honing his skill to sense the internal workings of a living being. His magic allowed him to see inside in ways no modern medical tools ever could. But this was delicate work—if he lost control, even for a moment, it could cause pain or even permanent damage. The mangled and headless bodies of rats in his room served as grim reminders of what happened when he lost focus.
Thankfully, after many moons of practice, Cregan had refined his technique. For fifty consecutive trials, he had successfully used his magic without injuring his subjects. It was this confidence that led him to attempt the same with Hodor's unusually strong body.
As he poured his magic into Hodor, he felt his way through the boy's massive form, focusing on the stomach where the weirwood paste had settled. The paste was still there, slowly being digested, but something was wrong—the magic within it was inert, stagnant, failing to be absorbed by Hodor's body. If nothing changed, the magic would simply pass through him, wasted with the next bowel movement.
hat's when an idea struck him. He decided to use his own magic to latch onto the dormant weirwood magic and coax it into action. Slowly, carefully, he extracted the magic from the paste, guiding it into Hodor's body, letting it flow into his vessels.
To Cregan's surprise, it worked more easily than he had imagined. Though the effort caused some instability in his own magic, he managed to direct the weirwood magic into Hodor's bloodstream, allowing the boy's body to begin absorbing it.
The effect was immediate. Hodor's body warmed, his skin flushing as the weirwood magic coursed through him. Cregan could feel the flow of energy traveling through every part of the boy—from his toes to his brain.
This was the most critical moment. Cregan focused intensely, observing every shift in the magic's flow. One wrong move, and the magic could run wild, causing injuries, or worse—death. Whenever the weirwood magic threatened to spiral out of control, Cregan tamed it, calming the energy with his own.
After what felt like hours but might have been mere minutes, the magic finally settled. Hodor's body stopped convulsing, and the heat subsided. His breathing steadied, and the room grew quiet. The boy lay still, his body cool once more.
Cregan sighed in relief, grateful that Hodor had survived the process. But as he watched the boy lying unconscious, another question loomed large in his mind. What effect will it have? The wait gnawed at him as an hour passed, each minute longer than the last.
Then, at last, Hodor stirred.
Cregan's nervousness began to lift. The boy's eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, Cregan felt pure joy—he's alright!. Relief flooded through him, but that feeling was short-lived.
Hodor's lips parted, and his first word was not the sign of some hidden wisdom or new power. No, the only word that came from his mouth was, "Hodor?"
Cregan blinked, his joy quickly vanishing. "What?" he muttered under his breath. He had hoped for something—anything—to indicate that the magic had done more than just settle inside Hodor's body. He used his senses to examine the boy again, searching for any hint of the magic he had painstakingly directed. But it was gone, completely absorbed, with no trace left behind. The only visible change was that Hodor's muscles seemed slightly more compact, though not by much.
As Hodor continued repeating "Hodor, Hodor," over and over again, Cregan's frustration grew. It was almost unbearable. But then, something subtle caught his attention. Hodor wasn't saying his usual word with the expression of a confused child. His face had changed, his brow furrowed, eyes more focused. He seemed to be trying to say something... something serious, something important. Yet, the only thing he could utter was "Hodor."
Cregan leaned forward, watching carefully. There was more behind Hodor's words now, more weight in each repetition. He wasn't just mindlessly repeating his name—he was trying to communicate, but he simply couldn't form the words.
Cregan sighed, thinking, 'Well, it's something, at least... but what does it mean?'
Cregan sighed again, his thoughts swirling as he pondered the significance of Hodor's strange condition. "Well, it's something, at least... but what does it mean?" he thought. But before he could dwell on it further, a peculiar sensation tugged at his mind—like a faint pull on his magic.
Frowning, Cregan closed his eyes, focusing inward, checking for anything amiss within his own body. Everything seemed normal... except for a strange feeling, an emotion that wasn't his own.
What in the seven hells? Cregan thought, growing more intrigued. Soon, he realised what—or rather, who—the feeling was coming from. Hodor.
How? he wondered. Somehow, through the experiment, Cregan had formed an unintended connection with the big, gentle giant. As he focused on the sensation, it became clearer. It wasn't just emotion he was sensing—he could almost decipher thoughts, fragmented as they were.
He concentrated, piecing together the muddled feelings. Hodor, despite his limited speech, was trying to communicate something more, and through this new connection, Cregan could finally understand what the big man had been trying to say all along.
'No... make me... drink that paste... again... never!'
Cregan nearly laughed aloud. "Well, that explains the protests," he thought, shaking his head.
"Alright, Hodor," he said aloud, a grin tugging at his lips. "I won't make you drink weirwood paste again without your consent. I promise!"
Despite his bravado, Cregan had become more hesitant about experimenting further with the paste—especially on himself. Hodor's reaction was far different than he'd anticipated. While the increase in strength was impressive, it wasn't what Cregan truly sought.
His goal was to unlock the abilities of a warg or greenseer, to tap into the ancient magic that ran through his bloodline. But despite numerous attempts, Cregan had never succeeded in warging into an animal. The only living thing he could connect with was the Weirwood tree itself.
OOO
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