The solar of the Lord Commander was cramped, smelling of old parchment and the biting chill of the Wall. Lord Eddard Stark sat across from Philips, his hands resting heavily on the pommel of Ice. Behind Philips stood Lucifer and Baal in their human guises, their stillness more unnerving than any threat.
"You speak of 'Wild Demons' as if they are a common plague," Ned said, his voice hard with Northern skepticism. "But you yourself claim the title of Infernal King. You stand here with 'Kings' of the Abyss. Why should I believe your monsters are any different from the ones you warn against?"
Philips leaned forward, his expression dead serious. "Because my 'Kings' have a hierarchy. They have goals, restraint, and loyalty. Wild Demons are the rot of the universe. They don't want thrones; they want to consume every scrap of essence in this world until Westeros is a barren rock. To them, my subordinates are just bigger, tastier meals. To them, you are just... snacks."
Ned tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword. "A convenient story. A common enemy to force a pact. How do I know you haven't brought your own monsters just to play at being a savior?"
Before Philips could answer, the door was thrown open. Satan burst in, his human disguise frantically flickering. His eyes were pits of chaotic fire, and the scent of ozone and sulfur followed him.
"Sire!" Satan shouted, ignoring the guards' shouts. "A rift! A small tearing has manifested barely a league from the Wall's base."
Philips stood up instantly. "A leak? Already? Lucifer said we had months."
"It is not the Great Tearing," Satan clarified, his chest heaving with infernal energy. "This is a minor fissure—a weak spot in the veil. But it is enough for the Wild Ones to spill through. Lesser Crawlers and Ravagers. They are already moving toward the nearest village."
Philips turned to Ned Stark, a sharp, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "You wanted proof, Lord Stark? Grab your big sword and your best men. You're about to see the difference between a nightmare and reality."
The clearing near the village was a scene of chaos. The ground had split open like a jagged, weeping wound, glowing with a sickly red light. Crawling out were things of nightmares: Lesser Crawlers, eyeless beasts with translucent skin and needle-teeth that dripped with acidic saliva.
Ned Stark lunged forward, swinging Ice with the precision of a master. The Valyrian steel—the pride of House Stark—struck a Crawler squarely in the center. The blade passed through, but to Ned's horror, the creature didn't die. The two halves of its body simply reconnected, the wound closing instantly as if the sword were nothing but air. Even Valyrian steel did nothing but pass through them.
"It's not working!" Ned shouted, swinging again. His elite guards joined the fray, their castle-forged steel bouncing off the demons' hides or passing through them without drawing a drop of blood. To the Wild Demons, the mortal weapons were toys.
"Step back, Lord Stark!" Philips yelled. He turned to the Night's Watch rangers who had followed. "Now! Use the Nivlatth weapons! Strike with the silver and iron!"
Grenn and Pyp stepped forward, their hands trembling but their grips firm on the Nivlatth Blades and Lances Philips had forged using Simeon the Botcher's recipes.
The difference was instantaneous. Grenn swung his short sword at the same Crawler Ned had struggled with. As the violet-tinted steel touched the beast's flesh, the silver and iron properties flared. The Crawler didn't regenerate; it let out a wet, guttural shriek as the demonic blade finally bit deep, carving through muscle and bone. Dark, foul blood sprayed the snow as the creature collapsed, dead and unmoving.
Beside him, a ranger thrust a Nivlatth Lance through a Ravager. The "Sweep" enchantment took hold, the energy of the strike cutting through the front beast and staggering others. Where Valyrian steel had glided through fruitlessly, these weapons brought true death.
"See?" Philips shouted. "Standard steel can't cut their essence. It takes a Great Craft—weapons forged with the specific iron, silver, and infernal knowledge of the Abyss—to actually kill them. Without the Great Crafts, you are fighting ghosts with sticks."
Ned watched, breathless, as his own guards stood useless while the rangers—armed with Philips's demonic gear—slaughtered the pack. Beelzebub finally stepped in, toggling to his true titan form and crushing the remaining beasts into the dirt.
Philips walked toward the pulsing rift. He reached into the crack, his hand wreathed in blue lightning, and violently yanked the energy into himself. The small tearing snapped shut with the sound of breaking glass.
Silence returned to the woods. Ned Stark sheathed Ice, his hands visibly shaking. He looked at the carcasses of the monsters.
"My sword did nothing," Ned whispered. "If those were just the 'weak' ones from a small tearing... then we have already lost."
"Not yet," Philips said. "But you need me, Lord Stark. And I need a kingdom that can fight back."
Ned Stark bowed his head. "Winterfell is yours to fortify. Tell me what I must do."
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[QUEST COMPLETE: THE WARDEN'S PACT]
[REWARD: 1,000 Essence awarded.]
[NEW TECHNOLOGY UNLOCKED: HELLFIRE TREBUCHETS.]
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The Small Tearings were no longer isolated incidents. From the red wastes of Essos to the bustling streets of King's Landing, the earth groaned and vomited forth horrors. In the capital, the Mad King Aerys II had descended further into fire-fueled mania. Having witnessed a silver dagger pierce a "Crawler" in the Red Keep's pits, he had found his new obsession.
"More silver!" he screamed at his cowering council. "Mine the depths! Strip the Septs of their icons! If a man hides a silver spoon while my kingdom burns, he shall be roasted in his own armor!"
But while the South frantically hoarded metal, Winterfell sought the soul of the craft.
In the Great Hall, under the watchful eyes of the Stark ancestors, Philips Lancaster stood before the Northern smiths and the gathered lords. On the table before him lay the three Great Weapons: the Blade, the Lance, and the Dagger of Nivlatth.
"These are not just weapons," Philips said, his voice ringing through the hushed hall. "They are the legacy of a man the history books forgot. A man named Simeon the Botcher."
The Northern smiths leaned in. They were used to hearing about legendary heroes, not "botchers."
"Unlike the other Great Blacksmiths of his time," Philips continued, "Simeon didn't care for aesthetics. He didn't seek gold leaf, ivory hilts, or beautiful engravings. He looked for the perfect balance of precision and efficiency. With nothing but Iron Ore and Silver, he used a basic knowledge of the supernatural and the Abyss to create these three great weapons. He proved that you don't need dragon-fire or magic spells to kill a demon—you just need the right craft."
A murmur of respect rippled through the room. The practical Northmen favored Simeon's philosophy; it was a craftsman's honor to make the common into the extraordinary.
"But every light has a shadow," Philips's voice darkened. "Simeon had a disciple named Arbus. Arbus was talented, but he harbored an obsessive, festering jealousy toward his master's genius. One day, Arbus took the very knowledge Simeon had given him and murdered his master in cold blood. He wanted to be the only 'Great Smith' left standing."
The Hall fell into a heavy, angry silence. The Northmen, who valued loyalty and the bond between master and ward above all else, felt a visceral sting at the tale. Ned Stark's face hardened, his eyes burning with a cold, righteous fury.
"Betrayal," Ned spat the word like poison. "To kill the man who gave you your craft... there is no pit in hell deep enough for such a man. Arbus was a coward who turned his back on the sacred duty of a student."
"He was worse than a coward," a smooth, chilling voice interrupted.
Baal stepped out from the shadows, his human disguise elegant but his expression one of profound revulsion. The Demon King of Lies looked at the Nivlatth weapons, his lip curling in a rare show of genuine emotion.
"I am the one who whispered to Arbus," Baal revealed, his voice dripping with venom. "I gave him the secrets of the Abyss because I wanted him to surpass his master and then submit to my throne. I wanted a craftsman of ultimate ambition."
Baal's eyes flashed a dangerous yellow. "But I never intended for him to kill Simeon. To destroy the source of your own knowledge is not ambition—it is a waste. It is a stupidity so profound it sickens me. Arbus is my greatest embarrassment. Even among demons, there is an honor to the hierarchy of knowledge. Arbus had none. He was a pathetic, jealous child who broke his most valuable tool because he couldn't handle its shadow."
The revelation that even a Demon King found the betrayal loathsome struck the Northmen silent. They looked at Baal with a new, tentative understanding.
"We will not be like Arbus," Philips said, grounding the room. "We will use Simeon's recipes to ensure his name is praised while his killer's legacy is dust. We will forge the silver and iron. We will finish the work the master started."
Ned Stark nodded solemnly, his resolve cemented by his hatred for the traitor Arbus. "We will honor the master. Let the fires be lit. We forge for the North."
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[SYSTEM: REPUTATION INCREASED (STARK/NORTHERN SMITHS)]
[NEW KNOWLEDGE SHARED: NIVLATTH BLUEPRINTS (TIER 1)]
[OBJECTIVE: EQUIP THE NORTHERN LEVY.]