268 AC, Winterfell
Breakfast was... decent. By Northern standards. Bread like stone, cheese smelling like the last breath of winter, and meat that probably only heard about fire. Ned looked like he was still dreaming with his eyes open. Father — as if he wanted to forget he had children. A typical morning in Winterfell.
But I had a plan.
No, it wasn't about food. Or Ned. It was about the book. That book.
I didn't have it yet. I didn't know exactly where it was. But I had something no one here had: a script.
In my version of the story, the Stark heir had a prophetic dream.
It didn't have to be true. It just had to sound like the truth. And for me to find something that would confirm it.
So I went to the crypts.
I took a torch — for the atmosphere, but also because apparently, magical books don't come with built-in glow effects. Shame.
The castle was quiet. The servants were bustling somewhere on the upper floors, and most of the household had returned to their daily duties. The perfect moment to descend where the cold seeps into the bones, and ancestors dream stone dreams.
I went down the side stairs. Not the main ones — too many eyes.
I found the entrance. Covered with a half-curtain, smelling of dust, moss, and something... ancient. Maybe it's just imagination. Or maybe blood memory. Starks and their wolf spirits. Maybe it was just a myth. But a myth that was beginning to have meaning.
The torch crackled, reflecting light off the raw, damp walls. The stairs down were narrow, winding, treacherous. I counted forty-eight steps. After the twenty-seventh, I stopped counting. I was too focused on what might be waiting for me there.
I began to search the walls. Logically: if someone wanted to hide something, they would do it where it doesn't catch the eye. A niche between statues. Or behind a sculpture. Or...
I reached a place that fit. Two statues, both older, more worn than the rest. Their wolves were almost erased — as if time itself was trying to eat them. Between them — a gap. Slight. As if accidental.
I knelt. I placed my hand on the stone. Cold passed through me like a memory of snow on bare back. I began to feel the space between the slabs.
And then — click.
Very quiet. But real.
The slab moved.
Behind it — a recess. Deep as the length of a forearm. Inside... something.
I slipped my hand in. Touched leather. Thick. Hard. Covered in dust.
Here it is.
I pulled it out. A book. Untitled. Bound in black leather, stitched with a strap.
I opened it carefully and browsed through it.
There was a rune dictionary, instructions on how to place them, example uses, warnings... and comments. Short, laconic, but human. As if someone who wrote this book was really testing these things in the field. Or on animals.
One illustration shows a bear. A real, half-ton monster from the North. And next to it: a diagram of a runic saddle. I'm not joking.
War Bear Riders:
"Combination of submission, direction, and protection signs. Before putting on: eye contact spell and a bond rune on the back. Attention: works only on adult individuals after hibernation."
"War Bear Riders."
It sounded... familiar. Too familiar.
In my previous life, I knew this term from another world. Another universe. Another game, where frosty warriors rode armored bears and fought demons on snowy wastelands.
But here? Here it was an ancient technique of the First Men.
Ice Crossbows
Next page. The header written in runes that immediately caught the eye — as if even the ink was colder than the rest. At the top: an illustration. A crossbow. Huge. One and a half times larger than a human, mounted on a heavy bed of black wood, reinforced with something that looked like ice... that didn't melt.
Ritual weapon. Designed to defend against heat entities. Uses freezing projectiles.
The scheme is brutally practical.
Comment next to it:
"Warning: do not test on deer. They will explode."
Ice Bows
Runes written on the bow allow it to shoot without arrows. The bow creates its own ice arrows.
Note: "Sometimes arrows explode upon hitting."
Greenhouses
Next to a warning:
"Do not apply growth and cold runes simultaneously. Sunflowers tend to explode."
I didn't expect this.
There's even a method of producing glass for it. Well, Myr didn't exist in these times.
Northern Steel
Created by adding Weirwood juice and using several runes on the forge.
Note: "Ideal for meat preservation."
I couldn't take my eyes off the page with northern steel.
Not because it was beautifully illustrated. On the contrary — the drawings were crude, resembling a blacksmith's notes written after three mugs of mead. But the content... the content was different.
Steel that doesn't dull. That kills ice creatures. That cools the air instead of heating up. This wasn't just a material. This was a declaration. The opposite of Valyrian fire. The antithesis of dragons.
A weapon for the North.
On the next page, there was only one inscription:
"Blood of the Kings of Winter, spilled by Ice, will reveal the secrets."
I blinked.
King of Winter. Starks.
Ice — the ancestral sword of our house.
It sounded like a ritual to unlock content.
Or like a premium version you pay for with blood.
I closed the book. Carefully. Like something that might bite.
Now, having the book, I have to consider some things in my plans.
But the channel is still a priority.
I also need to convince my father not to send me to Barrowton. That it would be better for him to raise me as the heir.
Now I'm going to put the book in my room, and in the afternoon when father is free, I'll go to him with it.
I headed towards the exit of the crypts. And then — the torch went out.
Seriously.
No draft, no moisture, no lack of survival skills. Just: poof — and darkness. The kind that devours light, not just extinguishes it. For a second, I had the impression that someone had covered my eyes from the inside.
I left the crypts faster than I went down. Not because I was afraid. Well... maybe a little.