Alan sat upon the throne for what felt like eons.
Time had no meaning here. There was no sun to rise or fall, no rhythm to cling to. The hall remained unchanged, vast, unmoving, never-ending. If days passed, he could not feel them. If centuries slipped by, they left no mark upon his skin. The only sensations that proved he still existed were the ever-present chill gnawing at his flesh and the distant, thunderous sound of stone breaking free from the unseen ceiling far above.
Occasionally, massive rocks fell from the darkness.
They did not shatter when they struck the abyss below the throne's walkway. There was no sound of impact. Only the fading rush of air as they vanished into nothingness, swallowed whole by the void beneath the castle. Each time it happened, Alan felt a strange certainty that whatever lay below was deeper than death.
He waited.
He did not know why.
Then something inside him opened.
The sensation was unmistakable, like a long-sealed chest finally unlocked, its hinges screaming as pressure exploded outward. Alan gasped, clutching at his chest as warmth surged through his veins, cutting through the cold for the first time since he had awakened.
The book resting upon his knees flickered.
Its pages turned on their own, ink bleeding into existence as glowing words formed before his eyes.
— Day 1 —— Reward Granted —— Brandon the Builder's Diary —
The pressure vanished as suddenly as it had come.
Almost immediately, a second book appeared in the air to Alan's right, hovering just above the stone armrest of his throne. It was nothing like the plain tome that had summoned it. This book looked crafted, personal in a way that made his chest tighten.
Its cover appeared to be made of cured deer skin, worn but lovingly preserved. Along its spine and edges were teeth, some clearly human, others elongated and animalistic, somewhere between wolf and man. They were not decorative. They were trophies.
This book had been made by human hands yet fitted perfectly within Alans.
The name Brandon the Builder echoed through Alan's mind.
Recognition sparked, sharp and sudden, but before it could form into a coherent memory, something external slammed shut. The gates of the memory Saundered shut, crushed beneath that same unseen force that had silenced his memories of earlier.
The spark died.
Alan was alone again.
Empty.
He reached for the floating book.
The moment his fingers touched the cover, he felt resistance, not physical, but something higher, like something which could not be seen nor heard, but something ever present. The language written within was unfamiliar, its symbols sharp and ancient, yet as his eyes traced its lines, the meaning unravelled naturally in his mind.
The words translated themselves.
"Slowly. Perfectly. My name is Brandon, Third of his name. And this is the beginning of my defense against the horrors of the ancient empire."
A faint thrill stirred in Alan's chest.
He read on.
Hours, or perhaps days, passed unnoticed as the diary unraveled the life of its author. Brandon wrote of the far north of the continent, of a land later known as Westeros. He detailed his journeys across frozen plains and jagged mountains, his hands shaping stone into wonders unseen by the men of that age.
Castles taller than forests. Spires that scraped the sky.
He wrote of giants who carried boulders like pebbles, of the Children of the Forest whose magic bent nature itself, and of the First Men, desperate, frightened, and stubborn. Who stood at the edge of extinction. Together, bound by necessity rather than trust, they forged a pact.
A great wall.
Not merely stone and ice, but a miracle of engineering and ancient power, raised to halt the endless tide of horrors crawling from the far north. Brandon's words grew heavier as he described those beings, shapes that wore flesh incorrectly, cold eyes that snatched someone's soul before they could even think of running, and nights that lasted too long.
Near the end of the diary, Brandon wrote of his son.
Brandon Stark.
Named for himself, yet given a name meant to endure. A name meant to guard the North when gods and heroes no longer walked the world. He spoke of legacy with pride and fear.
The final entries were the darkest.
Brandon described dragons vast beyond reason, creatures whose breath could reduce entire fortresses to rubble. He wrote of artifacts of the ancient empire, shielded behind walls too thick, too strong to ever be breached, hidden near the Lonely Hills. Even such monsters of the north, he believed, could not pierce those defenses.
The last pages spoke of Winterfell.
A castle built not merely to rule, but to endure. A place meant to face the next Long Night when it came again. Brandon ended his diary not with triumph, but longing, wishing he had lived in the age of true heroes, when gods still walked beside men within the ancient empire.
Alan closed the book.
The deer skin cover felt dry, yet impossibly strong beneath his fingers.
He sat beside the throne, leaning against its cold stone, and began to read again. With each pass, emotions not his own bled into him: fear, determination, awe. The near-endless hall seemed to grow even quieter, as though the castle itself listened.
He read the diary again.
And again.
And again.
Until the book resting on his lap flipped open once more.
Fresh ink bled across its pages, glowing faintly in the darkness.
— Day 2 —— Reward Granted —— A Giant's Map of Fire & Ice —
Alan lifted his gaze, breath catching.
In front of his very eyes, again, a massive map appeared. It sketched the outline of five continents with X's for cities and Y's for forts. The lines etched mountains and waves to mark the sea.
There were drawings of dragons in the sea, sky, and even the land, which hid beneath the mountains.