A Multiversal Journey (GOT/ASOIAF)

A weight had been lifted off my shoulders when Mana confirmed that the gods here were nothing more than glorified spirits. Death, it seems, does not interfere much in the outside world—a fact that brings me immense relief. I had seen it, or her form per say. I am not afraid of these so-called gods. The Essence of Archmage essentially elevates me to the status of a god, and with the protection of my Omni-field, even cosmic horrors cannot touch me. Furthermore, my ROB (Random Omnipotent Being) assured me that he would handle higher entities should they attempt anything. However, that doesn't mean I can act with total impunity. While these gods can't harm me directly, they could wreak havoc on my lands and people, forcing me into direct confrontation. A situation like that would be tedious, to say the least.

[Death]

Speaking of gods, I've started working on anti-divinity weapons and magic—artifacts and spells that can target divine beings. Chains of Heaven and Karmic Judgment are my current priorities, but I'll elaborate on those another time.

Now, to the present. I am five years old—or at least, this body is. Six months have passed since my reincarnation into this world. I was born in the year 262 AC, the same year Brandon Stark, the eldest son of Lord Rickard Stark, was born. A year later, in 263 AC, a severe winter gripped the North and Westeros as a whole, lasting three years before ending in 266 AC. I entered this body at the tail end of that long winter, and the world has been in a state of relative recovery since.

My house's fortunes, however, have been on the rise. The wealth pouring in from diamond sales and the discovery of two more gold mines has filled our coffers to the brim. Our newfound prosperity has not gone unnoticed. Word of fertile lands and well-paying work has spread, leading peasants from neighboring territories to flock to my lands. While this migration has been beneficial for us, it has also made nearby lords restless. To address their concerns, I've ceased advertising opportunities in my lands. Not that it matters—word of mouth has already done its job.

Master Edward has received multiple letters from the lords of neighboring houses—House Ryswell, Dustin, Tallhart, Glover, and even House Stark—expressing their discontent about the migration of their peasants. I responded diplomatically, stating that we have no intention of poaching workers but cannot lower wages or turn away those who seek better lives. Naturally, this has not placated them. The growing wealth and prosperity of my house have only fueled their frustrations. Raids disguised as bandit attacks have become a regular occurrence, but not a single one has succeeded. Every resident in my territory is enhanced by the Prototype Virus, making them far more capable than the average human. These failed raids have only deepened the surrounding lords' resentment.

Among my neighbors, House Ryswell holds the largest tract of land. I've taken a particular interest in their territory. While I know that becoming the ruler of the North would require mind-controlling half the region, there's no reason I can't expand my lands. If, for instance, House Ryswell were to suffer a tragic extinction, their lands could be ceded to me by House Stark if I make them do so by mind controling them. Conveniently, the Ryswell family has only two children: a son two years older than me and a daughter my age, Barbrey Ryswell. Barbrey, as history notes, was once Brandon Stark's lover before her marriage to Lord Dustin. The main family may be small, but their numerous branch families would also need to be dealt with to ensure my plan's success.

To that end, I've created a magic clone specifically for this task. Over the next ten years, all branch families of House Ryswell will face "unfortunate accidents" leading to their deaths. Of course, they won't actually die. Their bodies will be replaced with convincing clone corpses while the real ones are placed in suspended animation in my home world.

I have to admit, even after witnessing unimaginable cruelty, betrayal, and gore in my past lives, a part of me remains soft. I despise killing children and avoid it unless absolutely necessary. This sentiment extends to the adults of House Ryswell. Rather than kill them, I've chosen to preserve them for now. Perhaps they'll be released in the future or relocated to another world entirely. Sparing only the children wasn't an option—they would not survive without adult care. This way, the family lives, albeit in stasis, and I keep my conscience relatively clear.

On the home front, I've initiated several infrastructure projects. Roads are being constructed to connect my entire territory. These aren't simple dirt paths but well-built roads made of concrete—another innovation I've introduced. With our coffers brimming with gold, funding these projects is a non-issue. Additionally, I've begun enchanting and upgrading our trading ships while increasing their numbers. I am also making new, bigger ships. And the the enchantment contains many charms like unbreaking, speed, floating charms etc. It's a gradual process, but there's plenty of time before the Tourney of Harrenhal, so I'm not in a rush.

[New Ships]

As I was pondering my future plans, I felt a disturbance through the bond I share with the infected of the Prototype Virus. They alerted me to a large-scale Ironborn raid along the shores of my territory. This raid was far larger than their usual attacks, clearly meant to intimidate or overwhelm us. I immediately instructed Master Edward to send a raven to Winterfell. Although we don't require aid, it's important to maintain the formalities.

Through our mental link, I ordered my people to conceal any inhuman features and rely solely on conventional weapons. Taking one of Heaven's Sorrows—a pair of enchanted swords I forged—I prepared to confront the raiders. At my current size, I can only wield one sword effectively, so I use it as a single weapon for now. After all, I'm still five years old, even if I look closer to eleven.

Accompanied by my master of arms, Ser Patrik, and our soldiers, I headed to the shore. The scene that greeted me was almost poetic. Years of pent-up anger and hatred were unleashed by the people of my territory, who had once been powerless against Ironborn raids. Now, enhanced by the Prototype Virus, they fought back with a vengeance. My soldiers and I joined the fray, cutting through the raiders with ruthless efficiency. By evening, the battle was over. Not a single Ironborn was left alive. We hunted down every last one, ensuring no survivors escaped to warn their kin.

The aftermath of the battle was profitable. We gained more warships and further solidified our house's reputation as deadly killers. News of our decisive victory will spread quickly, enhancing the fear and respect surrounding my name. Personally, I enjoyed testing some new techniques. Using telekinesis, I created claw-like blades to tear through enemies while simultaneously wielding my sword. The combination was both effective and exhilarating.

Back at the castle, I turned to Master Edward. "Have you sent the raven to Winterfell informing them of the attack?"

"Yes, my lord," he replied.

"Good. Send another, detailing our victory."

With that matter settled, I returned to my thoughts. The roads I've commissioned will be completed within six months, a testament to the efficiency of my tireless, immortal workforce. Alongside these roads, I plan to plant weirwood trees—not the eerie, face-carved kind, but beautiful, pristine specimens. Using magic, I'll accelerate their growth, adding to the mystique of my lands. Let the world believe my territory is blessed by the Old Gods.

[Wirewood trees]

Another of my projects is flourishing: vodka and beer production. Living in a frozen tundra resembling Russia, it felt fitting to introduce these spirits to the North. Vodka and beer have become immensely popular among both commoners and nobles. While southern lords still prefer wine, they've developed a taste for beer. In the North, however, vodka has been embraced as a drink perfectly suited to the cold climate. Nobles here praise the warmth it brings, making it a staple in their halls.

Reflecting on the day, I realized this was the first time I had truly killed someone. All my previous "kills" were illusions I created to simulate the experience. Surprisingly, I felt nothing. The horrors I endured in the worlds of Dark Souls and Elden Ring had hardened me to such acts. Compared to those experiences, today's events were trivial.

I made my way to a room I've come to call my collection room. It houses items I've created that, while impressive, aren't important enough to warrant protection in the Essence of Home dimension. Placing the other half of Heaven's Sorrow next to its twin, my gaze fell on three other weapons displayed side by side:

a heavy war hammer adorned with golden decorations,

[Pics]

a simple Valyrian steel war axe (valaryian steel which I got through a replication spell on my twin swords),

[Pics]

and a Valyrian steel longsword.

[Pics]

Averting my eyes, I left the room. There's much to do, and the future holds endless possibilities.

---