Ten days of grinding had changed Robin's body. Not dramatically, he wasn't suddenly strong or healthy. But the trembling had stopped. His legs carried him without threatening collapse. His breathing came easier.
[LEVEL 1: 95/100 EXP]
Five more experience points until he leveled up. But the daily quests alone wouldn't get him there fast enough. He needed more. Needed information. Needed to understand the landscape he'd been dropped into.
The castle fell silent around midnight. Robin had spent three nights listening, learning the patterns. Guard rotations. Servant schedules. The rhythm of Winterfell after dark.
Tonight, he would move.
Robin eased his door open. The hinges were silent, he'd used grease from his dinner bowl days ago. Small preparations. Justin's habits bleeding through.
The corridor stretched empty before him. A single torch at the far end cast dancing shadows on stone walls Robin knew intimately. He'd walked these passages in his previous life, sneaking through the castle to avoid assassins and political rivals.
Thirty years from now, he'd known every secret path in Winterfell.
The layout hadn't changed. Stone didn't evolve.
Robin moved quickly but carefully. His improved stats made the journey easier than it would have been a week ago. Left at the storage alcove.
Down the narrow servant stairs, skipping the third step that creaked. Through the passage that smelled perpetually of old soap and damp stone.
He emerged near the eastern wing. The difference was immediate. Rich tapestries lined these walls, scenes of Stark victories, wolves devouring enemies. The torches were larger, their light warmer. Carpet runners muffled footsteps.
This was where important people lived.
Robin pressed himself into an alcove as footsteps approached. Two guards on patrol, their armor clinking softly. They passed within feet of him, discussing tomorrow's training schedule.
Neither looked his direction. Why would they? Even if they saw him, he was just the cursed boy. Not worth reporting.
When their footsteps faded, Robin continued. At the corridor's end stood his destination: the great library of Winterfell.
Massive oak doors carved with wolves and ancient runes. Unlocked because who would steal books in the dead of night? What value did words have compared to gold or weapons?
Robin slipped inside.
The library swallowed him whole. Shelves stretched three stories high, disappearing into shadow above. The smell hit him like a physical force, old paper, leather bindings, dust, and the faint tang of mana-ink used in preservation spells.
Justin had loved this place. Had spent countless hours here when the Duke wanted him properly educated. Learning strategy from ancient campaigns. Studying the mistakes of dead commanders.
That was before he became too competent. Too dangerous.
A few mana-lights glowed dimly near reading tables on the main floor, providing just enough illumination to navigate.
Robin moved between the shelves, his enhanced perception allowing him to read titles in the poor light.
The first floor held what he expected. Fiction. Poetry. Philosophical treatises. Entertainment for noble children with time to waste. Romantic epics gathering dust. Adventure stories about heroes who always won.
Useless.
Robin needed facts, not fantasies. He needed the second floor. The historical archives. Military records. Family genealogies.
The real knowledge.
He found the stairs at the back, hidden behind a shelf of popular romances that hadn't been touched in years. The steps were worn smooth by generations of scholars.
Robin climbed carefully, his hand on the rail. His body was stronger than a week ago, but caution was habit now.
The second floor was different. No mana lights up here, this section didn't get enough traffic to justify the expense. Dust motes danced in the air, disturbed by his presence.
These books weren't read often. History was for maesters and scholars, not warriors who lived in the present.
Perfect for Robin's purposes.
His enhanced perception helped in the darkness. He could make out titles that would have been invisible before.
Chronicles of the Northern Wars. The Void Incursions: A Complete History. Tactical Analyses of the Gorgon Campaign.*
That last one made him pause. He'd personally shattered the Gorgon Shield formation in a battle that wouldn't happen for thirty years.
The book's author had no idea their theoretical analysis would be proven catastrophically wrong by a commander who didn't exist yet.
Robin filed that knowledge away. Moved deeper into the stacks.
There. A section marked "Stark Family Records and Genealogies."
He pulled a thick leather-bound volume from the shelf. The book was massive, nearly dropped it before his improved strength caught hold. He carried it to a reading table near a window where moonlight provided some illumination.
The pages crackled with age when he opened them. Dense text in formal script documented the minutiae of noble lineage. Births, deaths, marriages, alliances. The bureaucratic skeleton of House Stark's history.
Robin flipped through years, scanning quickly. His enhanced perception let him process text faster than before. Decades of Stark history passed beneath his fingers.
He found his generation.
Marcus Stark, first son of Duke Aldric Stark. Born 1237 AC. Constitution: Excellent. Mana assessment at age five: B-Rank. Primary aptitudes: Swordsmanship, tactical command, political acumen. Status: Designated heir.
Leo Stark, second son of Duke Aldric Stark. Born 1240 AC. Constitution: Robust. Mana assessment at age seven: C-Rank. Primary aptitudes: Administrative oversight, secondary command, diplomatic relations. Status: Reserve heir.
Then, in noticeably smaller script:
Robin Stark, third son of Duke Aldric Stark. Born 1247 AC.
That was it. No constitution rating. No mana assessment. No listed aptitudes. Not even a status designation.
Just a birth year and the silence of omission.
Robin's jaw clenched. He forced himself to keep reading.
A separate entry, dated the year of his birth:
Notation regarding the birth of Robin Stark: Event coincided precisely with the Great Northern Breach. Void fissure opened in the Frostfang Mountains at the moment of delivery.
Duration of breach: 94 days. Military casualties: 347. Civilian casualties: 892. Economic impact: Catastrophic. House Stark treasury depleted by approximately 60% in containment and recovery efforts.*
The breach's timing has led to widespread superstition among both nobility and common folk. The child has been labeled "cursed" and "ill-omened" despite lack of empirical evidence connecting the events.
Duchess Lyanna Stark succumbed to complications three days post-delivery. Final documented words: "Protect him. He is innocent of this. Promise me."
Robin stared at those words until they blurred.
His mother, Robin's mother had died trying to protect him. Had used her dying breath to extract a promise from her husband.
A promise the Duke had kept in the most minimal, technically-correct way possible. Provided for. Given a room. Fed enough to stay alive. And completely abandoned to slowly waste away where no one had to look at him.
The entry continued on the next page:
Additional observations, recorded by Maester Aldwin:
Official position of House Stark: The child's birth timing is purely coincidental. However, common sentiment among nobility, servants, and the general populace has labeled the boy cursed. For purposes of household morale and political stability, Duke Aldric has decreed limited interaction with Robin Stark.
Personal medical assessment: I have examined the child multiple times in his first year. His mana core presents an unusual signature not absent or weak as commonly believed, but dormant.
The pattern suggests external suppression or sealing rather than natural deficiency. I submitted a formal request to Duke Aldric for permission to conduct deeper investigation into this phenomenon.
Request denied.
Further inquiries forbidden by ducal decree.
Robin read that section three times, his hands trembling slightly.
The original Robin had lived his entire short life thinking he was broken. Defective. Cursed by the Void itself. But the family's own maester had discovered the truth: Robin's mana wasn't weak. It was locked away.
And the Duke had ordered the investigation stopped.
Why? What did the Duke know? What was he hiding?
Robin pulled up his system interface with a thought:
[MANA: 22/100 (F-)]
Still pathetically low. But if the maester was right...
[FOREIGN RESTRICTION DETECTED ON HOST MANA CORE]
[ANALYZING...]
[SEAL TYPE: UNKNOWN]
[SEAL ORIGIN: UNKNOWN]
[SEAL STRENGTH: MODERATE]
[CURRENT HOST LEVEL INSUFFICIENT FOR SEAL ANALYSIS]
[RECOMMENDATION: REACH LEVEL 10 BEFORE ATTEMPTING INTERACTION]**
So the system confirmed it. Something was actively suppressing his mana core. Something that required him to grow significantly stronger before he could even begin to understand it.
Robin closed the genealogy carefully. His mind raced with implications.
The Duke had promised his dying wife to protect their son. Instead, he'd effectively imprisoned that son and forbidden anyone from investigating why the boy was "cursed."
Robin returned the book to its shelf. Pulled down another volume, military records from fifteen years ago. He needed more than just family history. He needed to understand the current state of Valderra. The positions of the great houses. Void breach patterns. Military deployments.
Justin's knowledge was of a world sixty years in the future. Things that hadn't happened yet. He needed to map the present before he could properly manipulate what came next.
Hours passed. Robin moved through the stacks methodically, pulling books, reading by moonlight, memorizing, replacing them exactly where he'd found them. Historical chronicles. Economic records. Trade agreements between houses. Maps of the northern territories with Void fissure locations marked in red ink.
Each book added another piece to the puzzle. Another data point in the vast tactical map forming in his mind.
He found references to Commander Justin in a military history from his previous life except of course he didn't, because that Justin wouldn't be born for another thirty years.
The disconnect was disorienting. Reading about battles he remembered fighting, except they were described differently. Or hadn't happened at all in this timeline.
Time is fluid, Robin realized. My presence here has already changed things. Butterfly effects I can't predict.
That was dangerous. He couldn't rely entirely on future knowledge if his very existence was altering the timeline.
He needed to be more careful. More adaptable.
The mana-lights on the first floor began to dim an automatic spell that responded to approaching dawn. Robin had perhaps an hour before servants started their morning routines.
He gathered his remaining books, returned them to their proper places, and made his way back down the stairs. The library was silent around him, knowledge sleeping in the darkness.
Robin slipped through the great doors and back into the castle's corridors. The return journey was easier now, he knew the patterns, the timing, the exact moment when each guard patrol would be at the far end of their route.
He reached his room just as the first morning bell rang in the distance. Collapsed onto his bed, exhausted but filled with new information.
And somewhere in Winterfell's depths, there were answers about what Robin Stark was truly meant to be.
His lips curved into a cold smile.
Robin's eyes closed. Tomorrow night, he would return to the library. There were more journals to find. More secrets to uncover.