The news of the ritual in the Godswood spread through Winterfell faster than a summer gale. In any other age, the sight of men merging their essences with entities from the Abyss would have sparked a lynch mob or a panicked exodus. But the word of the Heart Tree was law in the North, and the report from the witnesses was unanimous: the Old Gods had not only allowed the pacts, they had blessed them.
The Seven Demon Kings were no longer whispered about as "monsters" or "the Blight of the Pit." Instead, a new title began to circulate among the smallfolk and the refugees huddled within the walls: The Lightbringers. To a people terrified by the "Tearing," these beings were no longer invaders; they were the long-awaited shield.
As the newly empowered "Infernal Wardens" and "Sorcerer-Maesters" emerged from the grove, they were met not with pitchforks, but with a massive, hushed crowd. The courtyard was packed with soldiers, servants, and commoners, their eyes wide with a mix of reverence and frantic, desperate curiosity.
"Is it true?" an old woman whispered, reaching out with trembling fingers to touch the hem of Ned Stark's cloak. "The Heart Tree... it didn't turn away?"
Ned looked down at her, his presence now vast and steady. He felt the iron-like density of his bones and the terrifying strength of Beelzebub humming in his marrow, yet his heart felt more tethered to his people than ever.
"The Old Gods did not turn away," Ned said, his voice carrying a new, resonant chime that echoed against the stone walls. "They have welcomed our new allies. They have given us the fire to fight the frost."
The crowd erupted into a swarm of voices. The fear that had sat in their stomachs for weeks began to lift, replaced by a hunger to understand this new power. A crowd quickly gathered around those who had made the pacts, pressing in close to see the changes.
"Lord Benjen! Show us the Blight-Touch!" a young squire shouted, his face alight with excitement.
"Maester Luwin! Can you truly call the lightning now?"
The children were the boldest. Unburdened by the weight of theology, they swarmed around the massive, scarred figure of Beelzebub and the silver-haired youth who was Leviathan. They didn't see the Lords of Hell; they saw the figures from the stories Philips had shared—heroes who had come to kill the monsters.
"Mr. Giant!" a young girl squeaked, tugging on Beelzebub's dark surcoat. "Can you really break a mountain? Show us! Show us something cool!"
Beelzebub, a creature who had spent eons in the gore-slicked pits of the Abyss, looked down at the tiny human child. He looked toward Philips, who gave him a small, encouraging nod.
Beelzebub, a creature who had spent eons in the gore-slicked pits of the Abyss, looked down at the tiny human child. He looked toward Philips, who gave him a small, encouraging nod.
The children shrieked with delight, scrambling to pick up the "magic" stones as if they were treasures.
Nearby, the Maesters were being interrogated by fellow scholars. Leviathan stood among them, calmly explaining the flow of arcane currents. To demonstrate, one of the new Sorcerer-Maesters raised his hand. Instead of a fireball, he wove a delicate bird out of blue, crackling static. It flew in a majestic circle around the courtyard, its "song" the sound of distant thunder, before dissolving into a harmless mist that smelled of fresh rain.
"It's beautiful," a young boy breathed, reaching for the fading sparks.
Philips watched from the battlements, leaning his elbows on the cold stone. Beside him stood Lucifer, his human form reflecting the setting sun like polished gold.
"They aren't afraid of us anymore," Philips noted, a sense of relief washing over him.
"They see us as Lightbringers, Sire," Lucifer replied softly. "In a world of shadows, even a candle looks like a sun. They recognize that this power is a sacrifice—a small piece of humanity traded to ensure the survival of the rest."
Philips watched the children laughing as Satan—the King of Chaos—accidentally made a small puff of purple smoke appear to entertain them.
"It's a start," Philips said, his eyes turning back to the red-blue HUD in his vision. "But the honeymoon won't last long."
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[SYSTEM: PUBLIC TRUST - 85% (NORTH)]
[NEW STATUS: PROTECTOR OF THE REALM]
[ALERT: LARGE-SCALE TEARING DETECTED NEAR THE DREADFORT. TIME TO IMPACT: 12 HOURS.]
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Philips's smile faded. "Party's over. Tell the Wardens to suit up. We're going to the Dreadfort."
With the Northern Wardens already training with their Nivlatth blades, Philips turned his attention to the "Abyssal Sorcerers." While the knights relied on Simeon's practical steel, the scholars needed instruments to focus the chaotic energy of the Abyss.
In the dimly lit forge of Winterfell, Philips stood over a new set of materials. Unlike the common iron used for the knights, these rituals required organic components to bridge the gap between the living world and the spirit realm.
"Bring me the oak staves and the ritual knives," Philips commanded.
A group of stunned Northern blacksmiths watched as Philips laid out the components: Oak Staff, Ritual Knife, Iron Ore, and a collection of bleached Owl Bones.
"Simeon was a master of the physical," Philips explained to the smiths, his eyes glowing with the blue light of Leviathan. "But Bisith the Mage was a scholar of the spirit. He was the king's own blacksmith before the forbidden arts claimed him. He knew that to channel the Abyss, you need the resonance of the natural world—the oak of the forest and the bone of the predator."
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[SYSTEM: BISITH'S RESEARCH DETECTED]
[Ingredients: Oak Staff / Ritual Knife + 2 Iron + 1 Owl Bone]
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Philips placed his hands over the items. Blue arcane fire erupted, weaving the brittle owl bones into the wood of the staff and the steel of the knives. The blacksmiths gasped; this wasn't just smithing, it was a biological transmutation.
When the light faded, Philips presented the results to the newly anointed Sorcerer-Maesters.
Occult Staff of Bisith: A dark oak staff reinforced with iron and inlaid with bone. It hummed with magical potential, designed to grant the wielder massive mana recovery whenever an enemy fell.
Forbidden Ritual Daggers: Slim, wickedly sharp blades for the sorcerers' off-hands. They were "Very Light," allowing for rapid strikes that bled the target while siphoning mana back to the caster.
The Maesters took the weapons with trembling hands, feeling the "disturbing yet praiseworthy" properties Bisith had intended.
Later that evening, Philips stood in the center of the training yard. He had accumulated a vast amount of Essence Points from the Dreadfort breach, and it was time to invest in more than just steel.
"System," Philips whispered. "Summon Hellhounds."
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[POINTS CONSUMED: 500 Essence]
[SUMMONING: DOMESTICATED HELLHOUNDS (LOYALTY: 100%)]
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Three portals of violet fire opened in the snow. From them stepped creatures that looked like massive wolves, their fur composed of cooled charcoal and their eyes glowing with orange embers. Unlike the wild, rabid beasts that came through the tearings, these hounds sat obediently at Philips's feet, their tails thumping against the frozen ground with a sound like heavy drumbeats.
"Hellhounds?" Ned Stark asked, approaching warily with his hand on the hilt of his Nivlatth blade.
"They aren't wild, Lord Stark," Philips assured him, scratching the largest hound behind its smoldering ears. "These are domesticated. They are faster than horses, can track a rift by scent, and their bites carry the fire of the pit."
Philips looked at the hounds' protruding fangs. "They are also a source of Monster Teeth. If we need to forge the truly legendary gear later—the Bestial Axes or the Torture Cleavers—we'll need these."
Ned watched as the hounds began to play-fight in the snow, their breath turning the air to steam. "You bring monsters to guard our children, Philips."
"I bring protectors," Philips corrected, his gaze turning toward the dark horizon. "In this world, 'monster' is just a word for someone who hasn't picked a side yet."
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[SYSTEM: NEW UNIT UNLOCKED – HELLHOUND SENTRIES]
[REPUTATION (SMALLFOLK): +10 - Fear turning to Awe.]