The reality of everything was slowly starting to sink in. I was in Westeros, as Vlad Tepes Dracula, vampire extraordinaire. The worst part of being in Westeros was the uncertainty of everything. I did not know where I was in the timeline. I could be in the Age of Heroes for all I knew; Brandon the Builder might have just rounded up and done the finishing touches on the Wall a few hours before I came here.
The Dawn Age was out, judging by the presence of the Wall, but everything from the Andal invasion to the Age of Valyria and Aegon's Conquest was possible. Now, uncertain timeline aside, there was the issue of what exact verse I had landed in. Was this HBO's Game of Thrones, the interesting but heavily watered-down and twisted version of the actual book that spawned such a fascinating world? Or was this the more unfamiliar ASOIAF that GRRM has yet to finish? Or was this some fandom world created by a bored, aspiring writer with a penchant for fanfiction?
The unknowns were too many. There were way too many questions, and I had little to no answer for most. There was only one thing for certain: the danger to my life here was minimal at best, moderate at worst. Physically, I was the strongest thing on two feet. Even if this was somehow the Age of Heroes, I doubted that whatever heroes were present were a match for even a starving and depressed Dracula.
My only real threat lay in my neighbors: the Others and the White Walkers. Now, depending on whether I'm in the HBO verse or the book verse, the White Walkers were not a threat. I'd watched the series, and finished it in fact, which meant if Arya Stark could manage to shank the Night King with her cute little dagger, then I would roll over the ugly bastard like a tractor over weeds. The difficulty was turned up if my opponents were the book version of the Others instead.
Unlike the show, from what little I remembered, the Others in the book were described as Fae-like. They were less undead moving corpses and more Unseelie Fae that served a greater monster, the Great Other. Something I assumed to be the literal concept of Ice and Death.
Then there were the dragons. This time, I could feel an immense sense of curiosity flow through me. Dragons. Majestic, giant fire-breathing creatures of legend. Not even Dracula had seen one, despite his much-debated title of Son of the Devil or Son of the Dragon. If I remembered correctly, dragons were not night creatures. They were beings from another realm entirely. That little waif of a girl in Nocturne had been the only one to summon one.
I put my thoughts on hold as I slowly came to a stop. My movement had been instinctual. Deep in thought, I had handed off the pilot switch of the body to what remained of Dracula, and he had led us to his studio, the place he did most of his thinking, or more accurately, brooding over the past few months.
The fire in the hearth had long since gone cold, but as I pushed open the doors and stepped into the study, I stared at it, and with a mere flex of intent, the castle responded. Wood groaned as sparks suddenly flared from unseen furnaces deep beneath the stone. Moments later, a fire roared to life in the massive fireplace, brightening up the study a second later.
"This does not absolve you of sending me to Westeros instead of Earth," I mumbled to the castle, to no reply as I continued to stroll in.
I stood before the desk, Dracula's desk, my desk now, and pressed a hand against the surface. Everything felt familiar and not. There were glimpses of memories, of sitting at this desk for long hours, writing theories, of bouncing a blonde-haired kid on my knees as I taught him abstract algebra.
Yet there were also patches of memories where this desk felt just like a regular, random desk, just boring wood and lacquer and nothing more. Regardless, as my hand remained pressed on the wood, I began to feel something. Not from the desk itself, but from Castlevania. I could sense it now more than ever: Dracula's connection to the castle. A neuron in a vast, shifting brain. And at the center of that brain… something.
The thought unsettled me. This heightened sense of connection felt off. Even Dracula hadn't achieved this much.
I pulled my hand away. Instead, I smoothly stood up and walked to the pit in the study, a pit that held thousands of shards of mirrors that floated by themselves.
"Assemble," I said as I waved a hand, the vocal intonation needed to supplement control over the artifact in a way that the original Dracula had grown past. The mirrors spun in a haphazard but paradoxically careful way as they arranged and fit, not seamlessly joining but close enough to display the whole of my reflection back at me instead of a disjointed mess.
My fingers moved instinctively. I had the memories. I knew the runes. So my fingers went to carving, bringing to life red etchings that glowed on the mirror. I was transcribing the spell of farsight: light-bending glyphs, runes burned into the fabric of space itself. There was a sum total of three types of magical mirrors in Castlevania. The first and most common was the Communication Mirror, which was simply used to project self and send messages, much like the Valyrian candles this world had.
Then there were the Transmission Mirrors, which were rarer and used to teleport things over vast distances in an instant, as long as you were able to scry wherever you wanted to go. Then last but not least, was the marginally more common Distance Mirror, which, as the name implied, was used to scry into the far distance or any location. As long as the user knew what he was looking for, he was bound to find it. Each type of mirror was a treasure of its own. The bigger they were, the more precious.
Dracula's mirror, the one he had liberated from Dragoslav, was a combination of all three. A one-of-a-kind artifact created by the secluded Carpathian hermits as their magnum opus, before Dragoslav slaughtered them en masse to ensure they never created another like it.
I finished etching the runes a few seconds later and immediately called out, "North of the Wall." Silence followed, and for a second, I assumed I had done something wrong. Doubt began to creep in before I ruthlessly crushed it. The air vibrated, and the glasses hummed a low tone that was almost imperceptible unless you were listening for it.
Then, images bloomed to life across the mirror, and I saw snow-covered valleys. Black forests. Mountain peaks that sought to kiss the sky. Giant mammoths and their riders. Real, actual giants. Wolf packs on the move. Chittering creatures with a carapace that reflected sunlight, making them nearly invisible in the snow. An aurora spilling blood-red across the northern sky. A black castle jutting out of a mountain. The giant Wall in the distance, alongside black-cloaked men who manned it.
The scrying stretched to the whole of the North, then stopped dead at a stretch of flat lands that led deeper. The Lands of Always Winter were barred to me. I rested against the desk, mind in thought. To put it simply, I was in the far north, beyond the Wall. Centered atop a mountain ridge with close proximity to some scattered Wildling clans. And in the halfway stretch to the Lands of Always Winter, which meant my proximity to the Others and their White Walkers was uncertain at best. Current level of danger to me: low to moderate.
I stood, turned away from the floating mirrors, and moved to the shelves, pulling out books. Some were written in languages no longer spoken. Others I recognized instantly: a treatise on myths, one of Lisa's journals on old European folklore, a compendium on the cosmology of dead realms. I flipped through them with practiced ease, searching for… something. Anything. A hint. A match. A theory.
Because I was hit with a sudden thought: what were the White Walkers, really? I knew the Others were basically Unseelie Fae, which meant nothing I knew mattered. It was most likely going to be wrong. But the White Walkers were a more familiar foe.
I picked a book on zombies, or as they were called in this world, wights, and began to riff through it.
At first glance, it was necromancy, obviously. But not like the night creatures my Forgemasters could make. Forgemasters raised the body and inserted a foreign soul into it, which more often than not was the soul of a demon. They bound it, gave it shape, and commanded it with limited autonomy. These creatures, according to the fragments I recalled from the show, were part of a much deeper system. Night creatures had been roaming the earth for longer than most vampires. Which was a deeply unpleasant thought.
White Walkers were different. The regular zombies they raised looked just like that: regular zombies, carefully preserved in the icy environment of the North. But I was still not sure of the real threat. And without an idea of what I was searching for, I couldn't scry.
Even if they were out and about outside the Land of Always Winter.
"Can you feel them?" I threw the question out with no true thought for a reply. "The Great Others. The thing shrouding the Lands of Always Winter?"
I was replied to with silence. I don't know why I bothered. Perhaps the castle wasn't as alive as I was trying to make it out to be, and it was all in my hea— There was a slight tremor in the stones beneath my feet. It was not a quake. And I very much doubted anyone was throwing ballistas at the castle, which ruled out an attack.
This was recognition. Castlevania could feel them. But it didn't understand what exactly it was feeling, which made two of us. And as I pondered how sentient my dimension-hopping castle was, I realized that if Castlevania could feel it, then whatever lurked in the Lands of Always Winter might be able to feel it too. Before I could think too deeply about it, a door creaked behind me, followed by light, measured steps.
"Isaac," I said without looking. "How long have you been watching?"
"Long enough to know we're not alone in this world you've brought us to, Master Dracula," he replied.
He stopped a few paces behind me, silent, patient, and present. The perfect assistant.
"There are things out there that even the castle doesn't recognize," I said, as I stared back at the mirror. "And I find that... disconcerting."
Isaac nodded, though I only imagined that was what he was doing. "Do we engage?"
"Not yet." With any luck, never, I noted internally, as I shut the book in my hands and slid it back into place. "We just arrived, and this is not our world. So for now, we observe. We learn. We map the land and catalog its dangers. I need to know more about what this world is: the powers at play, if they're a threat, and what they fear." The words came easily.
"And if they fear nothing?"
I turned, my red eyes gleaming in the firelight.
"Then we give it something to fear." My voice echoed out, not harsh, just cold. Dracula's behavior slipping and meshing in so much, I didn't know where I began and where he ended anymore.
Isaac bowed his head slightly at the familiar. "As you command."
Movements drew my attention. I moved to the mirror and peered into it. Night had fallen. There was a flicker. Movement in the snow. A line of torches winding their way close to the base of the Frostfang Mountains. Slow. Organized. Armed.
Humans.
A scouting party? Or a hunting party?
"Send one of the night creatures," I said. "Not to attack, but to follow. I want to know who they are. I want to know what they think they'll find." The Frostfangs were a wide mountain range. They might simply be returning from a hunt or heading towards another village... still. Dracula's distaste and distrust for humans complimented my general lack of interest in interacting with the free folk so soon.
Isaac gave a low hum of approval and turned to leave. "Of course, Master Dracula."
"Also," I added before he stepped out of the room. I wanted to ask about the children. I knew he must've been keeping an eye on them, but rescuing them must've been somewhat out of character already for Dracula. Extending that courtesy to making sure to keep up to date on them just might be enough to strike Isaac as odd. So I left that. Instead, I shifted tracks. "Send word to Hector. I want you both to begin working on a few cold-resistant variants of the night creatures."
Isaac paused in the doorway. "To patrol?"
"To scout." I corrected. I thought of the Land of Always Winter. If I couldn't see into it, then I would send someone else to do so. Someone or something that was easily disposable. "and protect as well," I said simply. Then, after a beat, I continued, "So we can prepare for what is to come."
He left without another word.
The fire crackled behind me as I turned back to the mirror and stared out at the region north of the Wall once more. I wasn't sure if I was here to save this world or to damn it. But I was here. And that was more than enough to change everything.
Spoiler: SI Like ReplyReport Reactions:Wel'asher'tes, Greatazuredragon, SagaSinistro and 695 othersbornsinnerJul 22, 2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 7 View contentbornsinnerNot too sore, are you?Jul 24, 2025Add bookmark#219Despite my earlier bravado, my next stop after a brief rest was the Heart of the Castle.
There were multiple entrances to it, scattered throughout the keep like veins leading to a heart. Secret stairwells, moving corridors, and alcoves that only appeared under moonlight. But Dracula's preferred method remained the hidden passage in the study, the same one I now took without hesitation, hand grazing the stone wall as it silently peeled open.
The Heart was what kept Castlevania alive. It's brain, its spine, its soul. The engine that powered the impossible shifts, the unnatural defenses, the centuries-spanning survival. The reason why the castle was never truly destroyed, no matter how many Belmonts bled across its halls.
These were little tidbits of memories and information that slipped into my head, not things I had watched, but things that Dracula, as a character, had experienced.
I stepped into the core chamber and walked slowly, deliberately, toward the cube, in deliberation about my future plans. Despite everything, I wasn't sure staying was the right call.
If I were being brutally honest with myself, no lies, no coping, I didn't want to be here. Not really. I wanted to go home. I wanted to wake up in my own body, in my own world, in my own timeline. I wanted normal problems. Rent. Overdue college bills. This? This was fantasy with blood under its nails.
So why should I stay and fight a war that has nothing to do with me?
I knew the stakes. I wasn't some wide-eyed self-insert bumbling through Westeros like a tourist. I knew what it would mean if I left. If I pulled Castlevania out of this world now, canon would likely snap back into place like a stretched rubber band. The White Walkers would sooner or later, if they were not already, begin to march south and wipe the North clean.
The Wights and the Others would crush the Free Folk. Then, if they were lucky and cannon held, they would halt the march by sheer luck. If they weren't, and the unwritten book canon was followed, then maybe Winterfell would fall. Then the Riverlands. Then the world.
And I still found it hard to give a damn.
Eventually, someone would win. The narrative would demand it. Azor Ahai would rise... maybe. Or Daenerys would burn her way to victory with her Dragons behind her. Jon Snow might brood his way to the crown, resurrected plot armor and all. Arya could shank the Night King again, quick and clean. And Bran… would stare. Either way, the wheel would keep turning.
So why the hell should I stay? The answer hit me the second I got to the Heart. The floating cube that powered the castle, as well as the pillar beneath it, was dim.
Not dead. Not inactive. Just... dull. Sluggish. Like something ancient sleeping under layers of frost. The cube at the center, normally radiant and humming with raw, eldritch power, was pulsing like it had a weak heartbeat. Still functional but just barely.
Low power mode.
I blinked, and my eyes flicked red. Instinctively, I reached for the core. Not physically, but through the link that connected us. Dracula's inheritance. My inheritance. The castle responded instantly, pushing data into my thoughts, not words, but understanding. Like a diagnostic readout made of pure instinct.
Everything was green. Structural integrity: optimal. Heating systems: steady. Mechanical functions, primarily powered by steam and occult mechanics, were perfectly calibrated. The castle could run for another two hundred years without needing maintenance. Maybe three, if I let some of the lesser halls rot.
Only one reading showed red.
Magic.
Specifically, atmospheric and ambient levels. Not internal reserves, that was stable, if a little low. But the magic in the world, the kind Castlevania fed on when transitioning or shifting, the kind it needed to reach into other dimensions? Diminished. I was robbed, I realized with a glare.
Robbed of a choice.
The realization didn't come softly. It didn't arrive like the subtle tug of intuition or a quiet philosophical epiphany. No. It crashed into me like someone had reached into my chest and yanked out the illusion of freedom I'd been clinging to. For all my power, all my knowledge, all my posturing, I was trapped here, for now at least.
It took everything I had not to lash out.
Not at the castle, not at the core, not at the damn mirror still humming in the corner behind me in my study, but the urge was there. Crawling under my skin. I wanted to break something. Destroy something. I wanted to punish the thing that denied me an escape route. But I didn't. I clenched my jaw, curled my fingers into tight fists, and buried the reaction somewhere deep.
I exhaled through my nose and forced my thoughts away from the bitterness. Forced myself to look at the positives, if only because I had no other option.
Magic levels were low. That much was obvious now. Not just weak. Starved. The kind of starvation that only happens over centuries. Like a world that had once known greatness but had grown old, until it only had just enough to keep the lights on and little more.
That gave me a marker. A real one. This wasn't the Age of Heroes. It wasn't the height of Valyria. It wasn't even early Targaryen rule. This was late. Very late. Closer to the time when myth was just rumor and monsters were just lies that parents told their children to keep them from sneaking out of bed.
Closer to canon and that wasn't nothing. It was frustrating, yes. But it was also useful.
Because this world, for all its chaos, was quantifiable. Manageable. I understood it, somewhat intellectually and narratively. I knew the players. It's factions. The history. The endgame. More importantly, I knew the limits. Magic was atrophied here. Not dead. Not gone. Just stunted. And that meant my enemies, whoever they were, would be stunted too. I had a ceiling I could see. A battlefield with boundaries.
That made it a perfect testing ground for a fresh-faced Vampire Lord. So I retreated to my study and turned to the mirror. I understood my topography better than most. Far better than anyone who didn't ride dragons and carry royal maps. I had walked the interior of Castlevania already and made mental notes of the surrounding lands. But I hadn't bothered to scry beyond. I hadn't really looked until now, and if I was going to be stuck here, I needed to know more.
The runes surrounding the shards still pulsed with red light, still active, still holding. I didn't need to cast again. Good. I didn't feel like going through that again. I had not had the time to really sit down and focus on the magical aspects of Dracula's capabilities.
I stepped forward, faced the mirror, and spoke clearly:
"Winterfell."
The shards shimmered. There was a ripple of distortion, a sharp static, and then the image formed. The ancestral seat of House Stark. Broad stone walls dusted with snow. Smokestacks rising from blacksmith forges. Outer courtyards teeming with movement. I could see men, women, and children, all bundled in heavy furs. Guards in gambeson patrolling the ramparts, white wolves stitched into their tabards.
I recognized it well enough, even if it looked way more massive than it did in the show. Which made it surprising that when I willed the mirror to push inward, to show me the interior, the barracks, hallways, the crypts, all I got was noise and harsh static.
The image twisted, flickered, and then snapped back to the outer walls. I tried again. Same result. I zoomed in, saw the steam rising from the hot springs, the glint of steel in a guard's scabbard, but the inside was locked away from me.
I frowned, then waved the mirror with a snap of my fingers, and the view shifted. The Wolfswood came into focus, then the White Knife, still water flowing through snow-crusted banks. Both were rendered clearly. There was no distortion. No pushback.
Then I returned to Winterfell only to be met with static again. Something was wrong.
A hypothesis was forming in the back of my mind, but I didn't want to speak it yet. Not without more data. The scientist in Dracula, the one who had buried himself in alchemical texts and magical calculus for centuries, refused to let a theory out without a wider control group.
So I spoke to the mirror once more, "Sunspear."
The shards rippled. The static this time was barely present, and then the image resolved into color and heat. Desert winds whipped across golden sands. Olive-toned people in light fabrics moved in loose clusters, shadows stretching long in the afternoon sun. The castle itself stood tall and proud, its Dornish design unmistakable. And when I willed the mirror to take me inside, it obeyed without hesitation.
I saw laundry hanging between stone pillars. I saw washerwomen scrubbing clothes. Dozens of guards in flowing robes and polished spears patrolled shaded walkways. I even caught a glimpse of an older man in a solar guarded by half a dozen men and two others sparring in a courtyard, one young, quick-footed, the other older, more measured, likely a teacher.
I didn't recognize either. I didn't need to; my memories of Dorne were pretty vague at the best of times. What truly held my interest was that it worked. There was no static, no interference. Whatever denied me in Winterfell didn't seem present here.
"The Red Keep."
The view shifted again, and I was greeted by the towering sprawl of King's Landing. The castle rose from the hill like a bloated tumor of red stone and battlements. I didn't linger on the city itself. I didn't care for its slums or the sprawl of mud and plague and piss. I went straight for the heart.
I willed the mirror to show me the inside of the Red Keep.
And there it was. Static. Fainter than Winterfell's. Not as violent. But it was there. The signal fuzzed, cracked. I saw brief flashes of corridors, a torch-lit hallway, and the edge of a sword-shaped throne, but it stuttered, faltered, and collapsed.
I had a vague feeling that if I pushed...
"The Eyrie."
Another clean image. Mountains. Sky. The fortress clinging to the cliff. I pushed inward and was met with no resistance. The inside revealed itself easily: smooth stone walls, pale light spilling through narrow windows, noble blood wandering under armed escort. This was another piece added to the pattern.
"Hightower."
This time, the mirror hesitated. Just a blink. Then the spire came into view. The tallest structure in Westeros. It looked ancient and almost alien in design. It looked less like it had been built and more like it had grown out of the ground, while the rest of Oldtown spread below it like a map.
I ignored all of it, instead focusing on the tower and trying to push past the walls.
Static.
Worse than the Red Keep. Not as feral as Winterfell, but more methodical. I got the sense that whatever was stopping me here was different from the others. The particular word escaped me, but I could feel it at the tip of my tongue. Still, it was not enough. I had a last location to scry.
So I said the final word.
"Valyria."
The moment the name left my mouth, the mirror screamed.
Metaphorically, at least. It was a furious shrieking, the kind that turned the ears and made one scream, like the shards of glass were being dragged along the ground.
Castlevania groaned around me in response as the floor plates shivered. The chains that held the floating chandeliers above let out a strained whine. The runes on the mirror dimmed.
Still, I held the connection. Forced the shards to obey, and then the runes flared red-hot once more. Static tore across the mirror as the edges vibrated violently. My frown deepened, and my will tightened.
And then, there was a sliver of vision. A single, narrow glimpse through the haze.
An island chain wreathed in sulfur and shadow. Blackened towers and castles without roofs jutted from the land like the burnt bones of long-dead gods. Smoke curled up from vents in the earth, fourteen volcanoes blowing strong, and above it all hung a miasma so thick it looked like a second sky, one that pulsed with instinctive malevolence.
The miasma moved. It rolled. Twitched. Recoiled. It was almost like the smog that filled the land was aware. And then the screech came. There was something in the clouds. Something that was absolutely massive and monstrous. Its wings blotted out the sun as it passed overhead, a shape too large to be anything but ancient.
I immediately let go of the scrying spell.
And the floating shards obeyed at once, drifting gently apart, the glow dimming from their surfaces like embers dying in the cold. They returned to their original positions, settling into the well-carved pit Dracula had shaped for them in the stone floor, a cradle of obsidian and chalk meant to keep their power contained.
Valyria had been the final key. The last confirmation.
What I felt from that place was unlike anything I had sensed before. Not sentient-shaped malevolence in the same way the Lands of Always Winter had been. There was no great will at work, no consciousness behind the curtain, no ancient mind obscuring the landscape with deliberate cunning. No... Valyria wasn't hidden.
It was sick.
Magic didn't simply linger there; it festered. Pooled. Gorged itself until the natural laws collapsed under the weight. The entire island chain pulsed with arcane excess, so saturated with raw power that it had folded in on itself. Warped. Twisted into something halfway between miracle and ruin.
That much cataclysm should've ruined the world. I knew it, in a way that spoke more of Dracula's instinctive knowledge than mine. However, The Doom had been contained, the last act of the mages of the empire, keeping the weight and consequences of their sin to themselves. The water that surrounded the island chain also helped, but I also remembered that the Valyrian Freehold only broke off from mainland Valyria during the Doom. It was either chance or, most likely, a magical working to ensure isolation.
Now, the entire island chain reeked of corruption, destruction, and chaos. And, perhaps most unsettling of all, something about it called to me. Like recognizes like.
I shook the thought away before it could root deeper. There were still questions that needed answering.
I returned to the other castles in my mind. Their resistance made more sense now. There was magic in them, not just magic but wards that were carved into them. However, not every ward was equal, but a pattern had begun to form. The older the site, the more resistant it became. Structures built in a time of myth and magic, bound to bloodlines that stretched into the fog of ages, seemed to have better wards.
Winterfell. Hightower. These places were old. Yet they had survived the erosion of time and memory. Their foundations ran deeper than mere rock. They were protected. Which made the Red Keep the anomaly. It didn't fit the pattern. Not fully.
Younger than the rest. Built not by the First Men or the Children of the Forest or some lost civilization, but by Valyrian conquerors, by the Targaryens themselves. And yet, it too had resistance. Not as firm as Winterfell's, not as violent as Valyria's, but still there.
Why? The answer came to me swiftly. Maegor.
Maegor the Cruel, an architect of paranoia. The kind of ruler who wouldn't just build a seat of power but kill the builders with his own hands to bury it in secrets. A man who would line its walls with death and call it foresight. If any Targaryen had the mindset to ward a castle from prying eyes, it was he.
It made sense. Horrible, perfect sense.
And then there was the Wall. Even from this distance, even without looking directly at it, now that I was aware, I could feel it. Like a mountain pressing down on my magic. Scrying beyond it had not been impossible; I had done it, after all. But I had the sense that it had been harder. Much harder than it should have been for a being such as Dracula. The resistance was not arcane in the traditional sense; it was structural. Fundamental.
Like the air was thinner up there. It was almost like the world itself strained to allow magic through.
Then I felt a sharp ache pulse in my chest, dull and familiar, the same sensation as a cloth wrung dry after too much use. Not pain exactly, but fatigue and hunger. I had scryed in a way that should've been nigh impossible, and the effort had cost me in some way.
In my past life, the forums had speculated for years about the Wall. Some said it wasn't just meant to hold back the Others. GRRM insinuated on more than one occasion that it held back magic itself.
A side effect of Brandon the Builder's greatest work. Or perhaps an intended feature. Either way, the theory had always been the same: that the Wall didn't just guard the realm; it suppressed it. Like a dam holding back an invisible flood. Magic flowed differently in its shadow. Slower, weaker, and more fragmented.
And now that I had seen both sides, I could say it plainly: The rumors were true.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I had done enough. Pushed far enough. Seen what I needed to see. But the realization came crawling up my spine, slow and cold and undeniable: There are darker places still.
Planetos was vast. Larger than the stories allowed. Larger than the maps suggested. There were hidden lands. Lost ones. Cursed corners of the world that not even dragons dared to fly over. And I hadn't even begun to touch Essos.
Essos.
A land that never quite forgot magic. A continent that still remembered what it meant to sacrifice flesh for fire, to trade blood for power. A land that didn't have maesters suppressing rumors of magic or a church that dedicated itself to casting magic out.
Essos also didn't have a Wall. There was no built-in suppression. It was a land whose skies still remembered dragons. Its soil still remembered death, and some of its people still remembered what it meant to practice.
More than Westeros, Essos drew my attention, and I knew that sooner or later, I would go east. I would walk into the Free Cities, trace the Black Cliffs of Asshai, and explore broken Valyria even. But not yet.
No.
Before I turned my eyes outward, outside my window and past the mountain range and toward the Land of Always Winter, there were problems here in my own backyard that I would probably have to take care of first.
Still, it had been a taxing couple of months without rest, and my scrying only worsened the fatigue I hid all too easily. So I turned away. First things first, I would have to rest.
A/N: For those that wondered why he doesn't just try running off again. Like ReplyReport Reactions:Revan336, Greatazuredragon, SagaSinistro and 664 othersbornsinnerJul 24, 2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 8 View contentbornsinnerNot too sore, are you?Jul 25, 2025Add bookmark#238The cave stank of old earth, wet stone, and rot. A faint trickle echoed somewhere deeper, too far to matter. Roots curled like veins across every rock surface, each of them pulsing with sap the color of blood. Brynden Rivers sat still at the center of it all.
He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He barely remembered how to do either, not that he needed to. The throne of weirwood he sat on had grown around his body a long time ago, serving the tri-function of connecting him to the gestalt of minds that formed the old gods, as well as serving as a life support and a cage.
It had pierced skin, settled into meat, and wrapped itself around his spine. He could still feel the wet wood pressing against the bone of his back. Most days, he didn't notice anymore. There was just a dull, constant feeling, soothing in its familiarity.
His body was... long gone.
His flesh had long since withered, his sword-arm atrophied to a pale, crooked limb. One eye was gone, plucked out in youth, and the other... the other saw too much. Brynden Rivers had once been a man. A sorcerer, a knight, a kinslayer. Now he was a root in the tree, a ghost in the world. And something new had entered it.
His remaining eye blinked open.
The winds had shifted. It was not the icy breath of the Others that stirred the weirwoods this time, nor the clumsy pyres of R'hllor's priests with their flickering fire-truths half a world away. This was... foreign. Twisted. And old.
The green veins of Westeros pulsed with unease. Leaves rustled on weirwoods all the way from Skagos to the Whispering Wood. The Children were the second to feel it, those that still lurked in the cave complex he called home. A scream was immediately let loose, one that tore free from a familiar voice, Leaf. His heart ached as he heard the gurgling as another child immediately vomited sap.
Nothing was free of the unnaturalness. Even the trees shuddered.
Brynden halted his wool gathering and released his mind, an act that allowed him to slip deep into the current of the world, down into the roots, and through the face of the tree. His unshackled mind spread wide until it found a tree just close enough, and there it was.
It was close, not in the Land of Always Winter, but nestled halfway into the Frostfangs, less like a natural protrusion and more like something that had been fused unnaturally. The space around the structure was wrong, and he felt it as a pressure behind his eye. It was a towering edifice of stone and iron and blood that had not existed yesterday; now it sat like a tumor beneath the stars.
It was a familiar structure, yet one that had no business this far into the North. A castle, yet not one of First Men, Andals, or Rhoynar make. The closest resemblance he could find was of Valyrian architecture, yet even for ancient Valyria, the structure felt… more. Alive to his magical senses in the same way Harrenhal felt, a castle steeped deep in blood and magic.
He stared at its gates: obsidian and gold, forged by no blacksmith of Westeros. Its spires shot upward like jagged fangs. Its bridges defied wind. It was an architectural marvel, and perhaps if he had been looking at it with mundane physical eyes, that would be all. But he stared at the castle with more than eyes and heard with more than ears. He connected to it through the old gods of air, earth, and trees, and that connection allowed him to hear the screaming from men and things that were once men.
He retreated back to his mortal shell.
"This... is not of the song," he rasped aloud, his voice like stone grinding against itself. "Not of fire, nor of ice. A third thing."
A raven perched on his shoulder, then another on his twisted knee. Dozens gathered, cawing.
"Should I stop it? Can I stop it?" Brynden asked. Not to them. To the connection he maintained to all the trees.
The weirwoods did not answer. Instead, the roots that snaked around his form pulsed again, not in the dulled pain he had grown familiar with over the long years, but with curiosity. Even the old gods were interested in this new thing.
The weirwood's veins opened to him once more, and he slipped sideways into another vision. Not forward, not back. Just… to the side. He allowed a tentative connection to the castle, an act that would have let him see its future, past, and present if it were of this world. But it wasn't, and the only reason Brynden risked it at all was because he had the metaphorical weight of the old gods behind him.
Immediately, he connected to the castle, and he saw something. A man within. No- not a man. A thing in the shape of one. Tall. Cloaked. A mind like a forge: cold, orderly, and cruel. It walked halls that bent reality. It fought and battled with the ferocity of a monster. Yet its eyes... mourned. Paradoxically, it read and studied, taught others, and learned further itself. A creature of growth. A monster of stagnation.
Brynden had watched thousands of kings rise and rot. He had seen Baelor the Blessed whip himself bloody for love of holiness, seen Maegor the Cruel crack the skulls of children. But this one was different.
The man before him was a paradox. A king of monsters. A man among monsters. A loving father, a cruel lord. A struggling scribe, a blood-hungry madman. His last image was of the man in a coffin— when suddenly, he was repelled with so much force it felt like the snap of a rubber band as his soul was punted away by wards activating. Only the metaphysical weight of the old gods stopped his mind from dispersing. Instead, the trees groaned, lakes shriveled up, and landslides occurred.
Brynden fought against the dispersion. The more the old gods bore the brunt of his transgression, the more the world suffered for it, so he roughly forced his soul back into his old, dying body. When he opened his eye again, tears of sap had dried on his cheeks.
The cave had grown colder.
"Bran must come," he said aloud.
The wind did not answer. The old gods stayed silent. The roots that served as both his life support and his prison remained still. But the ravens did not.
"Bran... must... come," they echoed in the silence.
And come he would. But now, perhaps, not soon enough, Brynden Rivers thought as the children of the forest quickly came to him for answers. Answers he was not certain he had to give.
Mantarys was a corpse.
A city walking long after death, carried forward by habit, superstition, and filth. The dragonlords who once ruled from its towers were long gone, devoured in fire centuries ago, but the stink of them still lingered in the stone. Their slaves had stayed. Their beasts had bred. Their blood, twisted by generations of corruption and smoke, still crept through the alleys in the shape of coughing children and silent, yellow-eyed men.
Melisandre stood at the edge of the square, robed in her red silks, with her arms lifted toward the sky. Her voice carried, clear even above the hiss of ashfall.
"Our Lord is the Light in the darkness! He is the fire that consumes all lies! All things not born in flame will fall before Him! Come, you of the downtrodden, the helpless, the weak, the sick. The fire preserves us, the fire cleanses! The fire saves!"
She did not shout. She never needed to. Her voice was meant to be heard. It wound through the bones of every broken man in earshot. Some dropped to their knees. Others wept. A few stared with empty eyes, too far gone to understand. That was fine by her. The red priests were always in need of all-too-willing sacrifices. A broken mind was easy to put on such a path.
The sky above her was pale and dirty. There was the beginning of a storm far off to the west, but it had no strength. The ash was light today, which was a good sign that the Lord of Light was with her. More would listen when they could breathe.
She opened her mouth to speak again and stopped.
The heat changed, but it was not a physical thing. Instead, it was something subliminal, something underneath it all. A sudden pulse. Her senses interpreted it like a furnace door opening too wide. But it was not fire that came out. Simply something that mimicked it with false life.
Fire but false and frozen, like a mirror held up to flame that didn't cast warmth or light, just a hunger. She staggered to the side at the sensation, only managing to hold herself up thanks to a well-placed pillar.
One of her acolytes rushed to her side immediately, confusion written across his features. "Lady Melisandre—?"
She ignored him. Instead, she turned her face to the east. No... north. Far. Beyond the rivers. Beyond the wastes. Beyond the Shivering Sea. Her fingers curled tightly around her ruby. The gem pulsed. Once. Twice. Then it flickered.
That had never happened before.
Fear filled her as she stepped down from the broken step of the old temple ruin, her sandals crunching black glass underfoot. Her body still moved, but her mind had already left. She cast her eyes upward.
And she saw it, not through flame nor through glass. There was no theatrics. No ritual. No calling. No pleading for R'hllor's blessing of sight. The vision came with the subtlety of a brick through a glass window. Her eyes rolled up into her head as her body turned stiff.
She watched as red lightning struck, and a castle that did not belong to this world tore its way into it like a blade into soft meat. It buried itself into snow and stone, its silhouette unnatural against the clouds. A shape that kissed the very sky as its towers pierced even higher than the clouds. Its base bled into the land like rot through a wound as it buried itself into a mountain.
Her heart beat as she tried to peer deep into the castle, but she felt the sensation of rebuttal. The structure was barred to everyone, and not even her Lord of Light was brave enough to force his way through. Even if he could, she had the sense the consequences would be too great. Still, her lord was not without his means, and through the vision, she watched a man walk past a window.
That's what made her freeze.
There was no flame in him. None. And yet… he lived. Truly lived, and not like the cold ones, who were twisted and bound to the Great Other. Her breath left her in a single word.
"Falsefire."
The ruby around her throat throbbed again, panicked now. The light inside it twisted, rippling like oil on a dark sea. As she was ejected out of the vision, she tightened her hold on the pillar lest she fall.
She knew what this meant.
Something had entered the world without fire, without birth, without sacrifice. A creature in an edifice that defied the promise of R'hllor. Heresy made manifest. Her acolytes gathered near her now, surrounding her hunched-over figure from passing observers. One tried to speak. Another held out a flask of water.
She did not see them.
Instead, her mind went back to the image of the man she had seen through the glass of the castle. Broad. Tall. Pale. Silent.
His gaze had scanned the land as if it were all within his reach. Cold eyes. Purposeful in demeanor. Not cruel. Not gentle. Just inevitable. She could feel power wrapped around him like a shroud. Not gifted like hers, or borrowed like the shadowbinders of Asshai.
It was simply power. Unshaped. Unchecked. His power.
"What is this, my lord?" she whispered to herself, her questioning words the greatest of heresy. Yet she could not stop them from spilling out, not at the appearance of something outside the great wall she had built her life around.
She had thought herself chosen. Believed herself led. She had seen dragons return. Seen kings rise. The Others stir in the north. Azor Ahai returned with his sword of fire. All things fitting into a pattern. A prophecy. A truth shaped in the fire of her Lord.
But this? This wasn't part of any prophecy. This was something outside the story entirely. However, despite the heavy shock, she didn't fall to her knees. She was stronger than that. But her hand went to her stomach.
The ruby flared bright for a final time, a last transmission, then dimmed again.
The crowd began to murmur. Melisandre turned her back to them and began to walk, her acolytes surrounding and questioning her like an honor guard. But she continued to ignore them all, her mind lost in thought.
First, she would go north. Only then would she understand.
The tower stank of burning oils, old paper, and a touch of blood.
Most Archmaesters avoided the highest chamber of the Ravenry, the oldest building in the Citadel. It wasn't officially restricted. Just... forgotten. Forgotten like dangerous things often are. The door warped in the frame. The stairs groaned. The air was thick and still. Marwyn lived here alone. Among bones, books, and other things the Citadel pretended didn't exist.
A dim oil lamp flickered near the base of the high hearth, casting dancing shadows across the soot-black walls. Bottles clinked softly as he moved past them. Dried tongues of basilisk and wyvern tail. Jars with floating eyes. A bowl that never held the same reflection twice. Marwyn was the only person brave or mad enough to live here, which was why the sight of the suddenly lit candle froze him.
No sound. No wind. Just flame, green, alive, and wrong.
Marwyn stood over it with a half-filled goblet of black wine in one hand and a dagger used for bloodletting in the other. He hadn't moved for nearly a minute. The fire above the glass twisted like it had a spine, dancing against physics, casting shadows that didn't match the room.
Then Marwyn grinned, wide and broad in its honesty.
"Well now," he muttered.
The wine sloshed as he stepped closer, boots creaking against warped stone. He set the dagger down next to a preserved heart in a jar and leaned in until the heat from the candle kissed his beard.
It didn't burn. It was warm, yes, but not in a way fire should be. The heat was conceptual. Something he understood as heat, but which did not behave like it.
It wasn't reacting to oxygen. It was reacting to his presence, or perhaps the presence of something else.
"Two hundred years dead," he said aloud, circling it like a hunter around a wounded beast. "No one had been able to light one. Not during the Dance. Not since the Doom itself."
He reached out with a heavy, weathered finger and touched the surface of the candle. Pain lanced through him, sharp and quick, but he didn't flinch. The glass was cold. Too cold. Like the very depths of the sea. Cold, dark and uncaring.
Then it spoke to him, not with words but with images.
A castle. Similar to Valyrian make to the layman's eyes, but the architecture was all wrong. Not Rhoynar. Not Asshai. He'd seen the ruins of Old Ghis, read the cracked glyphs of Leng, and stood beneath the twisted bones of Yeen.
This... was different. Other.
A fortress stood like a black wound in the world. Its towers reached past sense. A black stain on the otherwise white snowfield of the far north. Not even the falling snow seemed to rest on it; instead, it slipped down the structure like oil on water.
Marwyn saw a figure atop one of the spires. He stood tall and still. He wore no crown but had the demeanor of a ruler anyway. A man, shaped like one, dressed like one, and draped in silence and something far heavier than death. Red eyes turned to look back at him, and Marwyn leaned in, eyes wide.
"Who are you?" But he didn't say it with fear. He said it with awe.
The figure blinked brimstone-red eyes while his hands gently tugged at his goatee as he looked back at Marwyn with regal features. The figure opened his mouth, and Marwyn was greeted with fangs. Yet before the figure could speak, the vision broke like glass.
Alongside it, the glass candle shattered.
Yet despite the destruction of such a precious and rare magical instrument, Marwyn laughed. A loud, full-bellied sound that startled the mice in the walls and sent the birds flying in fright.
He had spent decades poring over heretical texts. Had walked Sothoryos alone. Had stolen secrets from Carcosa and returned sicker, but smarter. The other maesters mocked him. Called him the Mage in ridicule. Said he chased shadows.
But this wasn't a shadow. This was real. They said magic was dead, and while his exploration had proved there was some truth in those words, for magic truly had been diminished, the figure he had seen made it all too clear: something had changed.
He turned to his worktable. Cleared it with one sweep of his arm. Scrolls fell. Bones scattered. Wax cracked. He knew where he was going; a simple glimpse had been enough. He was one of the few maesters brave enough to have traveled that far north, and he never forgot the sight of that towering mountain range.
He pulled open a thick, ironbound chest and began laying out his tools: obsidian blades, preserved leech sacs, red crystal dust, maps of the Lands of Always Winter marked with notations in three tongues. He sharpened a quill. He dipped it in blood. He began writing.
"The world has changed. The fire burns again, but it is not ours. I must go north."
He rolled the parchment. Sealed it with wax. There was no name attached to it, no address. Anyone who found it would do whatever they wanted with it.
Marwyn turned back to the shattered remains of the candle and bared his teeth. He had received an invitation, or at least that was how he interpreted what he saw. "Wait for me."
Then he turned back to the open chest and he began packing. Not quickly. Not like a man running from something. But like a man running toward something that most people would piss themselves thinking about.
He packed with preparation. He would need protection. Wards. Steel. Dragonglass, if he could steal it from the vaults. And guidance, perhaps he could recruit a member of the Night Watch or brave the Cold north on his own once more. Whatever option he picked, he would need to hurry. The thing in the castle waited for him. Like ReplyReport Reactions:Revan336, Wel'asher'tes, Greatazuredragon and 671 othersbornsinnerJul 25, 2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 9 View contentbornsinnerNot too sore, are you?Jul 28, 2025Add bookmark#273I slept for over a year. Something about working on minimal rest for over six months, as well as being a starving vampire, seemed to take a lot out of me. I pushed open my coffin and stepped out before stretching my limbs as blood once more flowed into the pale appendages.
The vampires in Castlevania were quite different from most vampires in fiction. For one, they were not undead. At least, I don't believe we were. Vampires from Castlevania seemed more like a highly evolved strain of predators that might have diverged from humanity sometime in the Stone Age.
At least, that's the theory that came to mind the moment I gave it more than a passing thought. A well-grounded and founded theory came with detailed diagrams illustrating the various kinds and lineages of vampires. That was all I needed to know that the information came from what remained of Dracula.
There was a knock on my door as I quickly dressed and fastened my cloak around my shoulders before calling out in a raspy and unused voice.
"Enter."
The doors opened with the creak and whir of hidden machinery, revealing the pale-haired, blue-eyed figure of Hector.
"My lord, you're awake," the young forgemaster noted with surprise coloring his tone. Then, with a bow and quick steps, he walked into the room before halting as I began to walk past him.
"Walk with me, Hector," I called out with a gesture as I began to walk toward my office, leaving Hector to scramble behind me. Another little-talked-about fact: Dracula had long legs. At seven feet tall, my feet ate up space like few did, leaving the much smaller Hector to rush after me.
"How have things been since I was… away?"
It took him a few seconds to piece his words together as he scrambled behind me. "Quiet, my lord. Unfortunately, we lost contact with the night creature sent to the Land of Always Winter."
That part was no surprise. I had hoped to glean some information from inside, but without that… well, there were still alternatives. "Send another one, and make sure it stops before it enters the snowstorm that borders the lands first. Make sure it patrols that boundary instead, so we can have a heads-up in case whatever lives there decides to come crawling out."
"It is a massive expanse, Lord Dracula. I'm not sure a single night creature would be enough."
I hummed at the new information before ordering, "Odds are, we've already missed one or two already. No, what I'm worried about is what lives there marching out in full force." I glanced at Hector and saw understanding blossom behind his blue eyes.
"Even a single night creature should be able to spot one of such," he began, his eyes trailing as he began to think further. "Especially if they were specialized for recon only, discarding any combat capabilities and focusing purely on their ability to observe, as well as speed."
I would have smiled if Dracula's features didn't resist the easy gesture. Instead, I placed a single hand on Hector's head and ruffled it in approval, like one would do a child or a pet.
He sent a wide-eyed look my way before giving a smile of satisfaction. Hector was intelligent. Intellectually, he was likely superior to Isaac. Unfortunately, he seemed to have min-maxed, leaving wisdom as his dump stat.
"I'll begin work on that immediately."
I nodded at his acceptance as we got to the door of my study, where Isaac was waiting. The dark-skinned man stood, spine straight, before giving a curt bow. "Master Dracula, how was your rest?"
"Soothing," I admitted. Then, with a wave, the door to my study opened, and I walked in with the two men trailing after me. I smoothly glided and sank into my seat before refocusing back on my forgemasters and attendants.
"What else happened while I was asleep?" I questioned, with a hand propping up my head as I leaned to the side. Dracula's mannerisms came easily to me, and I watched with half-lidded eyes as Isaac continued from where Hector stopped.
"The two red-haired youths you rescued shortly after our arrival in this world returned to their village in peace, which gave me the time to investigate what happened. It looks like a hunting trip gone wrong. They, along with another group, must have killed the bear's cub, which led the furious bear to lash out in response. Although…" Isaac trailed off and gave a look at Hector, one that the young man squirmed from. Curious. What happened while I was away?
Isaac continued, "Hector took it upon himself to resurrect the cub. It had died from only a single well-placed spear throw into the heart, and with the weather being what it was, the corpse was perfectly preserved. The resurrected bear was reintroduced to the mother, and after brief hesitation on the mother's part, it was all too happy to embrace its child once more. Since then, the duo has stayed close by, sometimes going as far as to sleep in our stables during the worst of the snowstorms that hit the region. Hector, once again, took it upon himself to key the beast into the castle wards."
I let a chuckle slip, surprising the two. Even Dracula would have found this fun if he were present as anything more than vague memories and instinct. Still, this was no surprise. Hector, being the bleeding heart that he was. I was only surprised about the mention of the castle wards. A brief, purposeful search into Dracula's memories gave more information.
Dracula was the master of Castlevania, but he could not be everywhere, so he had given some level of authority to his two most trusted generals, Isaac and Hector. While it didn't give them nearly the same power and connection over the castle, it made the castle more receptive to their wishes, such as modifying the castle wards. Wards that should protect and stop any intruder from slipping into the castle unannounced.
So, how did Alucard and his merry band of vampire hunters manage to waltz right in? Like most things, the answer came easily: Sypha. Her forceful binding and summoning of the castle had burned out Castlevania's core. I remembered the expanse that held the miraculous cube had been partially ruined, forcing the castle to enter some kind of hibernation mode. Whatever happened had shut down all critical systems.
I waved away the thought internally as I turned to the duo. Hector kept his eyes to the ground, while Isaac just looked ahead calmly.
"What else?" I inquired, saving Hector the embarrassment of calling out his childlike behavior. "I remember there was a group bearing torches shortly after the incident."
Isaac replied immediately, "As you ordered, Master Dracula, I had a night creature follow after them, and it confirmed they were a hunting party. The group of five men dressed in black cloaks, padded doublets, rough spun wool, and boiled leather for protection. A man I assumed was their leader had on a breastplate. They were mostly armed with steel swords and well-crafted bows. Everything about them spoke of a higher civilization than the one the villages around the mountain range participated in. They made sure to keep their distance and immediately retreated as the sun began to come up."
I gave a noncommittal hum at the news as I sat deep in thought. I didn't need to hear about the other details. The black cloaks alone had sold their identity. The Night's Watch, which meant a ranging. This far north. From what I understood, we were in the Frostfangs, which was beyond where most of the Night's Watch dared to range, both because of the distance and its closeness to the Thenns.
"Where are these men now?" I questioned.
"They returned south but were forced to halt at what our investigations revealed to be a major passage called the Skirling Pass by the locals. The pass was blocked by snow, and the group of five were forced to remain on this side, where multiple encounters with the locals have cut down their number over the past year.
The last time my night creature reported, only a single man remained of the group, a man who seemed to have been injured badly in a fight. Hector, of course, debated that we should assist him…" Isaac trailed off, then looked the other forgemaster in the eye. "I disagreed. However, Hector took it upon himself to personally deliver supplies as well as medical aid to him a couple of times with a hidden night creature as a guard in case the man proved hostile. Fortunately for him, the man was thankful, and the pass thawed shortly after, allowing the man to retreat. My night creature continues to follow him."
I blinked in surprise. Not at the ideological differences the duo seemed to have. Say whatever about their differences, but the animosity was only skin-deep, friction as a result of personal opinions. It would never be more than that, not when they both served a higher power. Me. No, what surprised me was the story being told. It had the ring of familiarity.
A group of rangers go north, as far as the Frostfangs. On their return journey, they realize the Skirling Pass is blocked by winter. At the end of the day, only a single man returns. A man and a living legend to the brothers of the Night's Watch: Qhorin Halfhand. Curious. Truly curious.
I was not sure how to feel about the man. From what I remember, he was one of the few rangers that could be categorically labeled a good man. Still, was this when he got his famous "Halfhand" epithet? It was closer than I would have thought.
While Qhorin's half-hand injury did seem like an old thing, the stories of his being trapped in the Skirling Pass seemed like a fresher thing, if I remember correctly. So the odds were that I was somewhere close to canon. Either shortly before Season 1 or close to Season 2.
Another interesting aspect was that if I was right and that was truly the legendary ranger, it meant I had something of an in with the watch. I didn't begrudge Isaac's refusal as that was the rational thing to do, but neither did I begrudge Hector's action either, because I could see the benefit his actions could accomplish down the line, although I doubt this was what was going through Hector's head when he made his decision.
"How long ago was this?"
Isaac thought on it for a second before replying, "Approximately five or six months ago, Master Dracula. The seasons in this place are… strange. Winter never seems to truly end. It seems like this land is trapped in various stages of winter instead of a regular winter and summer."
Well, that's the kind of thing that happens when you have the concept of cold and death simply chilling in your backyard.
"I see. Anything else?"
Hector was the one to speak up this time. "We've scouted our surroundings during the past few months, which has helped us build a map, aided by the farsight mirror. So far, there is a sum total of seven minor villages like the one the red-haired youths returned to, as well as a much bigger one on the other side of the mountain.
Since you spared them, they have returned often, mostly with gifts and trinkets. The boy has taken to assimilating the villages closer to theirs, and so far, a sum total of four out of the seven villages have joined them.
However, despite first impressions, the duo are being led by another red-haired youth. An older girl with the same red hair and a penchant for the bow. She always comes with them whenever they return to offer whatever baubles and trinkets they deem good, although she has had the sense to stay back."
"The giant snow bears also seem to have integrated with them quite well, especially the mother bear that seemed all too intent on killing the younger girl a long time ago. Now, we find her riding them sometimes, and sometimes…" Isaac trailed off before finally speaking up. "I suspect there is magic to them. An unfamiliar kind."
"Warging," I idly stated, to the surprise of the duo. So I continued with Dracula's methodical, uncaring wave of a hand. A theatrical flourish, mystery for the sake of mystique. It helped that they already believed I was some incomprehensible wellspring of ancient knowledge. No need to break the illusion. It would have been difficult to explain how I knew so much about the magic of this strange land otherwise.
"Warging is a curious and primitive type of human magic. It allows its practitioner to connect on a deeper level with animals, and if an animal is familiar enough or has some bond with a human, a skilled human or practitioner would be able to slip into the body of the animal and use its senses, as well as its body, as if it were theirs." I finished by way of explanation, and I could see curiosity in the duo's eyes.
"It is a magical discipline that would probably prove most interesting to both of you, as it would allow you greater possession and control of your night creatures," I continued as I thought further. From what little I remember about the connection between night creatures and forgemasters, it was all physical, like the way a man controlled a dog, simply with orders.
A Forgemaster that could warg…
The curiosity wasn't limited to just them now. Warging was interesting, and judging by what Bran did, it wasn't limited to just animals. Most especially, it was magic, interesting magic with a wide variety of applications. I was not completely familiar with vampire magic because, without the easy excuse and access to Chaos like in the games, the show's version seemed to use blood to fuel their magic. A source I didn't seem to possess a lot of.
Which was a situation that was solely my fault. I didn't even need to kill a human. Animal blood would do. Hell, even the blood banks Dracula had stocked up should be more than enough for me for another hundred years. Yet… the thought of it… There was no true revulsion. I had enough Dracula in me that the instinctive revulsion that came with the idea of drinking blood did not happen, which was exactly my problem.
Still, it wasn't something I could put off forever, and I wasn't certain I could even learn human magics. Regardless, for the first time since I woke up, I desired something other than the near-feral need to go back home. I wanted to learn more about magic. To try, at least. And there was only one magical practitioner I was aware of on this side of the wall, Bloodraven.
I turned to Isaac and Hector, my voice low and firm. "We'll need to find a certain Three-Eyed Crow." Like ReplyReport Reactions:Wel'asher'tes, Greatazuredragon, SagaSinistro and 646 othersbornsinnerJul 28, 2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 10 View contentbornsinnerNot too sore, are you?Aug 13, 2025Add bookmark#299One of the major benefits of landing this far north was the lack of direct sunlight. Unfortunately for me, sunlight was one of the few vampire weaknesses all fanfictions got right. The kiss of the sun against unprotected skin was enough to make a vampire combust outright if they suffered the full brunt on their unarmored body.
However, I was Vlad Tepes Dracula, and no sunlight was enough to kill me... At least that's what I hoped. Dracula had few memories of walking under the