Chapter Text
It’s a well-known tale in the North—a story about a boy who played with his brother in the crypts of Winterfell and was lost there forever. Some say young Robb Stark simply killed his bastard brother because he resembled their father more and was better with a sword, then hid the body in one of the tombs among the bones of their ancestors. They say now the ghost of Jon Snow wanders among the dead Starks, which is why Lord Eddard Stark forbade anyone from entering the crypts without necessity.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Robb and Jon, breathless with excitement, darted around the ancient statues of the Kings of Winter, brandishing makeshift wooden swords crudely carved from oak branches. Their ringing laughter, full of boyish bravado, shattered the crypt’s tomb-like silence, echoing off the cold stone walls. The granite statues stood motionless, their stern faces, framed by beards and crowned, gazing into eternity. Eyes carved by ancient craftsmen seemed to hold the memory of millennia of Stark rule—a dynasty that governed the North with blood and honor in their hearts. Shadows from the torches fixed on the walls danced across the stone faces, lending them an almost lifelike, yet frighteningly severe appearance.
– For Winterfell! – Jon shouted, leaping out from behind the massive statue of King Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt.
His wooden sword sliced through the air toward Robb. Robb deftly raised his blade, parrying the strike with a dull thud of wood on wood. Jon’s smile flashed in the dim light, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief.
Unwilling to yield, Robb swung for a counterstrike but suddenly froze. A faint, barely audible voice, like a whisper of wind, called his name—“Robb.” The sound was so soft it could have been his imagination, but he spun around, scanning the dark corners of the crypt. In that moment, Jon, seizing his distraction, laughed and jabbed his sword right at Robb’s forehead. Robb frowned, shooting his brother a disgruntled look. Jon smirked smugly, brushing back his tousled black hair.
– No cheating! – Robb grumbled, rubbing the bruised spot, but he tensed again.
He thought he heard the call again—clearer this time, as if someone whispered from the depths of the crypt. He turned toward the sound but saw only rows of statues, their stone eyes seeming to watch him with silent reproach.
– Jon, did you hear that? – Robb asked, but when he turned, his brother was gone. The spot where Jon had stood was empty, as if he’d vanished into the shadows.
– Jon? – Robb called, his voice trembling, echoing off the vaults. – Where did you go?
– Look what I found, Robb! You have to see this! – Jon’s excited voice came from behind Torrhen’s statue.
Frowning, Robb cautiously moved forward. He circled the massive tombstone where Torrhen’s longsword rested. His heart beat faster as he peered behind the statue, expecting to see his grinning brother. But there was nothing—just cold stone and dust settled over centuries. The spot where Jon’s voice had come from seemed untouched, as if no one had disturbed its peace.
– Jon? – Robb called again, his voice breaking into a hoarse whisper.
He spun around, scanning the dark corners of the crypt. The torchlight shadows writhed as if alive, but there was no sound of footsteps or his brother’s laughter. Only the distant whistle of wind from Winterfell’s upper halls broke the silence.
– Jon, stop hiding! This isn’t funny! – he shouted louder, but the oppressive silence was his only reply.
His breathing grew heavier, his heart pounding as if it might burst from his chest. He walked along the row of statues, peering behind each one, but found only emptiness. The stone kings stared at him, their faces growing more sinister in the flickering light.
Robb stopped, listening. Somewhere in the distance, a faint sound—like the rustle of fabric or a light tap—reached his ears. He froze, trying to pinpoint its source. The crypt, once a place of safety, now felt like a terrifying labyrinth. Where had Jon gone? And what was that voice calling his name? Robb gripped his wooden sword tighter, feeling the crypt’s chill seep into his skin as a fear he’d never known before took root in his chest.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He woke to a deafening rumble, like the low, bestial growl echoing off the cold stone walls, amplifying his dread. A sharp pain flared in his chest, and a hoarse groan escaped his parched throat as he tried to move. His hands instinctively clutched his chest, where every breath pulsed with agony. Wiping away tears of pain, he clenched his teeth to stifle a scream and began to crawl slowly, careful not to worsen the injury to his ribs. His palms scraped against the rough floor, catching on small stones that dug into his skin, leaving stinging scratches.
Where was he? Darkness enveloped him, thick and almost tangible, like a heavy curtain hiding the world. Only a faint, barely discernible light flickered in the distance, like a beacon guiding him through this silent nightmare. He wanted to stand, to rise to his full height, but instinct warned that in this pitch-black void, he’d stumble over an unseen obstacle or, worse, fall into an abyss, finishing off his already cracked ribs. So he kept crawling, wincing as sharp stones bit into his hands or cold dampness soaked his clothes.
How had he ended up here? His memory was shrouded in thick fog. A fleeting image, bright as a lightning flash, crossed his mind: fiery red hair billowing with movement and playful blue eyes sparkling with laughter. But nothing more—no name, no place, no reason. The memory was so vivid yet so distant it felt foreign. He tried to focus, but the pain in his chest and the itch in his dry throat distracted him, forcing him to swallow thick saliva that only worsened the irritation.
As he crawled closer to the light, the darkness began to recede, revealing smooth stone walls. Their surface was too even to be natural—clearly man-made. This realization brought unexpected relief, though he couldn’t understand why. What did it matter who built these walls? Yet something inside told him it was important.
Gathering his remaining strength, he let out a short, pained gasp and, clutching his aching chest, rose to his feet. His steps were unsteady, cautious, as if walking on thin ice. The path was overgrown with moss and tangled roots that clung to his legs, as if trying to hold him back. Reaching the light source, he stopped, breathing heavily, and leaned against the cold wall. Looking up, he saw a breach in the ceiling far above, where faint daylight seeped through. But it was too high to reach, especially with his injuries. Climbing was impossible. He’d have to find another way out, wandering through these dark, cold corridors that felt more like catacombs.
He dropped to his hands and knees again and crawled deeper into the darkness, which seemed endless. Time lost meaning. How long had he been crawling? Hours? Days? His hands encountered cold puddles that made his teeth grit from sand or sharp stones that cut his palms until they bled. Sometimes, his fingers brushed against bones—small and fragile, or larger ones, disturbingly human-like. He tried not to think about who they might belong to, pushing gruesome images from his mind.
But his suffering paid off when a warm glow of torchlight flickered ahead. Seeing it, he froze, tears of relief welling up. Torches meant people. And people meant salvation. He stubbornly ignored the dark whisper in his mind that warned of marauders, bandits, or worse denizens of such underground places.
As he crawled closer, he noticed details. The walls were studded with niches resembling those in ancient tombs. But what made his heart clench with horror was that the niches weren’t empty. They held withered bodies, their pale, almost translucent skin stretched over bones. Their empty eye sockets seemed to follow him as he crawled past. Had he been surrounded by the dead this entire time? The thought made him shudder, his skin prickling as if an icy wind had swept down his spine.
Trying not to look around, he stood on shaky legs and staggered into the light. Before him opened a vast chamber, stretching dozens of meters forward and upward. Its walls resembled a grotesque parody of a honeycomb, each cell filled with corpses in rusted armor, clutching ancient weapons. In the center stood an altar, carved from dark, polished stone. On it, atop a small stand of black iron, lay a necklace made of bone and massive fangs—teeth so large they could only belong to some monstrous beast.
The boy froze, hesitant to approach. But something about the necklace drew his gaze, beckoning as if whispering its importance. Hesitantly, he reached out and took it, holding it to his eyes. The fangs were warm to the touch, as if they held fire within. He studied the strange patterns carved into the bone beads when the floor beneath him trembled, and a deafening roar shattered the silence.
– Bolog Az, Mal Lir! – a rasping, inhuman voice grated behind him, like stones grinding together.
The boy turned and froze, paralyzed with terror. Before him stood a corpse in a horned helmet, gripping a rusted sword. Its eyes burned with an eerie blue light, as if death itself glowed within them. As the corpse took a step forward, the boy stumbled back, glancing around. What he saw made his heart race so fast it seemed it might burst. The dead were rising. One by one, they crawled from their niches, bones creaking, rusted weapons lifting, their hoarse voices muttering in an ancient, long-forgotten tongue.
The boy didn’t wait for them to come closer. He turned and ran, clutching the necklace, ignoring the pain in his chest. His footsteps echoed in the vast chamber as a chorus of rasping voices and clanging metal grew louder behind him.