Night fell on the Dreadfort like a shroud.
The grey sliver of sky outside my window faded to black, and the cold deepened, seeping through the ancient stones and into my bones. I sat on the straw mattress with my back against the wall, the ancient key pressed against my palm beneath the blanket. Its cold metal was a comfort. A reminder that I had something—however small—that the Boltons didn't know about.
The hours crawled by. I listened to the sounds of the castle settling: the creak of old timber, the distant howl of wind through the battlements, the muffled footsteps of guards changing shifts. I was learning the rhythm of the Dreadfort. The patterns. The gaps.
Two guards pass my door every hour. The shift changes at midnight. There's a longer gap—maybe ten minutes—between the old shift leaving and the new shift arriving. That's my window.
But a window to what? I didn't know the layout of the castle. I didn't know where the stables were, or the gates, or the armory. I didn't know which direction was Winterfell.
I needed information. And information meant taking risks.
As if on cue, I heard footsteps in the corridor. A single set this time, lighter than the heavy tread of the guards. They stopped outside my door.
I tensed, slipping the key deeper into the straw beneath me. My hand closed around nothing—no weapon, nothing to defend myself with. If it was Ramsay, come for a midnight "game," I would have to rely on words alone.
The lock clicked. The door opened a crack, letting in a thin beam of flickering torchlight. A face appeared in the gap. Young. Hard. A scar across his left eyebrow.
The guard who had looked at me with pity.
He put a finger to his lips, then slipped inside, closing the door silently behind him. In his other hand, he carried a small cloth bundle and a waterskin.
"Don't speak loud," he whispered, his voice rough but low. "The walls have ears in this place."
I studied him in the dim light filtering through the barred window. He was perhaps twenty, with the weathered look of a man who had grown up fighting for every scrap. His leather armor was worn but well-maintained, and the pink cloak of House Bolton hung from his shoulders like a stain he couldn't wash off.
"You brought me food," I observed quietly. "Why?"
He knelt a few feet away, placing the bundle on the floor between us. He unwrapped it to reveal a hunk of dark bread, a piece of hard cheese, and a small, withered apple.
"Name's Harren," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Harren of the Weeping Water. My family served the Boltons for three generations. Fishermen, mostly. Until Ramsay needed men for his hunts."
He fell silent, his jaw tightening. I waited. Patience was a weapon, too.
"My brother, Dale, was one of the first," Harren continued, his voice dropping even lower. "Ramsay said he needed strong lads for a 'special hunt.' Promised good coin. Dale never came back. When I asked, they said he deserted. My brother would never desert. He had a wife. A daughter."
He finally looked at me, and in his eyes, I saw a cold, quiet fury that I recognized. The same fury I had seen in the mirror, in the reflection of Alann Snow's grey eyes.
"I know what happens in the kennels," Harren whispered. "Everyone does. We just pretend we don't. Because if we admit it, we're next." He gestured at the food. "You stood up to him. To Ramsay. I saw it. You didn't flinch. You didn't beg." He shook his head slowly. "Most men piss themselves when he smiles at them. You just... stared. Like he was nothing."
"He's not nothing," I said quietly. "He's a monster. But monsters can be understood. Studied. And eventually, killed."
Harren's eyes widened slightly. "You're going to kill him?"
"Not today." I picked up the piece of bread, examining it. It was stale, but edible. "Today, I'm going to survive. And I'm going to learn. Tell me about the Dreadfort, Harren. Tell me everything you know."
And he did.
For the next hour, Harren spoke in hushed, hurried whispers. He told me about the layout of the castle: the main keep where Roose Bolton held court, the eastern tower where I was being held, the kennels where Ramsay kept his "girls," the dungeons beneath the castle that were older than the Boltons themselves. He told me about the guard rotations—when they changed, how many men on each wall, which guards were loyal to Roose and which feared Ramsay more.
He told me about the secret ways. The passages built into the walls, remnants of older castles that had stood on this ground before the Boltons raised their flayed man banners. Some were known to the lords, used for spying and escape. Others, Harren suspected, were forgotten even by Roose.
"The old tower," Harren whispered, pointing vaguely toward the north. "The one they call the Weeping Tower. It's been sealed for a hundred years. They say it's haunted. But my grandfather told me once that there's a way in. A door that most men walk past without seeing."
My hand tightened around the ancient key hidden in the straw. The Weeping Tower.
In my mind, the ancient page flickered.
[Information Gained: Layout of the Dreadfort (Partial).]
[New Location Discovered: The Weeping Tower.]
[Quest Updated: Discover what this key unlocks.]
[Hint: The oldest locks remember the oldest keys.]
I kept my expression neutral, but inside, a cold satisfaction settled over me. The pieces were coming together. The key. The tower. The secret door.
"Harren," I said quietly. "Why are you helping me? Really?"
He was silent for a long moment, his scarred face troubled. Then he reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, crudely carved wooden wolf. A child's toy.
"Dale carved this for his daughter," he said, his voice thick. "She asked me where her papa went. I couldn't tell her. I can't ever tell her." He looked at me, and there was a desperate hope in his eyes that was painful to see. "But if you... if you really can hurt him. Hurt Ramsay. Even just a little. Maybe that's something. Maybe that's enough."
I met his gaze steadily. "It won't bring your brother back."
"I know." He tucked the wooden wolf back into his tunic. "But it might let his daughter sleep at night, knowing the monster who took her papa isn't laughing anymore."
I nodded slowly. An alliance born of shared hatred was the strongest kind in Westeros. It wasn't loyalty. It wasn't honor. It was something colder and more reliable: mutual interest.
"I'll need more than food and information," I said. "I'll need a weapon. Something small. Something I can hide."
Harren hesitated, then nodded. "I'll see what I can do. But it won't be easy. They search us before we leave the armory."
"Then don't take it from the armory." I gestured at the room around us. "This castle is old. There are things hidden in the walls. Things forgotten. Find one. Bring it to me."
He looked at me for a long moment, then gave a short, grim nod. "I'll try."
He rose to his feet, moving toward the door. Then he paused, looking back at me. "You know, you remind me of someone. The way you talk. The way you watch everything. My grandfather used to serve at Winterfell, years ago. He said Lord Eddard Stark had eyes like that. Quiet eyes. Eyes that saw everything and said nothing."
A flicker. A flash of something behind my eyes. A memory that wasn't mine.
A woman's face. Dark hair. Grey eyes—my eyes. She was singing softly, a lullaby I didn't recognize. Her voice was sad, but her hands were gentle as they stroked my hair.
"You have his eyes," she whispered. "His quiet, watching eyes. But you have my heart. Don't ever forget that, my little wolf."
The memory faded as quickly as it had come, leaving me breathless and disoriented. I gripped the edge of the straw mattress, forcing myself to remain still.
My mother. That was my mother. Alann's mother.
Harren was watching me with concern. "You alright?"
I nodded, my voice steady despite the storm inside. "Fine. Just tired."
He accepted the lie and slipped out the door, locking it behind him. His footsteps faded into the darkness.
I sat in the silence, the ancient key cold in my palm, the ghost of a woman's voice echoing in my ears.
"My little wolf."
A bastard of the North was called Snow. But a bastard with Stark blood—true Stark blood—was something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something the Boltons would kill to keep secret.
In my mind, the ancient page shimmered and updated.
[Memory Fragment Recovered: The Woman in Grey.]
[Cursed Blood Skill Tree: 1/10 Fragments Unlocked.]
[Hint: Blood remembers what names forget.]
[Daily Objective Completed: Survive Day Two.]
[+10 XP]
[Current XP: 30/100]
[New Passive Skill Progress: Psychological Warfare.]
[Progress: 2/5 encounters with a major political figure.]
I stared at the notifications for a long time. The system was telling me something. My blood—Alann Snow's blood—was special. Important. And whatever secret it held was connected to the Starks. To Winterfell. To the quiet, watching eyes of Eddard Stark.
Harren's grandfather saw something familiar in me. Something Stark.
I looked out the small window at the sliver of night sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the frozen hills and dark forests, was Winterfell. And in Winterfell was Sansa Stark. A girl with red hair and blue eyes, who dreamed of knights and songs and a love that would never betray her.
She doesn't know I exist. She doesn't know that a bastard in the Dreadfort is thinking about her. Planning for her.
I allowed myself a small, cold smile.
But she will.
I lay back on the straw mattress, the ancient key pressed against my chest, and closed my eyes. Tomorrow, I would find the Weeping Tower. I would discover what the key unlocked. And I would take one step closer to escaping this nightmare and carving my own path through the game of thrones.
Day Three is coming. And I'm still alive.
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