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Chapter 4 - The pacts

The forge-fires of Winterfell never went out, but the air in the Great Hall was colder than the snow outside. Philips stood before Ned Stark, flanked by the human forms of his Seven Kings. On the table lay a map of Westeros, already dotted with the red ink of reported tearings.

"The Nivlatth steel is a start, Lord Stark," Philips said, his voice echoing in the rafters. "But a better sword only matters if the arm swinging it doesn't tire, and the heart behind it doesn't falter. Raw muscle and common medicine will not win this war. Against the Wild Legions, you need more than humanity."

Ned looked at the boy, his brow furrowed. "You have given us the steel of the Abyss. What more is there to give?"

"Pacts," Philips stated simply.

A heavy silence fell. The word 'pact' carried a weight of damnation that made the Northern lords shift uncomfortably.

"I am suggesting," Philips continued, "that your knights and the men of the Night's Watch bind themselves to Beelzebub and Baal. Those who follow the Lord of Violence will find their strength tripled; their bones will become as iron, and their endurance will outlast any mortal foe. Those who walk with Baal will gain the 'Blight-Touch'—the ability to lace their strikes with a supernatural poison that can rot a Ravager's heart from the inside out."

Ned looked at the massive, silent figure of Beelzebub and the cunning, yellow-eyed Baal. "And the price? You ask my men to trade their souls for strength?"

"Not their souls," Philips corrected, "but their service. To the Infernal King. To me. And they must be able to withstand the strain."

He turned his gaze toward the Maesters and the healers standing in the back of the hall. "But strength and poison are for the front lines. Might alone cannot seal a rift once it grows too large. For that, you need the mind. I want your greatest scholars, your most disciplined Maesters, and your wisest healers to make a pact with Leviathan."

The silver-haired youth who represented the Grand Wizard of Hell stepped forward, blue static crackling faintly around his fingertips.

"Leviathan's knowledge will turn a man of books into a master of the elements," Philips explained. "He will teach them to stitch wounds with blue lightning and freeze the very essence of a demon before it can manifest. Your scholars will become sorcerers, Lord Stark. They will be the ones who hold the veil shut while your knights do the killing."

Ned Stark looked at his hands, then at his brother Benjen, who stood with the black-cloaked Crows. He thought of the Crawlers that had ignored his Valyrian steel. He thought of the small tearings opening in every corner of the world.

"The North has always mistrusted sorcery," Ned said softly. "But the North also remembers that when winter comes, we must protect our own. If this is the only way to keep the Wild Ones from our gates..."

He stood up, his face set in a grim mask of determination.

"I will not command any man to take this burden," Ned announced, his voice booming. "But I will be the first to lead. If Beelzebub offers the strength to hold the North, then let the covenant begin with the Warden himself."

"Lord Stark..." Philips started, surprised by Ned's willingness.

"No," Ned interrupted. "A leader does not ask his men to walk a path he fears to tread. If we are to fight fire with fire, then let the Stark of Winterfell be the hearth."

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[SYSTEM: MAJOR EVENT TRIGGERED – THE FIRST COVENANT]

[Pact Initiated: Eddard Stark x Beelzebub]

[Unlocking Class: Infernal Warden]

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Philips nodded, a newfound respect for the man in his eyes. He turned to the Seven Kings. "Prepare the rituals. We aren't just outfitting an army anymore. We are creating a Legion."

The ritual did not take place within the stone walls of the Great Hall. At Philips's insistence, the volunteers—the greatest knights, the swiftest scouts, and the wisest Maesters—were led into the ancient Godswood of Winterfell. Under the weeping red leaves of the Heart Tree, the air grew heavy, humming with the friction of two colliding worlds.

Philips stood at the center of the grove. Beside him stood the human forms of the Seven Kings.

"In my world," Philips explained to the gathered men, "a pact is a cold transaction. But this land has its own masters. We must see if they allow this union."

One by one, the men stepped forward. Lord Eddard Stark was the first. He knelt before the Heart Tree, his eyes fixed on the carved face in the bark. Beelzebub, in his scarred human form, stepped forward and placed a heavy hand on Ned's shoulder.

As the infernal energy began to flow, the ground groaned. The red eyes of the Weirwood seemed to pulse with fresh sap. Suddenly, the world shifted. Ned, Philips, and the others found themselves in a shared vision—a realm of white mist and ancient, towering shadows.

From the rustling leaves of the spirit world, the Old Gods manifested. They were nameless, vast faces carved into the very fabric of the air. They looked upon Philips and his seven subordinates, and for a moment, the atmosphere was thick with tension.

But there was no judgment. The Old Gods, in their timeless wisdom, looked into the souls of the transmigrator and his Demon Kings. They saw no malice, no desire for wanton destruction. They recognized Philips and his kin as friends to the living—a dark shield against an even darker void.

The spirits of the North leaned close, their voices like the grinding of ancient stones. "The blood of the First Men must be the shield," they whispered. "This is not heresy, but a sacrifice. A necessary pact for a world in agony."

The Old Gods willingly allowed the energy to pass, seeing the pact not as a sin, but as a small sacrifice of one's humanity to save the whole. "Take the fire of the Abyss, Eddard Stark. Use the demon's strength to hold the winter at bay. Use this power for the innocent. Guard the realms of men. Never stray from the path of the light, even as you wield the shadows."

With the blessing of the Old Gods, the pacts solidified.

Ned Stark let out a guttural roar as Beelzebub's power surged through him. His bones became as dense as iron, his muscles expanding with a supernatural warrior's strength that felt as though he could lift the gates of Winterfell with one hand. He was the first Infernal Warden.

Beside him, the rangers and "Crows" gasped as Baal touched their brows. They felt their blood turn cold and potent, their senses heightening until they could smell the "Blight" within their enemies. They had gained the Blight-Touch, the ability to rot the internal organs of a demon with a single scratch of their Nivlatth blades.

Finally, the Maesters and scholars approached Leviathan. The silver-haired youth placed his hands over their eyes. As the Old Gods whispered secrets of the earth, Leviathan poured in the arcane knowledge of the Abyss. The scholars were transformed; their minds expanded, allowing them to see the "flow" of energy. They were no longer mere healers; they were Abyssal Sorcerers, capable of weaving blue lightning and freezing rifts shut with a thought.

When the light faded, the Godswood was silent.

Ned Stark stood up, his presence now echoing with a dual authority—the ancient weight of the North and the terrifying heat of the Abyss. He gripped his fist, and the air itself seemed to ripple from the pressure of his strength.

"They gave their consent," Ned whispered, looking at the Heart Tree. "The Old Gods have seen the enemy. They know that might alone cannot save us, and they have welcomed our new allies as brothers in arms."

Philips wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his System screen glowing with new notifications. "The Old Gods are practical. They know a friend when they see one."

He turned to the newly empowered Legion. "The covenant is sealed. You have the steel, you have the strength, and you have the magic. Now, let's go find a tearing and show them what happens when the North fights back."

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[SYSTEM: MAJOR EVENT COMPLETE – THE BLESSED COVENANT]

[EDDARD STARK: INFERNAL WARDEN (LEVEL 1)]

[NORTHERN SCHOLARS: SORCERER-MAESTERS UNLOCKED]

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