Alt-Summary: A self-insert into the non-canon son of Lord Willam and Lady Barbrey Dustin, who was born while Willam was away fighting in Robert's Rebellion and dying at the Tower of Joy. Expect uplift and magic, more as we go, hopefully working well in tandem. Takes itself seriously enough. Slow-paced. Lots to do.

Barbrey I
283 AC — Barrowton

Barbrey Dustin stood atop one of the two towers hugging the stone keep of Barrow Hall, facing north and glaring. She cursed Winterfell, Lord Eddard, and every single pile of bones stuffed down in the crypts beneath that fortress.

Held securely in her arms was her son, whose breathing was uneven and frequently raspy. The pregnancy had been trying, the birth a nightmare she tried not to remember, and the boy was born sickly. Half a year had passed with no change. Feeble, with pallid skin of grey. He coughed, and her chest tightened in anxiety each time. He slept fitfully. The decrepit old Maester Kayl tended to him often, but admitted to her that he was unlikely to live past his first winter. As if she was blind.

Sending for him at all had been a last resort, and even with his links of silver, he had been of little help that she could see. Her son suffered.

Yet he didn't cry often. Not as often as she felt the need to.

She had cried. When Willam rode south, when she gave him an heir he wasn't able to meet, and when Stark brought back a red stallion with no rider.

An honorable death, he'd said. Seven men against three Kingsguard. Eight dead.

Nine, with the girl.

The Stark brought back her bones, of course. Starks were always laid to rest beneath Winterfell. It was tradition.

But Willam? He and the others were left in Dorne.

Dorne. The man had gotten five of his 'friends' killed for a lost cause. Then, instead of bringing them home, he buried them on the other side of the continent.

He was contrite, had claimed to understand her disappointment, and regretted not being able to bring them all back home. He said that her lord husband had been a good, loyal man. Furthermore, her son would be welcome to foster at Winterfell once he was of an age.

She had curtsied, and thanked him for the horse.

Feeling tears beginning to well up again, she sighed shakily and tried to draw strength from her son. What little he had.

Looking down at him, she noted with delight that his eyes were open and peering at her.

"Hello, Durin," she said, almost whispering.

He gurgled.

She hummed, then nodded. "Yes, I know. I don't much like the idea either."

If she had her way, her son would never set foot in Winterfell. He would swear his oaths of fealty like a proper vassal when he was old enough, but no more. To say nothing of fostering there.

Or anywhere else.

"You won't mind staying here, will you?" She looked back out over the grassy, windswept plains, the landscape dotted with earthen mounds. "Stark only means to ensure your loyalty, and mine. There is nothing for you there."

There would be no Stark betrothal for the Lord of Barrowton. Even if his Tully wife gave him daughters.

Even if Lord Stark himself offered.

Not while she was regent.

Barbrey sighed, rocking him gently in her arms. "Yes, I am bitter. No, I won't take it out on you by ruining your prospects. You will live, and you will grow up and be a fine match for some nice Manderly girl. I'm almost positive that Lord Reed came home to a daughter, but no… Or perhaps you'll prefer a southron lady? The daughter of a great house?" She said with a laugh. "You're a lord now, my little Durin. Any lordly house this side of the Neck will be wise to seek your hand. The rest will learn soon enough."

He giggled, then broke into a string of coughs that had her clenching her jaw.

Her boy… His skin was so pale.

The coughing fit slowed, then stopped. But his breathing now seemed more labored than before. She forced herself to keep talking, even as she turned and reluctantly made her way back inside to find that damned useless maester.

"That's right! Lord of the Barrowlands… Durin Dustin, Barrow Lord. Very menacing."

He would live. He must.

284 AC

More months passed, and the boy lived.

Or, as the fool maester had put it, he hadn't quite died yet.

Barbrey cursed him and his books, and his hemming and hawing about blood diseases and inadequate midwives. The Ryswells and Dustins were ancient houses, and neither were plagued by these sorts of afflictions in their children. And blaming midwives? The man was truly desperate to foist his failures onto others.

She doubted he would ever run out of excuses.

Earlier on, she made it a point to sit in on his sessions with the boy, demanding the names of his tonics and herbs and pastes, then doing her own digging to make sure he was being honest with her. She sent a raven to the Citadel more than once, but the replies did little to convince her. Maesters were rats. She would never put it past one to poison her son.

But… Durin was alive.

Alive and awake, with black hair and very light blue eyes… And skin the color of ash. Constant discomfort. A smile that was regularly interrupted by a stab of pain from some symptom or other. He seemed active enough, and Maester Kayl noted with a frown and some confusion that the pain didn't seem to deter him from moving the way he expected.

She took a deep breath and prayed for strength.

As best she could tell the old maester was honest, if not at all effective.

Having no maester at all felt like too big a risk at this stage, and a replacement would be worse yet. Just the thought of some stranger going through the process of poking and prodding at her son again, just to come to the same conclusions… She seethed. They were dullards and pondscum, the lot of them. Kayl was nearly useless, but at least his incompetence was familiar to her.

Her son continued to fight.

Standing vigil by his bedside would not cure him, loathe as she was to accept it. The seeming futility of it all was driving her mad.

And she was regent.

So she tried to busy herself with the rule of her son's land.

Even with the stress of Durin's condition, she mostly kept ahead of the pleas and plights of the smallfolk. The taxes were collected and sent north along the kingsroad to Winterfell. A new granary in Draymalt. Outriders sent to patrol the woods near the kingsroad and Heapsdown.

Fishing villages along the Saltspear had warned of raiders pecking at the heels of their boats and stalking along the shores. 'Unaffiliated', no doubt. Certainly, the Ironborn would never do such a thing. A few temporary watch towers were built on Lord Stout's suggestion, and riders were mustered at several more prominent villages, but it was small comfort. The man had been Willam's friend, and she valued his counsel… But confined to bed and missing a hand, she doubted she would get much more for the time being.

The levies all returning home soon returned a sense of normalcy to things, despite some hiccups. With winter creeping up on them and coming out of a war, a few too many newly blooded boys came home to empty larders. She ended up sentencing one kinslayer to death, one poacher to losing a hand, and four other miscreants sent north to take the black.

Durin's kinsman and her castellan, Torrhen Dustin, handled the execution.

If her late husband's family was surprised to see her taking a hand in things, they did a fair enough job hiding it. She knew that several among them had been expecting to inherit Willam's seat when her son inevitably succumbed to his afflictions. Perhaps they'd have also preferred a blood Dustin as regent, instead of a Ryswell woman. From her own skulking, she knew that the best claims after Durin belonged to the two sons of Willam's brother Jorah, who died on the Trident. She knew better than to expect treachery but loathed the lot of them enough to almost wish they'd try anyway.

They could all rot. Her son would be a better Lord than any of them could dream to be.

The law didn't care if her son was likely to die, and Lord Stark hadn't sent a raven her way since delivering his awkward condolences in person.

Damn him, and his guilty conscience.

But she would accept the security his silence lent her and her son.

As she hoped and despite her smothered fears, Durin soldiered on. It infuriated her that his maladies still plagued him nearly two years after his birth, but she had heard more than enough blubbering excuses from Kayl to dash her hopes of any timely recovery. He wouldn't grow into the tall and sturdy man his father had been. That he grew at all must be enough.

Barbrey stood in the doorway of her chambers, hand resting on the frame, and she wondered if Durin didn't share her outrage.

None would blame him.

He sat at the foot of her bed, clenching and unclenching his tiny fists and scowling at the floor. He had fallen from his unsteady feet just seconds ago. It looked like he was mumbling something. He often did, though he was strangely shy about speaking up in the babbling language of children she had been expecting, or speaking up at all. A taciturn lad. When he did speak, it was usually to ask very sensible questions.

What was her name? Was his name Durin? Where were they? How old was he? Who was the king? When had Robert been crowned? What were the Ironborn up to?

And others of the like.

Barbrey did find his questions slightly… Odd. They seemed too sensible. For a babe, that is. Even ignoring his condition, Durin was not at all the constant headache she had dreaded, and often heard mothers complain of. Her sister's son, Domeric, was more in line with what she'd expected. All snot, screams, and flailing limbs. Though both Bethany and Lord Bolton still seemed quite taken with the child. She could admit a certain fondness for her nephew… But only out of Bethany's earshot, lest her smug grin threaten to tear her face in half.

Perhaps it was only natural. Durin wasn't just any child. He was hers. It should hardly come as a surprise that he was exceptional.

Still. It took more than a little getting used to.

She smiled slightly as Durin, face scrunched up in concentration, grabbed onto the bedpost and once again began climbing to his feet.

The smile quickly faded.

His look of concentration was at odds with his trembling, the moisture in the corners of his eyes, and the way he clenched his jaw. He glanced her way and offered a strained smile.

Taking a few tentative steps towards him, she lowered herself to her knees.

"You can do this, Durin," she said softly, her gaze intent.

He nodded, too focused on his efforts to respond.

Finally making it back to his feet, he breathed out slowly. She held her breath. This was the point he struggled with. Standing was one thing, but she was sure that each step he attempted sent jolts of pain up his legs that quickly brought him back down.

As if reading her thoughts, her son looked up and narrowed his icy blue eyes at her.

"I can," he insisted.

She gestured, beckoning him towards her.

Looking down at the floor in front of him, he took a lurching step forward. Almost daring his leg to collapse on him again.

She could hear the hiss of pain, which she half-mirrored in sympathy.

Before he could start wobbling in place, he took another step. His face was screwed up in concentration and pain. He shook his head roughly, blinking. Keeping his eyes on the floor, his arms moved about in front of him to compensate for his unsteady gait.

And so it went.

Another step, another round of mumbled curses and attempts to stave off failure. Halfway across the room he reached down to lightly rub at his upper legs, letting out a shaky sigh.

Only when he was in front of her, certain that he was in no danger of falling, did he look up with a grin.

He reached out his arms to her, and she quickly leaned forward to embrace him.

Barbrey exhaled slowly, somehow feeling more worn out than her son. Taking him up in her arms, she stood and went to sit on her bed. He sat in her lap, practically limp as she held him and ran her fingers through his hair.

"It hurts," he said, voice muffled against the soft wool of her dress.

"I know it does… But I'm so proud of you, Durin."

It wasn't fair to him. But she knew this wouldn't be the end of it. He would have to keep going. Fight past the pain of it. Walk. Run. Ride. Fight. Lead. He must. She knew that.

"Gotta do more…"

But it broke her heart to hear that he knew it as well.

Closing her eyes, Barbrey spoke quietly to him. "You can take your time, sweet child. None will blame you for waiting." Lies. Many already whispered about the weak child who would rule in the Barrowlands. But he needed to hear it. Pulling him away so she could look into his eyes, her voice hardened. "You are the Barrowlands. You are House Dustin. Yours is the blood of the First King. None but Lord Stark and King Robert can ask for more than you will."

And perhaps it will not always be so, she left unsaid. He was too young to understand. Already she was mocking herself in her mind for being so serious with him. A child, not even two years old. His many questions and quiet demeanor sometimes distracted her from his age, but that he was uniquely gifted was obvious to anyone with working eyes and ears.

Durin nodded seriously. "I'm Barrow'ord," he said, wriggling himself out of her arms and back down to the soft rug on the floor. "Barrow Lord. Luh. Luh. Lord. Gotta do more."

"More walking?" Barbrey asked, amused despite it all.

"Lots and lots… Better food, tools, weapons, buildings, boats. Talking." He threw his hands into the air with a look of exasperation. "More everything!"

She almost laughed.

There, Willam. See your son? So young, and already overwhelmed by his ambitions. So much like you. Your plans to revitalize the disparate villages on the coast, refurnish that dingy tomb beneath the Great Barrow, and rebuild the walls of Barrow Hall a hundred feet high in pure stone. If only you had lived to see your own ambitions through, instead of dying far from home to help rescue a corpse.

At the thought of it, she sobered.

Everyone already expected Durin to be dead come his first real winter.

She knew better… She did.

But she feared worse.

Watching him steel himself for his next steps, Barbrey made a promise to herself and the old gods.

She had never planned on spoiling any of her children, but that idealism had been worn down enough that she felt little in the way of guilt for taking it back. Mostly. Whatever ambitions her son had, his hopes and dreams— any of it. Whatever was within her means, that she could see accomplished as his regent without tainting his reign, she would see it done. If he died before his time, as many suspected he would, she would see the work continue. But gods be good, he would outlive her by many years.

A shortsighted vow, no doubt.

It made her feel a bit better… Perhaps that was the true purpose of it.

However, it was no promise she would make lightly. The following morning, she would stain the face of their heart tree with her blood and swear on it. Such was her determination.

Her son deserved nothing less than that.

Durin once again started forward, with more steps that left him shaking and clenching his fists. He was muttering. "Books… Get smart people, pay 'em t'figure big stuff out… Wite—write what I remem—" More rambling, mostly nonsense, about his many great plans. Truly his imagination was beyond other children.

"You'll pursue it all, won't you?" Barbrey asked, thinking out loud. He looked back, a confused look on his face. Realizing she had spoken, she went on with some hesitance. "Even if it hurts you to do it?"

Because she could see that it did. Anyone could.

After a short pause, Durin shrugged. Then he turned back to glare at the floor as he struggled on.

"Hurts anyway."

Durin I
285 AC

Durin found mastering his new body to be much more difficult than he'd expected. Even now, 'mastering' was being generous. He could reliably walk and talk, but neither was very enjoyable. Walking hurt. Talking too much was dangerous, and sometimes also hurt. Then there was eating, drinking, showing his face, and being burned as a witch or something.

It was just— everything was dangerous, now.

One of the first things he did, once he had the presence of mind to think about it, was to find his reflection in a copper mirror. His voice was weak and raspy, and frequently interrupted by fits of coughing. But his face?

Well…

It matched, suffice it to say.

He tried not to cry from the unfairness of it all.

It was a near thing.

He felt like shit all the time, he looked like a Londor hollow from the third Dark Souls game, and he would probably die of dysentery, pox, or something stupid like greyscale. Worst of all he might live on in misery just long enough to get turned into an actual undead, burned by dragonfire, or flayed by Boltons. Fuck it, why not all three?

Durin wasn't ashamed to admit that he had a history of depression and went through periods of intense melancholy. Dying and being reborn into Westeros would be difficult for him even under the best possible circumstances, and these circumstances were far from the best.

He made an attempt to pull himself away from those thoughts. It could be worse, right?

Probably.

He was upper-tier nobility, which was good. A sickly kid like him being born to smallfolk would have been a real short reincarnation. He was even a lord. Still under regency, but his mother seemed loving and responsible… So that was good and fine.

His Westeros knowledge wasn't as in-depth as he'd have liked, given the circumstances, but he was pretty sure he knew what the Barrowlands looked like from his time playing the Game of Thrones mod in Crusader Kings. If that held true, then he would be ruling over a pretty decent chunk of land.

Granted, this was the North. Even the small bits were big.

The North wouldn't have been his first choice. Or his second. The only place in Westeros he wouldn't pick over the North would be like— maybe the Iron Islands. Not that he had anything against the Starks or the northmen. They were probably okay. He liked the Starks in the show and lore for the most part. Brandon Stark seemed annoying, but he was already dead.

Really, it wasn't the North so much as it was the timeline fucking him over here.

By his reckoning, he had four years until Balon Greyjoy crowned himself King of the Iron Islands and burninated Lannisport, and thirteen until Jon Arryn died and the King marched north to annoy Eddard Stark into ultimately getting himself killed.

Then the big war and the white walker stuff.

Durin Dustin would be about sixteen when the War of Five Kings started. Assuming he lived, he would be eighteen when whatever was supposed to happen with the white walkers went down in 300 AC. Would Jon Snow kill the Night King? Arya with the embarrassing yell and knife trick? Was there a Night King? Would Bran the gods-damned Broken end up King of the Seven Kingdoms? Did Jeyne Poole exist?

All equally important questions.

Far less important, but still concerning, was why he was alive and in Westeros at all instead of being dead. But the existentialism of the question was swiftly outweighed by his dread of all things to follow.

Granted, thirteen years until the big plot started wasn't nothing.

Was it better than being reborn as a Dance-era Targaryen? Maybe not, but that still depended on how much time he had. Thirteen years may not be nothing, but it wasn't much for a kid. Not enough. Then again; he was pretty sure that, even if he had started barking orders as soon as his tongue could form the words, there was never going to be enough time.

Assuming anyone even listened.

It was a pretty grim situation. Odds were good he would be dead before he hit twenty, even ignoring the chronic pains and confounding symptoms of whatever disease Maester Kayl decided to try and cure him of on a given day.

So then, why do anything?

Oh, boy. There he goes again, getting all depressed.

But seriously. Beyond reintroducing a few creature comforts from his old life, like sandwiches, what could he possibly hope to 'invent' in thirteen years to save himself from the bullshit to follow? Crop rotations, seed drills, concrete, and gunpowder? None of those things were going to save the world. What else? Double-entry bookkeeping?!

Hells, he didn't even like doing his own taxes!

So what could he change? Warn someone about the Lannister incest? Stop Robert's death? Help Daenerys onto the throne? Save the Starks from getting themselves killed? Kill Varys, Baelish, Cersei, or all three? Run away and never return? Running was the only thing that sounded possible, and appealing, but even that carried its own set of concerns for him.

Concerns like; did he even want to survive the war and the long night?

He was already miserable, and nothing had even happened yet. Was a second life spent in this body even worth going out of his way to preserve, let alone fight for?

Maybe not.

It was funny to think back on his first few months here. Figuring out where he was, and when he was. He had been optimistic. Excited, even. Barely able to contain his eagerness to start changing as much as possible, as soon as possible. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like that. Even if it was only for a time, the novelty of it all had finally broken through the stupor of apathy and self-loathing he had entombed himself in for so long.

But like all his joys, it was fleeting.

Durin was pretty listless for a while after that. Coasting and moping.

Call it what you will.

He just about stopped trying. Almost, but not completely. Sitting— or lying around in inaction was just too much for his self-loathing to stomach. There were still things he felt obligated to do, if only to make his brief time on Planetos a bit easier and his act as a lordling a bit more believable.

Starting more advanced lessons with Maester Kayl was as easy as asking. Not the old man, but his mother. She denied him nothing. He wasn't overwhelmed with gifts, sweets, and foreign heirlooms. But when he asked for things she rarely denied him. It would gnaw at him, but he knew they were fairly well off for a northern house. Were he spectating her parenting from a distance he might be tempted to say she was spoiling him, but living life as her son made him eternally grateful for it anyway.

Barbrey was worried about him, he knew. Yes she worried about him finding mischief as a small child, and about his perpetually undiagnosed sickness. But also about his growing lack of passion for… Well, anything. Guess that was hard to miss.

Her concern was enough to guilt him into trying to appear happy when she was around, for her sake.

But only then.

The lessons with Maester Kayl were rarely anything interesting, but the real purpose was to pass the hours. It was more time spent reading than being taught since the old man spoke at a glacially slow pace, often going on unrelated tangents about his youth of long ago and chuckling to himself, and he liked to consult his notes for long stretches.

His lady mother claimed she'd summoned a maester from the Citadel with very specific demands. A man who knew healing. She cared not for his other skills. Maester Kayl possessed silver links in his chain, and precious few others. He had the usual black iron and bronze links, for ravenry and astronomy, and then a few lead ones Durin couldn't remember the purpose of. He'd asked, but Kayl had only hummed merrily and changed the subject. A single copper link for history. No gold for sums or valyrian steel for magic. That last one was the only one Durin would have actually liked to learn about.

Being in his mid-sixties, the man seemed weirdly unqualified.

Kayl's books were nearly as dull as the man himself. Durin was tempted to skim and get through them as quickly as possible, but books were expensive things in this time. And he was bored. So he savored them as best he could. They were dull without exception and his eyes would slowly drift over the script of the page, line by line, then back to the top to read again. Perhaps several times per page. Each loop would further hammer the contents into his mind. Like a nail. Or a railroad spike.

He couldn't spend all of his time with Maester Kayl, though.

He wouldn't, rather.

The schooling sessions spent in the library of Barrow Hall, which was more of a study, combined with the long sessions of treatment for whichever of his aches or pains were currently most annoying. It meant far too much time in his company.

He spent some time with his mother, obviously.

Not only because she insisted, but because her work was far more interesting. Not merely running the keep, but the Barrowlands in their entirety. Holding court to hear the pleas of the commons, dealing with irritating vassals, and ruling her lands with a pretty balanced mix of carrot and stick.

Oh, right. His lands.

He felt strange at the thought of being a lord and landowner by virtue of a birthright that stretched back thousands of years. Strange and wrong. It was one thing to read stories about noble kings and champions saving the kingdom and defeating the great threat— King Elessar he was not. It was something else to be thrown into the great machine of feudalism and asked to lead from near the top.

Worse yet, he really didn't like his people. They sucked. Always crying and complaining.

Not literally.

Northerners were too stoic for that. But they scowled and mumbled more than enough to compensate.

Don't get him wrong; he knew that life for the typical medieval peasant wasn't good. Probably worse here in Westeros. Bad hygiene, bad health, and a lack of personal freedoms he had taken for granted.

But did they have to keep crying about it all the time? His mother was constantly on the move, but it never seemed to be enough for them. Whenever he was present for the hearings or he accompanied his mother to the various townships and villages in his domain, it was all the same. Not enough food. Not enough guards. Not enough roads. The well's run dry. The goat's run off. That man slept with his wife. This woman's children weren't visiting often enough.

Whine, whine, whine. Complain, complain, complain.

No, the irony was not lost on him.

Yes, that's part of why it annoyed him.

It felt like retail.

It wasn't like retail. Not at all. But it felt like it, sometimes.

Just as he couldn't study with the old man at all hours, he couldn't constantly tag along with his mother. Nor did he want to. Just watching was exhausting and annoying, however interesting it could be. His mother had the patience of a saint, and Durin was determined to let her keep doing her thing as regent for as long as possible.

He found other things to occupy his time with.

There was the town arrayed beside his keep, Barrowton, but he seldom ventured there. Not that he was forbidden. As long as he had an escort and one family member he could explore as he pleased. Another thing asked and granted from his mother, easy as.

But he still didn't go out much.

Too many curious, pitying, and judging eyes that didn't match their toadying words and postures.

No, he didn't have the patience to explore there yet.

He spent a great deal of time hiding in the less active parts of Barrow Hall, writing.

Not for the good of mankind or anything. He was good and miserable and not about to try and convince his schmuck subjects to piece together an industrial revolution based on his memories of a life that was all too quickly beginning to fade from his memory.

But that was exactly it.

He was forgetting.

Without being totally immersed in 24/7 news, social media, video essays, video games, music, movies, books, and the ability to look up whatever he wanted whenever he wanted… He was forgetting Earth. Not everything. He was sure a good deal of it would remain for as long as he lasted in Westeros. Loved ones, and the things that made up the most of his life there.

The rest?

It… It made him sick. The thought of losing parts of home. More sick.

What had finally sparked his efforts to record as much of it as possible?

Song lyrics.

He had been singing the words to a song he used to like a lot. Paramore's 'Hard Times'— yes, yes. Very dramatic. What a crybaby. Point being; he'd reached a point in the song and realized he couldn't remember a bit of it, what he was sure was no more than ten words or so.

Surprisingly, that realization had brought him to tears.

He wasn't completely sure why.

It wasn't like this was the first time he had mourned his old life.

Though maybe this was a different grief… The simple thought of never again being able to know beyond doubt what those lyrics were. The accumulated works and experiences of mankind, all accessible from a phone or computer. All gone. Would he forget entire songs? Books, movies, and shows?

Yes. Of course he would. It was inevitable, because he could never experience them again.

That was what prompted him to finally start writing what he remembered. As much as he could. Useful and— much more often, not useful. He made some effort to prioritize the former, but he wrote all he could. There was a lot. He organized and kept it secret as best he was able, despite the questions people might have about a three-year-old constantly using up parchment and ink. Even at three, Lordship had its perks.

It was dumb and sappy, but the project brought him some measure of comfort.

During one of these private writing sessions, while Durin was doing his best to synopsize the Lord of the Rings— he wasn't mad enough to even try recreating that travelogue word for word, his ears perked up at the sound of chatting voices from down and around the corridor. He was currently situated in the main keep, not either of the two towers adorning it, and since it was where servants and guests were housed some foot traffic was to be expected.

He frowned, looking over at the corner and then back down at his notes.

Already?

Finding quiet parts of the keep to take refuge in was tough.

The big tower was the most private. Being the living quarters of himself and his mother, with Torrhen Dustin in the middle, and Durin's uncle Jon taking up the ground floor with his wife Alys and their two children. Barbrey who was six, and Denys who was three. They were decent company, the little snots. Too intimidated by his appearance to make fun, and easily appeased by stories and songs. He'd heard his uncle grumbling once or twice about Durin, likely about the lordship, so he suspected his mother might send them packing to some minor manor and holding soon. Shame, that.

He did spend a lot of time in that tower, but by that same token it was getting stale.

The little tower was also very private. But since that was the maester's tower Durin was loath to spend more time writing in there than absolutely necessary.

More talking, followed by a muffled laugh and a shushing noise.

He rolled his eyes and sighed.

What a bother.

But he did start picking up his things and gently cramming them into the small satchel he carried around.

Once he was packed, he rose and tried to affect an air of nonchalance as he walked towards the corner— a task made more difficult by the wince he suppressed with every few steps as pinpricks ran up and down his legs. Still, he had to go this way. Behind was only a dead end and a backway into the kitchens he was pretty sure was completely blocked off on the other side with sacks and crates. Obvious fire hazard, but it had left this specific corridor pretty deserted.

Reaching the corner, he slowed to a stop and tilted his head.

"—even know how to help him yet?"

"Not a whit. Doubtless the old fool's forgotten what he came for."

A snort, and the sound of wood scraping against wood.

"Brynna, you mustn't—"

"Why? You've ears, haven't you? Lady Dustin says worse before even breaking her fast!"

Hmm.

Brynna… She worked in the kitchens with her mother, and she was good friends with… The other one. What was her name? Ashy blond hair and the birthmark next to her nose. The short laundress. Dusa? That sounded right, maybe.

Dusa sighed, sounding sad. "Gods. Can you imagine it? I could never be so strong as her."

"She's made of steel, alright. Makes you wonder about the boy."

Durin was starting to think this was about him.

Gossip about him was hardly in short supply, but usually he didn't have the misfortune of being around to hear it. Still, he could admit to some curiosity.

He inched forward, peaking ever so slightly around the corner, just in time to see Dusa slap at Brynna's shoulder. "Stop that. You shouldn't be so careless," she said, shooting a quick glance around them that Durin handily dodged. "Nothing wrong with the little lord… He's a nice, quiet boy. Never heard of a child so well-behaved, and neither have you."

"Ouch," Brynna said blandly, still idly scraping the bottom of her soup bowl with her spoon. She reached to scratch at the spot she'd just been hit, then nodded. "You're right, of course. Good lad. Nothing wrong with him at all."

"Yes."

They fell into a brief silence. Durin raised a hand to his face and breathed very slowly, trying to stifle the sneeze he felt starting to build. The corners of Brynna's mouth started to twitch up and Dusa narrowed her eyes at her.

"That is… Nothing aside from— the curse."

Briefly holding his nose, the feeling didn't dissipate. He let go and almost forgot to keep eavesdropping, distracted as he was.

Dusa scowled at her friend but didn't reply.

"What, you don't believe it?" Brynna asked, her innocent tone at odds with her grin.

"Of course not."

She feigned a gasp. "Dusa. I must say, I'd thought better of you. Doubting the history of our lord's house? His very legacy?"

"No, but you—"

An equal parts wretched and satisfying sneeze tore through him, drowning out any conversation with the sound as he half fell to the floor. He caught himself, but his vision was a little star-studded for his liking. Maybe the force of the explosion had ruptured his eardrums or something, but Durin didn't hear the rest of what they said.

Gingerly touching his nostrils, his index finger came away with blood on it.

He groaned.

Not again.

Honestly, it felt like his mucus membrane could be torn by a stiff breeze sometimes.

Pinching his nose shut, he emerged from the corner.

The two girls froze, in the middle of embracing or shoving each other, looking at him with wide eyes.

This was sort of awkward.

"Very sorry for the interruption, and for startling you," he said, grimacing at the nasally sound of his own apology. Disgusting. He waved his non-nose hand around vaguely. "Dust."

That seemed to nudge them into life again, though the tension remained.

Dusa leapt to her feet, dragging Brynna with her, and they both dipped into a curtsey. "Oh, I— Of course not, m'lord. It's nothing at all. We were just— I'm not expected back until later… And B-Brynna's eating, and we were just chatting, not…"

"Just chattin', yes." Brynna nodded, sounding a little more abashed and trading a concerned look with Dusa before looking at the floor. She wrung her hands a bit, then looked back up at him— it wasn't far, he was a child. "Uhh… Are you lost, m'lord? I'm sure Dusa could walk you back."

Durin huffed. He was a child, not an idiot.

"No, but thank you," he said, walking up and glancing between the two of them. Seeing as Brynna was both more talkative and more guilty looking, he looked up at her. "Is there really a curse?"

He went for wide-eyed childish curiosity.

The look clashed with his pinched nose and grey skin, but he worked with what he had.

The girl opened her mouth, glared at Dusa when she noisily cleared her throat and nudged her, then seemed to bite her tongue. "Well, I— it's just a story is all, m'lord. Nothin' serious. Snarks, grumpkins, white walkers, and curses. Stories."

Well, that was both eerie and unhelpful.

"Oh," he said, not having to feign disappointment. "Can you tell me the story?"

Swatting away another nudge from Dusa, she offered an apologetic smile. "I would, m'lord, but my mother's expecting me back. Perhaps some other time?"

Damn.

He was half-tempted to pull rank and order her, but no. It wasn't vital information or anything, and he tried to always respect the staff. Cashiers, waiters, and baristas. Cooks, chamberlains, and scullery maids.

"Next time," he repeated, doubting it either way.

She nodded hesitantly. "Uhh— yes, next time."

Durin snickered as Brynna dodged away from a third nudge, more of a shove, and darted back into the kitchens.

"I'm so sorry about her, she's so—" Dusa groaned, looking back over at him with a look of fond exasperation. "She's always like that… Are you sure you wouldn't like me to walk you back? It's no trouble at all, m'lord."

He waved off her concern, adjusting his satchel and taking a few steps down the hall.

"Thank you, Dusa. But I'll manage." He tilted his head at her. "Unless you could tell me about the curse?"

Biting her lip for a second, she shook her head. "Afraid I don't know it nearly so well as Brynna… Would make for a poor tale. And it's not something for children— but don't worry!" She added quickly, noticing his small frown. "Brynna's a great storyteller, and she'll get around to it, probably. Just you wait… M'lord."

Worth a try.

Adjusting his grip on his nose, he hummed. "Has to do with the history of my house, right? Would other Dustins know about it?"

"I… I couldn't say. Maybe the lord castellan?" She looked a little helpless.

Probably best to cut it there, then.

Thanking the girl a final time, Durin resolved to bug Torrhen about this curse business the next time he saw the man. In the meantime, he renewed his search for a place to hide and write in peace. Again. Maybe this time with a better view, and less dust.

His quest, never ending.

By the end of the week, the encounter with the two girls had nearly escaped his mind, despite his initial burst of curiosity. It wasn't his fault. His castellan kinsman was often out and about in Barrowton. Torrhen ran the castle to his mothers liking, but he had also taken on a good deal of administrative duties in the local township for when Lady Dustin was away for more than a day or two. Mostly resolving disputes and dealing with uppity smallfolk. Typical.

But despite that, an opportunity did eventually present itself.

It was a cold, foggy morning. He was breaking his fast in the great hall, idly picking at the small pieces of goat meat in his lentil soup. Light food for a bad stomach. Only made sense. That didn't stop him from glaring at the bowl, as if his condition was the fault of boring food, however tasty.

The thought of his condition jogged his memory about the curse thing.

Looking up and across the table— he was sitting on a high stool and it wasn't demeaning at all, he squinted his eyes at Torrhen Dustin, who was resting his forehead against his palm and nursing an ale while he stared into space.

This seemed like as good a time as any.

"Hey, Grunkle Torrhen?"

The man jerked into life, blinking around before meeting Durin's eyes with a look of confusion. "I've told you, I'm not your… Wait, what's—"

Durin cursed his slip of the tongue and forged ahead with just the right amount of bluntness to throw him off his trail. "Do you know if there's some kind of curse on our house, by chance?"

A choking sound from his mother let him know that this was not, in fact, a good time.

Something Lady Dustin proceeded to make more than clear by very obviously discouraging Torrhen from speaking of it, with glares and pointed words. She also tried to discourage Durin from asking about it since 'it wasn't a tale fit for children' and it was all nonsense anyway and he should really be focussing more on his studies, and also she hoped his writing practice was going well. She was hearing good things about his handwriting and was proud of his dedication. Furthermore, as winter was almost upon them it was poor timing, but come springtime it would be good to travel to her family home in The Rills so Durin could meet his grandfather.

'If he was strong enough' went unsaid, but he heard it anyway.

It was a nice enough idea, lacking the hostility of her words to Torrhen while maintaining the utter lack of subtlety.

Not much for skullduggery, his mother.

Still, the thought of visiting his grandfather lingered with him throughout the day. He knew his mother's people had a long equestrian heritage, famed for their herds throughout the North. It'd be cool to get a look at their cavalry. By that same token, he looked forward to one day seeing Winterfell— despite his mother's hangups, the Wall, White Harbor, and maybe he could even find an excuse to see Greywater Watch. Then there were all the famous castles and monuments to the south, and in Essos. No shortage of jaw-dropping sights…

If he was strong enough to travel.

That was the rub.

The ever-present thorn in his side, both literally and figuratively.

At no time was Durin ever fully at ease, or in comfort. He hadn't made his peace with the fact, obviously. But sometimes he was fine. Then came times like these where someone like his mother, quite by accident, rubbed salt in the ever-open wound of his chronic pains and general frailty by trying to be optimistic about things.

It put him in a bit of a mood, if you couldn't tell.

By the time his afternoon lessons with Maester Kayl rolled around he was in no mood for the old man's nonsense and his shit taste in books. He knew it was his own fault that he had to spend so much time with the man. What a prodigy he was, that little lord. So smart. He can even read on his own. At his age? Wow. Durin let Kayl's drivel roll over him without absorbing a word and did likewise with the pages in front of him. He stared at the wall and brooded, as was his wont.

A delicate cough from the old man broke through his musings.

"I say… Are you quite alright, Lord Durin? You seem— forgive me for saying so, a little out of sorts."

Durin scrunched his face up at the man.

"I'm fine," he lied.

It was clearly not a very convincing lie, as the man just hummed and shut his own book. A man of five and sixty, Kayl looked every second of that number. From the deep wrinkles and faded pox scars, to his balding head that he covered with an ill-advised combover of his remaining grey hair. He looked more tired than usual, which was saying something.

"We both know that isn't true, my lord," Kayl said softly, meeting his eyes.

Durin snorted but looked away.

"And whose fault is that?"

That probably wasn't very fair. But sue him, he was moody. To his credit, the maester took it in stride without getting all defensive.

"Would that I had discovered the cure to your ailments the night I arrived," he said. Sitting up in his chair and rolling his shoulders back, he sighed as something in his back popped. "Seven bless her… Whatever your lady mother thinks of my person, she knows that I do all I can to ease your pain. I hope you know that as well."

Not responding immediately, Durin snapped his book shut and shoved it up onto the table. He slouched a little and crossed his arms. "I know it. I'm not better… Might never be. But you do good work, so thanks."

Kayl shook his head. "You mustn't let those thoughts defeat you, my lord. The answers will come. We simply haven't found the right questions."

What a copout answer.

That said, it did bring to mind his failed attempt to gather information from Torrhen that morning. Might be the old man knew something? Unlikely. Maesters were science boys, lack of germ theory aside. They knew about magic but didn't like it. They might have had a hand in messing with the dragons, or they just got lucky and the lizards died out for no reason. Them and the faith of the seven. Bunch of weirdos.

Still, it couldn't hurt to ask.

"Do you…" Durin trailed off, suddenly doubting himself. He coughed awkwardly. That cough turned into a real string of coughs that he cursed himself for tempting. Fuck it. "Is it possible that the cause is, well… Unnatural?"

Maester Kayl leaned back in his seat, frowning. "Poison? I assure you, I've—"

"No," he said, cutting him off. "I mean magic. A curse."

There, he said it.

"Ah… I see." The old man didn't continue. He stared at something behind Durin, still frowning.

"It's just— I heard people speaking about one. A curse, that is. Something about it being part of my family history? Thought I'd ask…" Durin trailed off, fidgeting in the silence he was trying to fill. "Not something I believe, of course. Snarks and grumkins, it's all—"

"Possible," the old man said, scratching at his jaw.

Durin blinked owlishly. "Sorry?"

Coming back to himself with a start, Kayl finally looked at him again. "Not the snarks and grumkins, of course. Tripe and nonsense. But a curse?" He stopped, then tilted his head. "Possible is too strong a word… Technically possible, however improbable."

That… He wasn't sure he liked that answer.

"What? But you…"

Kayl raised his eyebrows. "Were you hoping for a clearer answer? My apologies, if so."

"No, I just… You're a Maester."

"Oh, right. It's an uncommon study, to be sure. The higher mysteries of magic and witchcraft was a fascination of mine. Sadly I was not judged worthy of the link before my departure from the Citadel, despite several attempts." He grabbed at the chain around his neck and held one of his links of lead. "The lead was merely to fill time, so as not to appear totally obsessed with magic. More a hindrance than a help, I suspect."

He squinted at the link. "What's it for?"

"Lead is for alchemy," Kayl said, looking at his chain with slight distaste. "In retrospect, I'd have picked gold. Much more work for it… Alas, the folly of youth."

"Right… Wait, when did you get the lead ones?"

He hummed merrily and tucked his chain away. "That's not important right now. You asked about a curse… One tied to your family history?"

Durin rolled his eyes. "Yes. I don't know more than that, though."

"Not to worry, there's only one I've heard of."

"Just one curse? You'd think there were loads of 'em."

He chuckled at that. "Only one tied to the history of your house, I meant. Very old folklore… Give me a moment." Closing his eyes, Kayl alternated between humming and muttering to himself for several minutes. He tapped his fingers on the wooden table beside him in the rhythm of some song Durin couldn't recognize. "I believe— Yes. Something relating to a king of the first men. No. The First King."

Durin wanted to interrupt, but he bit his tongue.

"Yes, yes… House Dustin claims direct lineage to him. I'm aware. That would be the connection you heard of." Maester Kayl opened his eyes and seemed to see Durin for the first time. He frowned, then looked away from him. "I can see how the gossip started. But you may rest easy, my lord. Your ailment is of the natural world."

Wait, what?

Durin abruptly stood up, raising his hands in exasperation. "That's it? What's the curse? How can you be so sure it doesn't apply? Isn't the castle we're living in built on the grave of the First King?"

"It's a barrow, my lord… And it's just as likely the resting place of one of your other royal ancestors. The curse—" He broke off with a sigh. "It's folklore. The original meaning likely lost across translation from the old tongue, and across thousands of years of storytelling. That it is inaccurate is a given. But even ignoring those things, your sickness does not fit the description."

Bullshit.

He was being too evasive for it to be nothing.

Durin crossed his arms and scowled, thinking intimidating thoughts but knowing he just looked bratty. "So say it. If it doesn't fit, then there's no harm in describing it."

"There is potential for harm."

"It's fine. There's no curse, magic is dead and gone, and I don't fit the description anyway. Just say it," he said, just managing not to sound whiny. Tougher than you'd think with such a young voice.

It didn't seem to help. Maester Kayl folded his arms under his billowing grey robes and looked to his side, out the window, avoiding Durin's narrowed eyes. "I'd best not. My apologies for getting you worried over nothing, my lord. I think it best if we conclude our lessons for the day."

He ground his teeth together.

Shouldn't he know? Why was this such a big deal? Why was everyone being so fucking cagey about this curse? Were they afraid of hurting his feelings? Had he accidentally cultivated a reputation as a crybaby who hyper-fixates on every perceived flaw in himself?

Durin took a slow, deep breath, and briefly tried to put himself into the shoes of the old man. Here was a child, not even four years old, demanding to know if he's been cursed to a terrible form of life by ancient magic. A terrible thing to encourage. The old man was probably just trying to be nice.

But he needed it.

"Tell me," he said slowly, working himself up to it. "Or I'll tell my mother you told me about it."

Kayl stiffened, turning back to frown at him.

It was dirty, he knew that.

Underhanded. An abuse of authority, even. Not a great feeling. Felt bad, really. But the shame of it was drowned out by his frustration.

After a tense silence, the maester exhaled slowly through his nose and then nodded. "Very well… I'll tell what I remember."

"Good."

"Of course, I'd like it if this were kept between us… And I would advise you not to dwell on this too much, my lord, but instead to focus on your road to recovery," Kayl said, giving him another fucking pitying look. "You're a terribly smart boy, but this won't help you. It isn't healthy."

Durin snorted. "Add it to the list, then. Tell me."

He did.

'The curse weakens and renders corpselike any living man of the bloodline who seeks to rival the First King.'

The words echoed in Durin's mind across the next few days. Bouncing around, twisting and rearranging themselves in a myriad of ways as he attempted to make sense of them. To make them fit. Maybe he was a little fixated on it, sue him. He looked on all whispers of magic with suspicion. Not because he was superstitious, but because he knew for a fact that magic was on its way back into the world. Slowly, but surely.

So who was to say that the curse was just words?

Granted, Maester Kayl hadn't been dishonest. Just evasive. The version of the curse he remembered, which he claimed was by and large the one spoken of by the people, didn't entirely apply to Durin.

Certainly the symptoms did, vague as they were.

But the condition?

'Seek to surpass the First King.' As if.

That was the absolute last thing he wanted to do.

It made no sense… But that was because he was treating it like the wording was accurate, something which was still very much in doubt.

Some of the wind left his sails at that thought.

But not all of it.

Durin had apologized to the man afterwards, and he was true to his word. No repeating a word of his exchange to anyone. Especially his mother. Nor did he seek out the two servant girls. He felt bad enough already. Best not to risk anyone getting in trouble on account of his obse— curiosity.

Just a little harmless curiosity.

That's all.

But aside from the Citadel, or maybe Bloodraven, there was only one place he might find answers.

If the answers existed at all.

It was the dead of night, with the moon hidden by clouds, and Durin was hugging the edge of the broken and very narrow road that kind of zig-zagged along the inner face of the Great Barrow and down to the base of it. More of a trail. The better entrances into the keep were a steep stone ramp descending towards Barrowton, and the wooden walls that wrapped around the barrow and split in the middle to meet the keep on either side.

This wasn't a proper entrance, not really.

At least those had steps.

Durin winced at the late autumn chill, pulling his cloak tighter around himself.

Shuffling along, he avoided the urge to look over the edge of the path and loudly gulp. The Great Barrow was big, alright. Biggest hill in a land of mostly flat steppes. Barrow Hall might not be a great keep in a vacuum, but its location gave it a few points for style and defense. Up on a man-made hill and hugging the fork of the Cairn River— way to stay on theme you guys, all it needed were walls made of something other than wood.

Kicking a stone over the edge, he listened as it bounced along the slope before hitting the bottom with a crack.

Also a moat. Like, dug around the base of the barrow.

That'd be sweet.

It was a slow journey. He was impatient, but he took his time and avoided making noise. He kept glancing up at the walls and guard posts, freezing whenever the soldiers of his house threatened to look down in his direction. Even if they did, he doubted they would see him.

"Shadow in the night," he muttered.

A gust of wind passed over the great barrow, carrying an awful chill with it. Durin hissed and cursed and stopped just shy of shaking his fist at the sky, too focused on avoiding the many tripping hazards.

His first winter would suck, he just knew it.

Heck, maybe it'd kill him.

That would suck, but it would also make all the future bullshit somebody else's problem. His mother would be fine. Most likely she would remain Lady of Barrowton through guile and sheer force of will. Wasn't that what happened in canon? Was she in canon at all? He couldn't say.

Eventually he came to the end of the path, taking a moment to catch his breath and curse his feeble body.

Then he inspected the entrance.

It was both a massive disappointment and about what he expected.

Consider him whelmed.

There was an ornate stone archway some three meters tall and a meter wide. Stepping closer to run his fingers over the stone, it was obvious there were engravings all over it. Old tongue, doubtless. Some were smoothed over with age and time, other bits of the giant stone blocks damaged more severely by the elements. He looked down, dragging his foot around on the ground. Bits and pieces of the structure were doubtless there. Mixed into the dirt and broken slabs of flooring.

Clearly, it had been an impressive thing at some point.

Durin snorted to himself.

Thousands of years ago, maybe.

Even with some decent lighting, he doubted the remains of the structure were much to look at.

Speaking of…

After a brief glance behind him, Durin took a few steps into the entryway and pressed himself flat against the wall. Not because there was anyone coming. There were guards aplenty but they faced out towards the town and the water, so he really only saw their backs. And only from a distance. No, he put himself out of sight and further into the corridor so he had the privacy to light his candle.

Flint and steel, some dry wooden splinters and shavings, a thin twig, and the candle.

Durin wouldn't embarrass himself by moping about how long it took him to light the small fire, even with all the right tools present. Suffice it to say it took longer than expected, and his hands were cramping by the time he succeeded.

No roughing it in the wild for him. No sirree.

He lit his candle with the twig and then quickly smothered the fire.

A little smoke, but no big deal.

Raising the candle up in front of him, he peered down the corridor. It went on a ways. Not endless, though. Somewhere in there was the tomb beneath the barrow.

He knew it was there, mostly thanks to reading.

But even aside from that, he… Well, he knew something was in there.

Just a feeling.

Like vertigo, both entrancing him and making him want to stumble back.

He took a few tentative steps forward, his right hand held up and brushing against the wall, then a few more. He took a deep breath and swallowed nervously.

"It's fine," he said to himself, gritting his teeth. "Just a tomb. Nothing to be afraid of."

But he was.

He kept walking. But he was afraid.

It didn't matter that this place was long abandoned. Left to rot and decay. The Great Barrow was as old as the man who had been laid to rest there, and Durin dreaded what he would find within.

Granted, most of what he was walking through were new additions.

Well, 'new' relative to the barrow itself.

Barrows weren't meant to be spectacles. They were graves, not meant to be opened. Usually. That this one had been refurbished and expanded into this was thanks to his ancestors, the Barrow Kings. The Dustins had always been proud of their lineage, and ever eager to play it up for their own prestige.

Just a look at their coat of arms was proof enough. Two rusted long axes crossed. A crown sitting above the points. Black on yellow.

Even their words. 'The First-Crowned.'

No promise of vengeance, somber truth, or fierce battle cry.

No words of hope, faith, or honor.

Only pride.

Thousands of years of it.

So they built a castle on a grave. A town surrounding it. Then they dug into the barrow and turned the resting place of the First King into a tourist attraction to show off to their vassals, allies, and eventually their liege. Sadly it worked all too well. The broken stone doors he clambered over, and the decrepit state of the place, were testaments to that. In the long years of declining power for House Dustin, their seat of power had been sacked and raided a number of times. By Ironborn, yes. But the North had its fair share of infighting, historically.

Needless to say, the only thing that hadn't been carted away from the tomb was the rock itself.

Even the pride was gone.

A shadow of its former self, much like his house.

The only reason Durin even knew his house words was because he looked them up. No one said them anymore, not even his kin. No one had told him. He suspected the only reason they were allowed to keep the crown on their sigil at all was tradition. That, and because nobody cared. House Dustin was a vassal, and had been since they bent the knee to the King of Winter at the end of the Thousand Years War.

Abruptly, the corridor ended.

He didn't notice until his hand ran out of wall to steady himself with.

Raising his candle up, and up, he peered around at the chamber. Smooth-worked stone arching up into a dome, marred in countless places by iron spikes and cracks. The broken remains of whatever the Dustins of old had done to gussy the place up. Tiny fragments of shattered glass and silver mirror littered the ground, glittering in the light of his candle. He spotted colors other than the orange glow in those pieces. Stained glass, maybe.

Someone spent a fortune here, long ago.

Durin closed his eyes, trying to picture it as his ancestors intended.

Brilliantly lit by sconces and mirrors. Maybe even sunlight redirected from outside. Stained glass reflecting the light and bathing the room in warm colors. Benches and banners. Statues? Statues or busts of famous Barrow Kings. A tapestry of the First King in the midst of some heroic deed. Like a temple to their ancestry. Their pride. Everything to glorify them, surrounding the resting place of the man to whom they owed it all. Except nothing now remained of that place.

Opening his eyes, he looked at it.

The grave.

Durin descended into the room, almost in a daze.

It wasn't raised above the ground on a pedestal. It was set into the earth. Flat. You could walk on it, as any other part of the floor. Wrought of dragonglass, with runes of the old tongue carved into it. But the glass was broken in many spots, sunken in by hammer blows and cut by axes.

The few unbroken runes were perfectly legible.

Not that he could read them.

It occurred to him that he had reached the heart of the Great Barrow. He stood before it. He was here, and…

And what?

"What now, Durin?" he asked, his voice a whisper.

Now, nothing.

He lowered himself to his knees and secured the candle on the floor.

"There has to be something…"

Please, let there be something.

Durin leaned forward to trace a few runes with his grey hands, willing them to start making sense. He looked around for an engraving he could understand. No luck. Nothing in common. Just runes. Runes that nobody south of the Wall could interpret, if anyone still could.

Lost in his rising desperation, he barely noticed one of his hands drifting toward a piece of loose dragonglass. He flinched away from it, then paused.

"Did they— yes. They did."

Even back then, they prayed to the Old Gods. They learned it from the children of the forest.

Durin chewed the inside of his cheek.

The gods were fond of blood sacrifices, weren't they? Men in the North had stopped the practice as a compromise with the Faith. Wildlings still did it.

"Oh, the wildlings do it? If a wildling jumped off a cliff, would you do it too?" he muttered to himself. But even as he said it, he was reaching out to pick up the shard of black glass with his right hand. Sleek and sharp looking. Perfect for slicing, dicing, and killing white walkers. If he needed an emergency supply of dragonglass, it was comforting to know he had a pile of it down in this fucking crypt.

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

His knees ached.

He was cold.

He was going to regret this in the morning.

Hell, he already regretted it.

Before he could think, Durin quickly brought the shard up and slashed his left hand across the center.

He hissed in pain, dropping it to cradle his hand as the wound began to bleed. The thought was stupid, but he was a little surprised by how much it hurt? Just a little. Not that he hadn't expected any. But he was so used to his usual carousel of chronic pains that this one was almost novel by comparison. Likely because it was self-inflicted.

"Fuck… Dumb idea."

But it was done. No sense wasting the fruits of his idiocy.

Durin looked around.

He wasn't really expecting to see anything weird. It just felt like the thing to do.

"If anyone is watching…" He started slowly, closing his eyes and holding his hand over the dragonglass grave. "There is no heart tree down here, but even so. Gods of my forefathers. Gods of the first men, and the king whose grave I kneel before. Children of the Forest—" he broke off, frowning. After racking his brain, he went on. "Those who sing the song of the earth… Three-eyed crow? I'd take R'hllor at this point. I know you're all real, and I need something. Anything. Please, help me."

Durin pressed his hand against the glass. He could feel his blood seeping into the cracks and crevices of the runes beneath it, but he remained still.

Nothing happened.

Minutes went by as he waited for some kind of sign. Anything.

But nothing happened.

His body ached from staying still, his hand was beginning to burn, and he wondered if his legs were going numb. Was he crying? He couldn't tell at this point. He was just tired, cold, and sick of everything.

But he waited. And kept waiting.

He began to feel lightheaded. Dizzy. Was it from blood loss? Maybe this would be the end, after all. Did he have that disorder that stopped his blood from clotting? Wouldn't surprise him. What a way to go that would be. At least then he could rest, instead of dreading a future he could do very little to affect. It was a little scary. But if death was in the cards tonight, then so be it.

For now he bled, and waited.

But nothing—

Blood of the First Blood.

Oathbreakers, all.

Decay and ashes are your birthright.

Accursed is your bloodline.

Feeble and corpselike is your form.

Life as unto death.

The edge of death, as unto life.

Death begetting servitude. To the end of all things.

Until the oath is fulfilled.

The pact, honored.

The First King, surpassed.

—happened.

Durin awoke in the morning with a groan, rolling onto his stomach and wondering if he'd fallen off his bed in the night. Why else would he be sleeping on stone? Had no one come to check on him? Or even wake him? Everything ached. His mother could never know, or she would insist on putting rails around his bed and he'd never hear the end of it. As he pushed himself up he yelped in pain, opening his eyes and clutching at his left hand.

He blew air against the cut on his palm, wondering…

Blinking groggily a few times, he narrowed his eyes at the wound.

Then he slowly looked around.

Then it came back.

"Oh, right."

Then the rest of it came back.

He froze.

"Oh," he said, barely making a sound.

Looking over at the grave of dragonglass, he could see the dried blood on it. His blood. It was dried on his hand, and on bits of his clothes. Probably some on his face, too.

"Guess I fell over at the end there…"

It was a wonder he hadn't cut himself on all those loose bits of dragonglass.

Cut himself more, that is.

Durin took a long shuddering breath as he stumbled to his feet. He clenched his eyes tightly shut, trying to suppress it all from his memory. More than anything, he wanted to forget anything had happened. He wished for nothing to have happened at all. He wanted to be back in his bed. Back home, away from Westeros. This whole world could go to hell. Fuck everyone and everything. This wasn't what he'd been looking for down here. He had just been trying to get answers, not…

He wouldn't. He— he couldn't.

"I can't." He whispered the words to no one, fighting back a sob.

Yet… Yet he had to.

Despite his efforts, the words were burned into his memory. A cattle brand on his soul that had been there since his rebirth. Now that he'd gone through the trouble of poking and prodding, he was painfully aware of its presence. He couldn't forget… And he couldn't ignore any of it.

Not if he ever wanted an ending.

He bit his lip until he drew blood, trying to work up the nerve to say it.

Say it.

Only mouthing the words at first, he shook his head violently.

Just say it.

It was real. All of it was. Dragons, white walkers, the children, shadow babies, wargs, greenseers, and maybe all the snarks and grumkins too. That would just figure. But this was real, beyond a doubt. He hated that it was real more than anything. But it was. He was more sure of it than all the rest combined.

So say it.

"I—" he broke off in a cough, then tried to calm himself and started over.

"I have to surpass the First King," he said the words in a hollow voice, and they were true enough. But the rest was so much worse. "I have to surpass him, become king, and fulfill an oath and a treaty. Things no one even remembers… Failing that and dying, I'll be an undead slave. Forever conscious of it."

He buried his face in his hands and fought off the urge to scream.

Fuck Westeros.