Silent Stark: Eclipse of Ice and Darkness

I always believed that nature was unbiased—simply reclaiming what was hers in the end. And I could respect that. But gods? They're a different story. They're biased as hell. I must've pissed one off somewhere down the line because from the moment my day started, things went straight to chaos.

It began when I was casually walking to the store. Out of nowhere, an earthquake hit. A jagged crack tore through the asphalt, causing a sixteen-wheeler to ramp off the street like a scene straight out of an action movie. It came barreling toward me, horn blaring—metal and death on wheels. But by some miracle, I instinctively dove into a roll, narrowly avoiding being turned into street art.

That should've been the end of it, but the universe had other plans.

Later that day, I was taking my usual nap in the forest—a habit of mine. You might wonder why wild animals didn't bother me, but it's simple: I sleep like the dead. My stillness, my quiet presence… it's unsettling. Predators tend to avoid things they can't understand.

I woke up to an odd chill. The air felt thick, charged. Then the smell hit me—sharp, almost chemical, like chlorine in a pool. Before I could fully register what was happening, lightning erupted around me. Three bolts struck the ground where I had just been lying, each crackling with unnatural intensity. I sighed. I was just trying to sleep.

Then came the satellite.

It fell from the sky without warning, a massive chunk of steel from some Asian space program. The impact sent a shockwave through the forest, knocking me back several feet.

And as if that wasn't enough, a stray bullet from my dumbass neighbor's gun—of all things—ended my life.

Irony at its finest.

(3rd Person POV – The Void)

In the endless abyss where time and space collapsed into nothingness, only distant, flickering lights moved like drifting stars. Occasionally, they connected, forming clusters before fading into oblivion—replaced by countless new ones.

At the heart of this vast emptiness floated a massive black orb, its edges pulsating with a magenta glow. Tendrils of dark energy spiraled around it, feeding off the void itself, a spinning vortex of black and purple pulling in unseen forces.

(Jinx's POV – The Void)

I don't know how long I've been here.

At first, I counted the seconds. After ten thousand years, I stopped.

I spent my early days training in sage techniques from Naruto—because why the hell not? It kept my mind sharp. It wasn't until a decade later that I realized something was off. I didn't have a body anymore. But strangely, that didn't bother me.

The coldness around me, though… it felt familiar.

After five more years, I noticed something else—the floating lights. They weren't just random. They were connected to me.

It took another year before I absorbed one. The moment I did, my mind exploded with memories—visions of a ninja from 1475, a warrior who trained from the age of five and died at forty. Along with his memories, I gained access to an inner domain—a realm built from his soul.

It was a mountain range, its peak piercing the heavens, surrounded by a dark forest riddled with jagged black ice. A never-ending blizzard howled through the land, and at the summit, a blood-red waterfall cascaded down into a frozen river. A single red spider lily grew on the edge of a crater, illuminated by an eternal eclipse. A small campfire burned at its center, flickering in defiance of the cold.

It reminded me of the Soul of Cinder boss arena from Dark Souls. For some reason, I found that comforting.

As I absorbed more fragments, I realized something: a soul could be divided into nine pieces before death or a significant loss of power. Each time I consumed one, another red spider lily bloomed in my mind.

Most memories were mundane—merchants, farmers, 9-to-5 office workers from the 1800s. But every now and then, I glimpsed something insane. A futuristic Earth. Apocalyptic timelines. DC. Marvel. Entire alternate realities.

That's when I understood. I wasn't just absorbing souls from my Earth or my timeline.

I was drawing from all of them.

And then… something changed.

With a quarter of my lilies gathered, the fire at the center of my domain called to me. When I touched it, the world shifted.

Suddenly, I stood in a land of endless sand. Towering statues of people from every era stretched into the horizon. In the distance, a massive glowing tree loomed, its branches expanding over the course of ten thousand years, growing from four thousand limbs to over fifteen thousand.

For the first time in eons, something new happened.

A woman appeared.

She was gorgeous—pale skin, dark lipstick, gothic dress, and an air of casual menace. With a snap of her fingers, everything changed.

Across from me, Death sat in a chair, draped in shifting shadows and ethereal mist.

"Sigh. I knew the gods were incompetent, but this is just lazy," it muttered, shaking its head. "Not my business, though. Now, onto the reason you're here."

I raised an eyebrow, taking another sip.

"Every 100,000 souls, we reincarnate ten into different worlds. Normally, reincarnations are separate—except for the summoned ones. Someone was just reincarnated yesterday, meaning no new worlds are available."

Death paused, tilting its head.

"Technically, you should be sent to one of the heavens or hells governed by those lazy gods."

I narrowed my eyes. Technically?

"But," Death continued, leaning forward, "since you managed to evade me three times, I'll offer you seven wishes as compensation."

I tilted my head. "Any limits?"

"None," Death shrugged. "But you can also use some—or all—of your wishes for a lottery. Take a gamble. Make it interesting. I expect some good stories when you eventually return here."

I thought it over. eight wishes were tempting, but my luck was weird. Maybe the lottery would be more… fun.

"Alright," I said, stretching. "I'll use all eight on the lottery."

Death snapped its fingers. A six-slot machine materialized before me.

I pulled the lever.

The machine whirred, spinning for what felt like ten full minutes before stopping. The results flashed:

Empty Crossguard Lightsaber

Two Blank Kyber Crystals

Valyrian Steel Blade

Sith Outfit

Midiclorian crystal

Legacy of darth nox 

Legacy of anakin skywalker/darth vader

Legacy of mace windu

"Hmmm nice picks. Anyway i'm sending you to the game of thrones world about a couple years before the doom in house stark hope you have fun" death said before snapping her fingers and everything went black.

(timeskip 389 years later)

Arya Stark, at the tender age of five, wandered through the familiar halls of Winterfell, her footsteps soft against the cold stone floor. She had no particular destination, her curiosity and youthful restlessness leading her down winding corridors and forgotten nooks. The castle, with all its ancient stone and secrets, was a vast maze to her—a place where wonders and mysteries hid behind every corner.

As she passed a dimly lit hall near the end of the castle, something caught her eye. It was small, inconspicuous, and not something that would usually draw attention. A single stone, chipped and cracked, lay at the very end of the corridor. Arya stopped, her brow furrowing with a mixture of curiosity and caution. It wasn't a treasure or something grand, but for reasons she couldn't explain, she felt drawn to it.

She knelt down, picking up the stone and brushing off the dust. It was heavy in her hand, worn smooth over time, but what caught her attention more was the spot where it had fallen. Arya's gaze drifted up toward the wall, where a faint crack ran from top to bottom, barely noticeable against the ancient stone.

A flicker of excitement coursed through her, and, without thinking, she stood and walked closer. The wall seemed out of place—there was something about it that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She pushed her small hand against it, but it didn't budge. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Could there be something hidden behind it?

Without hesitation, Arya began pulling at the stones, one after another, as if the task were simpler than it should be. The stones came away easily, more easily than she expected, their edges worn smooth as if they had been loosened over time. Her heart beat faster, both from the thrill of the unknown and the quiet knowledge that she was doing something forbidden.

After a few minutes, the opening grew wide enough for her small body to slip through. With a quick glance down the hall to make sure no one was watching, Arya crawled through the gap, her knees scraping the rough stone as she slid into the dark space behind the wall.

The room was small but surprisingly well-preserved, tucked away like some forgotten corner of Winterfell's history. Dust hung thick in the air, the room untouched for what felt like centuries. Yet, there was something in the air that felt different—an eerie stillness that pressed against her chest.

She stood up, brushing off her skirts, her eyes scanning the space. Bookshelves lined the walls, old and heavy, filled with thick tomes. The language on their spines was unfamiliar—strange symbols she had never seen before. As Arya stared at them, a strange sensation washed over her, as though the words themselves were reaching out to her.

Her mind seemed to hum with the oddity of it all. She couldn't help but reach for one of the books. As her fingers brushed the cover, a deep, almost haunting whisper seemed to echo in her thoughts. She pulled the book open, feeling a strange pull, and the words on the page began to come to her.

The language was unknown to her—Maester Luwin had taught her the Old Tongue and High Valyrian, but this... this was different. Her eyes skimmed the pages, and, to her surprise, she could make sense of it. Slowly, painfully, the words twisted together in her mind, and she translated:

"Blood of my blood, can thou find the rest of the lost king..."

A chill ran down her spine, the words reverberating in her chest. What did it mean? Who was this "lost king"? And why was the message here, hidden away in this forgotten room?

She closed the book quickly, a sudden sense of unease creeping over her. It was as if the room was alive, breathing in the dark, pressing her to uncover something more. But Arya knew she should leave. She had to tell her father about what she had found.

Turning to leave, her eyes caught something on the desk at the far side of the room. It was a scroll, simple yet elegant, its edges worn but carefully preserved. Arya's curiosity flared once more. She picked it up, unrolling it slowly. The map inside was old, the ink faded in places but still legible.

At first glance, it appeared to be a map of Winterfell—its layout, the great halls, the barracks—but there was something else, something new. The map was carefully drawn, but in places, it seemed to differ from the one in her father's solar. It led to the Godswood, to the heart of the forest where the ancient Heart Tree stood—an old, sacred place Arya had passed by many times in her life.

Her fingers trembled as she studied the final words written at the bottom of the page in fine, elegant script:

"Free me from my eternal rest."

The words sent a shiver through Arya, and a feeling of dread settled deep in her chest. The map, the words, the room—it was all connected. But what did it mean? What was this place, and who or what was asking to be freed?

Her heart raced as she carefully rolled the map back up, slipping it into her sleeve. She couldn't keep it hidden much longer. There was something dangerous, something ancient in this room. But for now, Arya knew she had to leave. She slipped back through the narrow gap, the wall silently closing behind her as if it had never been disturbed.

But as she made her way back to her room, the cryptic message and the eerie map gnawed at her thoughts. The mysteries of Winterfell had just begun to unravel, and Arya Stark had no idea what dangers awaited her in the shadows

.The cold stone floor was rough beneath Arya's bare feet as she stood motionless in the shadows, her sharp eyes following the rhythmic pattern of the guards' patrol. She had been timing them for over an hour now, watching how long it took each one to pass her room.

Something felt off.

Father always says the night is the most dangerous time… so why are they so careless now?

The thought sent a prickle of unease through her, but she pushed it aside. It didn't matter. What mattered was that they wouldn't get another chance like this.

She pressed herself against the cool stone wall, her small frame swallowed by the darkness. This was a game, one she had played a hundred times—learning how to move unseen, how to slip past Septa Mordane's ever-watchful gaze, how to dodge her mother's scolding. But tonight was different. This wasn't play.

Slowly, carefully, she moved across the chamber, testing each step, making sure her feet didn't scrape too loudly against the floor. She had learned early that speed made you careless. That was why Sansa always got caught when they played.

I won't make the same mistake.

For what felt like an eternity, Arya crept through the darkened halls of Winterfell, always keeping to the deepest shadows. When a guard passed, she flattened herself against the cold stone and waited, heart hammering, until his footsteps faded.

And then she saw it—a shortcut.

Jon had shown her this passage just last week, a forgotten servant's tunnel leading straight to the godswood. She could still hear his voice in her head, steady and warm.

"Not many know about this way. Use it if you ever need to sneak off. But be careful, Arya. You have to move quickly and quiet, like a shadow."

A shadow.

She darted forward, slipping into the passage unseen.

The narrow tunnel was dark, pitch-black, but she wasn't afraid. Dust tickled her nose, the scent of damp stone filling her lungs as she traced the familiar path by memory. The passage twisted, turned, then ended, just as she knew it would.

Peering out carefully, she saw the godswood ahead, bathed in silver moonlight. The great Weirwood loomed before her, its pale face watching over the still black pool, its blood-red leaves rustling in the wind like whispers of something forgotten. A shiver ran through her, but it wasn't fear.

She had always felt drawn to this place. As if it called to her.

Stepping onto the damp grass, Arya moved with the silent ease Jon had taught her. She didn't know why she had felt so restless tonight, why the need to come here had been so strong. But now that she was here, she felt it—something was different.

The air was heavy, thick with something she couldn't name. The godswood felt as if it were waiting.

She placed her hand against the Weirwood's rough bark. The carved face stared down at her, ancient, knowing. The silence stretched, deep and expectant.

Then—

Snap.

The sound of a breaking branch behind her.

Arya spun, heart leaping into her throat, fingers already closing around the small dagger she had stolen from the kitchens.

She wasn't alone.Ten minutes earlier…

The dungeons of Winterfell were quiet, the flickering torchlight casting long, wavering shadows against the damp stone walls. In one of the darkened cells, a group of captured bandits sat in uneasy silence, waiting for their fate. They had been caught days ago, rounded up by Lord Stark's men, and were set to be handed over to the recruiter from the Wall.

But one of them had been watching—waiting.

The leader of the group, a wiry man with sharp eyes and nimble fingers, smirked as he noticed the lack of guards nearby. He reached into his tattered sleeve, pulling out a thin, jagged piece of metal—a lockpick. It had been hidden well enough to avoid the usual searches, and now, it would be their key to freedom.

Carefully, he worked the lock, his fingers moving with practiced ease. Click. The iron door creaked open, and the bandits exchanged quick, eager glances.

"Move fast," the leader whispered. "Stay quiet."

As they slipped through the corridors, one of the men barely caught a glimpse of something small moving in the distance. A little girl, dark-haired, quick on her feet—Arya Stark.

Recognition flickered in his eyes, followed swiftly by greed. He nudged his companions, whispering, "That's Arya Stark. She'll fetch a high price in the Free Cities… or make a fine bargaining chip if we get caught."

The others exchanged wicked grins.

The hunt was on.

Present moment…

Arya's breath came fast as she bolted from the tunnel's exit, her heart pounding in her chest. The moment she had stepped out of the passage, she had seen them—six shadowy figures slipping through Winterfell's outer gates. The bandits.

She didn't stop to think. She ran.

Behind her, the bandits cursed as they spotted their prize trying to flee. They gave chase, their heavy boots crunching against the frost-covered ground.

But Arya knew the godswood better than they did.

She wove between the trees, slipping through the underbrush like a shadow, while her pursuers stumbled and tripped over roots hidden beneath the leaves. She could hear their curses, their frustration mounting.

Minutes passed. The bandits grew sluggish, their breath ragged. But Arya kept moving.

Then, finally, she reached the Heart Tree.

The pale face of the Weirwood loomed over her, its red eyes watching as she pulled the map from her pocket, fingers trembling. She had to be close.

Following the lines carefully, she traced a path leading beyond the clearing. Her feet carried her toward the edge of a familiar cliffside, one she had seen countless times before.

Her eyes swept over the rocky terrain, searching.

Then she saw it.

A patch of dirt—softer than the rest, disturbed, just like the hidden chamber she had uncovered earlier in the castle.

She dropped to her knees and dug.

The earth came away easier than she expected, and after a few minutes, she felt it—the ground beneath her shifted, crumbling away in a rush.

Arya scrambled back as a mass of dirt collapsed, revealing a yawning cavern entrance beneath the cliffside. The air that seeped from within was cold and ancient, carrying a scent of damp stone and something older.

Cautiously, she stepped forward, her small hands brushing along the rock as she descended into the darkness.

Then she saw it.

At the end of the cavern stood a massive circular metal door, gleaming faintly in the dim light. Its surface was etched with intricate carvings—seven serpents intertwined, their bodies coiling in a symmetrical pattern as if guarding whatever lay beyond.

Arya's breath caught in her throat.

This wasn't just a cave.

It was an entrance.

But to what?

Arya's pulse quickened as she stood before the massive metal door, her fingers tracing the intricate coils of the seven serpents etched into its surface. The cavern's chill seeped through her clothes, but her resolve was steel. She glanced around the cavern's entrance, eyes sharp for any clue that might explain this chilling mystery.

Her gaze swept over the jagged rocks lining the cave's edges, and then, just behind a cluster of stones near the base of the door, her eyes caught something.

A fragment of the strange language from the hidden solar in Winterfell—a few jagged characters carved into the rock, worn by time but still faintly glowing.

Curiosity and dread mingled in her chest, but Arya stepped closer, kneeling to study the script. The more she looked, the more the words seemed to shift in her mind, the meaning becoming clearer. She could feel it sinking into her bones, understanding unfurling like a shadow in her mind.

One word stood out—simple yet ominous: "Open."

Arya swallowed hard. The air felt heavier, as if the cave itself held its breath.

Steeling herself, she stepped toward the door and spoke the word aloud, her voice trembling as it escaped her lips.

"Open."

But the sound that emerged was not her own.

Her voice was a whisper—soft and hollow—with words she had never heard, never spoken before. It curled around the cavern walls like mist, eerie and alien.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then—

From the twisting carvings of the serpents, one of the metal snakes came to life. Its body writhed unnaturally, slithering from the door's edge with an unsettling fluidity. The snake pressed itself against the cold stone, gliding along the cavern's floor with uncanny grace, its metallic scales catching the dim light as it moved.

Arya's heart thumped against her ribs, loud in the oppressive silence. She could hardly breathe.

The snake reached the opposite edge of the door and paused briefly before the door groaned. The metal creaked under immense strain, the serpents twisting and writhing before the entire circular door slowly swung open.

Arya stepped inside, the torchlight from her hand flickering violently as a blast of frigid air swept from within the chamber.

Before her stretched a vast, cavernous chamber, its architecture eerily reminiscent of something out of legend. The corridor was long and narrow, lined with jagged stone walls, leading to the chamber's heart.

At the end of the corridor stood a massive stone face, carved with meticulous detail—a man with a stern visage, a long flowing beard curling down his chest, eyes closed as if in eternal judgment. His expression was one of stoic calm, but Arya felt its gaze prick her very soul.

Before the colossal statue sat a throne—an imposing structure hewn entirely from giant blocks of ice. The throne shimmered with an eerie, otherworldly glow, jagged shards jutting out like shards of frozen glass. The ice glistened in the dim cavern light, casting sharp reflections against the walls.

Arya's breath caught in her throat when she saw the throne's horrific occupants.

Trapped within the ice, caught in jagged crystalline prison, were corpses—dozens of them. Twisted, contorted, their faces frozen in expressions of agony and despair. Arms clawed at the air as if trying to escape, mouths wide in silent screams, eyes wide with eternal terror.

A narrow stone walkway curved around a vast pool of black, glistening water that stretched from the statue to the throne. The water was dark, disturbingly still, its surface unnervingly smooth. The pool's source was grotesque: sculpted serpents embedded into the cavern walls—stone-carved creatures with mouths agape, releasing a slow, endless stream of water into the abyss below.

Arya's pulse thundered in her chest, but what truly made her blood run cold was the throne's occupant.

Sitting atop the icy throne, as if it were his birthright, was a corpse—a desiccated husk clad in tattered black robes, its gloved hands resting on the throne's frozen arms, legs crossed, boots planted firmly on the icy footrest. The hood of the robe hung low, concealing the corpse's face in shadow.

Arya couldn't tear her eyes away.

The corpse sat like a king—regal and horrifying—unmoving, its dark figure etched in stark contrast against the icy throne and the black water below. The cavern's silence pressed against Arya's eardrums, and the weight of the chamber's dread was suffocating.

A shiver ran down her spine.

Arya stood rooted for a heartbeat, her torch trembling in her grip. The map in her hand felt impossibly heavy. Her mind screamed for her to turn back—to flee this nightmare—but the pull of curiosity and fear pressed her forward.