The third day bled into night without ceremony.
I had spent the hours in a state of coiled stillness, conserving my strength, listening to the rhythm of the Dreadfort. Harren's information was a treasure map, and I traced it over and over in my mind until I could see the corridors as clearly as if I had walked them a thousand times.
East tower. Down the spiraling stairs. Past the old armory. Through the narrow passage behind the tapestry of the flayed man. The Weeping Tower stands alone at the northern edge of the inner wall, sealed and forgotten.
The ancient key felt heavier against my chest as the hours crawled toward midnight. I had torn a strip of cloth from the bottom of my tunic and tied it around my waist, creating a crude pocket to hold the key securely. It wasn't much, but it was preparation. And preparation was the difference between life and death.
When the distant sound of a horn marked the changing of the guard—Harren had said it would come at the hour of the wolf—I moved.
The lock on my door was old, but well-maintained. Harren had told me the truth: he couldn't unlock it from the outside without raising suspicion. But he had done something better. During his evening rounds, he had slipped a thin strip of hard leather into the crack of the doorframe, preventing the bolt from fully seating.
I pressed my shoulder against the wood and pushed. Slowly. Steadily. The door groaned—a low, mournful sound that seemed deafening in the silence—and swung open.
The corridor beyond was empty, lit only by the guttering flames of a single torch at the far end. Shadows danced across the rough stone walls like living things.
In my mind, the ancient page flickered.
[Stealth Check: Initiated.]
[Perception (12) vs. Environmental Awareness... Success.]
[Hint: The guards have just changed. The next patrol will pass this corridor in approximately eight minutes.]
Eight minutes. A lifetime and an instant, all at once.
I slipped through the door and into the corridor, my bare feet silent on the cold stone. The air was colder here, carrying the familiar scent of damp and decay that seemed to seep from the very bones of the Dreadfort.
I moved the way Harren had described. Down the spiraling stairs at the end of the corridor, each step a careful placement to avoid the ones he had warned me were loose. Past the old armory, its door heavy and barred, the smell of oiled leather and old steel seeping through the cracks. Then the narrow passage, hidden behind a tapestry depicting the flayed man of House Bolton. The fabric was thick with dust and age, and it smelled of rot.
The passage was barely wide enough for my shoulders. The walls pressed in on either side, cold and damp, and the ceiling was so low I had to crouch. I moved forward, one hand trailing along the wall to guide me, the other pressed against the key at my waist.
The passage ended at a heavy iron-banded door. But it wasn't locked. Harren had told the truth about that, too. The Boltons feared the Weeping Tower. They didn't enter it. They didn't even guard it. They simply pretended it didn't exist.
I pushed the door open and stepped into the cold night air.
The Weeping Tower stood before me.
It was a narrow, cylindrical structure of ancient grey stone, rising perhaps forty feet into the black sky. Unlike the rest of the Dreadfort, which was brutal but functional, this tower seemed to sag with age and sorrow. The windows were narrow slits, dark and empty like the eye sockets of a skull. Moss and lichen crawled up the walls in sickly green patterns. And from somewhere deep within, carried on the wind, came a faint sound.
Weeping.
It was so soft I almost convinced myself I had imagined it. A woman's voice, distant and mournful, sobbing quietly in the darkness.
My blood chilled. But I didn't stop. Fear was a luxury. Curiosity was a weapon.
I crossed the small courtyard to the base of the tower. The main entrance—a heavy oaken door banded with rusted iron—was sealed with chains and a massive lock that looked centuries old. But Harren had told me about another way. A smaller door, half-hidden behind a tangle of dead, thorny vines, at the rear of the tower.
I found it after a minute of searching, my fingers raw and bleeding from pulling at the frozen vines. The door was short—I would have to stoop to enter—and made of the same ancient grey stone as the tower itself. In its center was a small, unremarkable keyhole.
I pulled the ancient key from my waist and held it up. The head of the key, I now saw in the faint moonlight, was shaped like a weeping face, its mouth open in a silent scream.
Of course.
I slid the key into the lock. It fit perfectly. The mechanism, old and unoiled, turned with a reluctant screech that echoed in the silent courtyard. I winced, freezing, listening for any sign that the noise had been heard.
Nothing. Only the wind. Only the weeping.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The interior of the Weeping Tower was a single, circular room. Moonlight filtered through the narrow slit windows, casting pale silver lines across the dusty floor. The air was thick with the smell of old stone and something else—something faint and floral, like dried flowers left to decay for a hundred years.
In the center of the room stood a stone pedestal. And on the pedestal lay a bundle of faded grey fabric.
I approached slowly, my heart pounding against my ribs. The weeping sound was louder here, seeming to come from the very walls. A woman's voice. Sobbing. Pleading.
I reached the pedestal and looked down at the bundle. It was a cloak. A heavy woolen cloak, grey as a winter sky, lined with white fur. And pinned to its breast was a silver brooch in the shape of a direwolf's head.
A Stark cloak.
My hand trembled as I reached out to touch it. The fabric was cold, but remarkably preserved. The cold, dry air of the sealed tower had kept it from rotting away.
Beneath the cloak, I found something else. A small, folded piece of parchment, yellowed with age but still intact. I lifted it carefully, my eyes straining in the dim light to read the faded script.
"To my son, Alann.
If you are reading this, then I am gone, and you have found your way home. I know you will have questions. I wish I could answer them all. But some truths are too dangerous to write, even in a letter meant only for your eyes.
Know this: You are not what they say you are. You are not Snow. You are not Stone. You are the blood of winter, the blood of the First Men, the blood of kings. Your father was a Stark. Your father was—"
The rest of the letter was illegible. Time and damp had destroyed the remaining words, leaving only faint, ghostly impressions of ink that could not be read.
I stared at the parchment, my mind racing. My father was a Stark. Not "a man of House Stark." Not "a Stark bannerman." A Stark. The blood of winter. The blood of kings.
Who? Eddard? No—Ned Stark was too honorable to father a bastard and abandon him. Brandon? The wild brother, who died before the rebellion? Or... someone else? Someone older?
In my mind, the ancient page erupted with notifications.
[Major Discovery: The Stark Cloak.]
[Cursed Blood Skill Tree: 3/10 Fragments Unlocked.]
[+2 Fragments Bonus for Physical Evidence.]
[New Passive Ability Unlocked: Winter's Blood.]
[Effect: Cold resistance increased by 15%. You can survive longer in harsh northern conditions.]
[Quest Updated: Discover what this key unlocks.]
[Status: Complete.]
[Reward: 200 XP.]
[Current XP: 230/100.]
[Level Up!]
[Alann Snow is now Level 2.]
[+3 Attribute Points available to distribute.]
[New XP Threshold: 0/250.]
The notifications cascaded, but I barely registered them. My eyes were fixed on the Stark cloak. On the direwolf brooch. On the half-destroyed letter that held the secret of my birth.
I am a Stark.
Not Snow. Not a bastard of no consequence. The blood of the First Men. The blood of the Kings of Winter.
And the Boltons—the ancient enemies of House Stark, the flayers who had bent the knee only after centuries of war—were holding me prisoner in their dungeon. If Roose Bolton knew what I was, he wouldn't just send me to the Wall. He would flay me alive and hang my skin from his walls as a trophy.
I folded the letter carefully and tucked it into my waistband beside the key. Then I lifted the Stark cloak from the pedestal. It was heavy, well-made, and warm. A king's garment. Or a lord's.
My father's cloak? Or my mother's gift to her son?
I swung the cloak around my shoulders. It was too large—made for a man grown, not a boy of six and ten—but the weight of it was a comfort. The direwolf brooch gleamed in the moonlight.
I turned to leave.
And froze.
Silhouetted in the small stone doorway, backlit by the pale moonlight, stood a figure. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing the pink cloak of House Bolton.
For a terrible, heart-stopping moment, I thought it was Ramsay, come to begin his games.
Then the figure stepped forward into the sliver of moonlight, and I saw the scar across his left eyebrow.
"Harren." My voice was a whisper, tight with relief and lingering fear. "You followed me."
He nodded, his face pale and tense. "I had to. When I checked your room and found it empty..." He trailed off, his eyes widening as he took in the Stark cloak around my shoulders. The direwolf brooch. "Gods be good. You're... you're a Stark?"
"I don't know what I am," I said quietly. "But I know what I'm not. I'm not Bolton. And I'm not staying here."
Harren stared at me for a long moment, his scarred face a battlefield of fear, awe, and something that looked like desperate hope. Then he reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle.
"I found this," he said, his voice barely audible. "In the old armory. Hidden behind a loose stone, like you said."
He unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a dagger. Small, plain, unadorned. But the blade was sharp, and the grip was worn smooth from use. A weapon meant for killing, not ceremony.
I took it. The weight was good. Solid. Real.
"We need to go," Harren urged, glancing over his shoulder. "The next patrol will be coming soon. If they find your room empty..."
I nodded. I pulled the Stark cloak tighter around my shoulders and slipped the dagger into the crude pocket at my waist, beside the letter and the key.
"Lead the way."
We slipped out of the Weeping Tower and into the cold night. The weeping sound faded behind us, replaced by the howl of the wind. Harren moved quickly, retracing the path we had come, his footsteps sure and silent.
But as we reached the narrow passage behind the tapestry, a sound stopped us both in our tracks.
Footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful. Coming from the corridor beyond.
And a voice. Light. Playful. Singing a nursery rhyme in a high, boyish tone.
"The flayer's knife is sharp and bright, it makes the skin so clean and white..."
Ramsay.
Harren's face went white. "He's early. He never patrols this early."
I pressed myself against the cold stone wall, my hand closing around the hilt of the hidden dagger. The Stark cloak felt like a target on my back. A declaration of war.
In my mind, the ancient page flickered one final time.
[Warning: Extreme Threat Detected.]
[Ramsay Bolton is approaching.]
[Recommended Action: Do not be seen. Do not engage.]
[Cold Mind Passive Activated: Fear reduced by 20%.]
I closed my eyes and took a slow, deliberate breath.
Not tonight. I'm not dying tonight.
The footsteps grew closer.
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