The stone door opened with a deep groan, as if the very structure trembled at his intrusion.
Vlad said nothing. His cloak swayed slightly as he crossed the threshold. Silence fell like a veil, enveloping him at once, drowning the outside world in a whisper.
Behind him, the door shut with a dull thud.
Darkness surrounded him. There were no torches, no fire, not even moonlight. But not that he needed any to see—he was a vampire. So he kept walking through the lifeless, dark, ancient halls, searching for a door to open.
The corridor split into three paths. Vlad didn't hesitate. He remembered the warlock's words clearly before entering: "only the door to the right." But Pree was a liar, and liars always hide the truth in what they say… only in reverse.
Vlad took the door to the left.
The corridor beyond was narrower and damper than the rest. Even the stone was different in texture, colder to the touch and constantly vibrating.
A spiral staircase descended. Vlad walked down unhurriedly. He was, in fact, very calm—there was little in the world that could harm him, and second-rate sorcerers were not one of those things.
At the base of the stairs, he found himself facing a large double door made of blackened iron. It had no knocker, no keyhole. As he approached, it opened without being touched.
An illusion.
In the original story, Daenerys had powerful visions—prophecies of the Red Wedding and the birth of Jon Snow. Although many of those events no longer applied to this timeline, Vlad hoped to glimpse something crucial, especially about the Night King and the threat beyond the Wall.
As he moved forward, Vlad entered a room where a scene of ice and snow unfolded before him. The vision transported him to the throne room in the Red Keep, but it was not as he had imagined. The great doors were shattered, the ceiling had collapsed, and the walls were blackened by fire.
Suddenly, the Iron Throne began to melt. The red-hot metal twisted and warped as if it had a will of its own, slowly transforming. What had once been a mass of fused swords now gave way to two thrones of equal height, beautifully ornate and imposing.
—I'm glad to see my plan will be carried out —Vlad murmured with a smile as he observed the vision.
He opened another door and found an army of wights with hollow, unsettling eyes standing in formation. They numbered in the thousands, eerily still, not moving at all. The vision was deeply disturbing, especially if Vlad hoped to rule over something more than the ashes of civilization.
He stepped past the wights, and what he saw next sent a jolt of frustration through him: the Wall was collapsing. Massive blocks of ice and stone tumbled down one after another with a deafening roar—it was now nothing more than rubble. For a moment, he clenched his jaw, knowing this vision was also a reprimand. One of his plans had been to reinforce the Wall, to garrison it with capable and loyal men. But he had postponed it until his return to Westeros.
He wondered how it had fallen. He hoped it wasn't by a resurrected dragon, like in the original story. The Horn of Winter seemed more likely—little was known about the artifact in the original timeline, but it was said to have the power to bring down the Wall.
The undead were still on the other side, for now. But the Wall's collapse was not just a bad omen—it was a warning. If they managed to cross, then only the Neck could offer any real resistance… and even that was no guarantee.
Setting those thoughts aside, he went through the door on the far right and found himself in a grand banquet hall. However, no one else was there… except for a woman holding a lifeless wolf.
Her mouth was open in a silent scream, her hands covered in blood, and her face twisted with pain.
Vlad was stunned. That even with all the changes he had made, the Red Wedding still occurred—it was a testament to the Starks' own foolishness. It was hard to believe that anyone in real life would trust Walder Frey's sense of honor.
But this vision was of no use to him. He needed the North united and under control.
Not out of whim, nor because the Starks were particularly pleasant—quite the opposite. Robb Stark was likely just as stubborn and naive as his father, which would only cause problems. But if he wanted to organize the North to face the Long Night, the Starks were crucial. Northerners wouldn't follow anyone else until it was too late and the dead were already upon them. They were that stubborn.
Robb Stark must live.
As his mind began to sketch out plans to prevent the Starks' foolish honor from dooming them all, Vlad opened another door.
Immediately, the roar of battle surrounded him.
Screams of dying men, the clash of steel on steel, and the crackle of burning tents filled the air. Vlad found himself atop a hill, with a privileged view of the battlefield. Thousands of banners flapped in the wind, but what stood out the most was the crimson of blood soaking the earth.
The lions rose atop the walls of Harrenhal, while the Tully rivers ran red. The direwolf banners fell one after another, and Stark soldiers lay dead across the ground. Not far off, the stag's banner crumbled before an unseen enemy, while a shadowy assassin emerged from the flames.
Vlad descended the hill, his gaze scanning the devastation. He saw a man with copper hair, caked in mud and blood, fighting desperately against soldiers from the Rock.