"Cough! Cough! Cough!"
After a violent fit of coughing, Eddard Karstark felt a burning itch in his chest, as though torn flesh and shattered bone were slowly knitting themselves back together.
He opened his eyes—then suddenly, his pupils contracted in shock.
"Where... is this?"
"Did I transmigrate?"
"Fuck! I knew I shouldn't have tried to save that kid who ran in front of the dump truck!"
Before him stretched a gloomy forest. Scattered across the blood-soaked grass and tangled tree roots were mangled corpses and wounded soldiers writhing in agony, arrows protruding from their bodies.
Blood pooled into a crimson stream, trickling steadily toward the lower ground.
Shattered armor, splintered shields, and dented weapons lay everywhere, the stench of death thick in the air.
From deeper within the forest came the clang of steel and the echoing cries of battle—shrill roars, desperate grunts, the sound of blades meeting bone.
Drawn by the chaos, Eddard turned his gaze toward the source of the noise.
Not far away, a host of warriors clad in gold and crimson was charging forward with unrelenting fury, smashing through the black-armored lines with their very lives.
At the head of the assault rode a golden-haired knight in gleaming armor, a blood-red cloak billowing behind him. His movements were swift and graceful, the golden longsword in his hand a blur of motion as he cut through the enemy like a hot knife through butter. It was as if the battlefield parted for him—an unstoppable force no man could halt.
His target was a red-haired youth wielding a sword and shield.
Eddard's gaze remained fixed on the golden-armored knight.
That man moved like some spoiled noble's heir fresh out of a gold mine, laying into a dozen peasants as if they were nothing.
Golden plate armor gleamed on his body, emblazoned with a lion's sigil. Even his sword shimmered gold.
Was it actually made of gold? Even if it was just gold-plated, the display reeked of arrogance—pure, unabashed nouveau riche flamboyance.
Meanwhile, the battle raged on in full fury.
The black-armored soldiers, armed with swords, axes, and spears, attacked the knight from all sides. Each strike was vicious, aimed squarely at his vitals, as though their sole purpose was to keep him from reaching the red-haired youth standing a short distance behind them.
Yet the knight's movements were impossibly swift and fluid. His golden blade left afterimages in the air, each slash faster than the last. While parrying their strikes, he found every gap in their guard, cutting down enemies in a blur of motion.
One broad-shouldered warrior with thick brown hair raised his weapon—only to have his hand severed in a single stroke, followed immediately by a blade driven through his throat. He collapsed on the spot, dead before he hit the ground.
Blood sprayed across the earth. The man, clutching his neck, locked eyes with Eddard as he fell—his expression twisted with terror and disbelief.
A white sunburst was emblazoned on the chest of his armor.
He wasn't the only one to die. Shrieks echoed across the field as the golden-red warriors clashed violently with their black-clad foes.
It felt like someone was dying every second.
"!!!"
What in the bloody hell is happening? What the fuck is this place?
Who am I even supposed to help?
Eddard frowned as chaos raged all around him. Bodies fell by the second, screams tore through the trees, and blood soaked the earth. Just as he tried to push himself up, a pair of hands suddenly reached out and supported him from the side.
He'd been so focused on the battle that he hadn't even noticed anyone approaching.
Reacting purely on instinct, Eddard swung a fist without hesitation. His leather-clad knuckles cracked hard against the bridge of someone's nose, the punch slicing cleanly through the air with a satisfying thud.
"Ouch!"
A young voice cried out in pain, full of grievance.
"My Lord?! Why did you hit me?"
Eddard looked down to see a brown-haired youth in hardened leather armor clutching his face, eyes brimming with disbelief.
My Lord?
Without wasting time pondering it, Eddard grabbed the boy by the arm and yanked him behind the trunk of a thick tree. Once they were in cover, he asked sharply:
"Who are you? Where is this?"
If the boy really called him My Lord, then at least he likely wasn't an enemy.
"Huh?"
The youth—Abel Qashtak—blinked in confusion, clearly startled by the question. His gaze was cautious, almost fearful, as he answered:
"I'm your retainer! This is the Haunted Forest, just north of Riverrun!"
Seeing the confusion still lingering in Eddard's eyes, the boy hurriedly added, "Abel Qashtak—your distant cousin, your retainer!"
He spoke with urgency, as if repeating it might jog the other's memory.
The Qashtaks were a cadet branch of House Karstark. Abel's grandfather, Alf Qashtak, had once been a potential heir to Karhold, but ultimately, he had not inherited the title of Lord. Because of that, Abel's standing within the House was never particularly high.
Still, just before this battle, the current Lord of Karhold—Rickard Karstark—had entrusted Abel with an important task: to serve as his second son's personal retainer on the battlefield.
It was a rare and respectable position for someone of his lineage.
Eddard blinked, his mind racing.
My Lord… Eddard Karstark… White sunburst?!
This is A Song of Ice and Fire?!
Westeros? I'm actually in Westeros? And I'm a Northerner?!
Wait—don't tell me I'm Eddard Stark!
But no, the sigil was a white sunburst, not a direwolf.
Still... was being named Eddard really such a shortcut to power and nobility in this world?
And more importantly—
What battle is this?
Could it be… Robert's Rebellion?
The thought hit him like a warhammer. His eyes widened in alarm, his breathing quickened, and his voice trembled slightly as he asked:
"Then… who am I?"
Abel blinked, clearly bewildered by the question.
"Huh?"
A flicker of panic flashed in Abel's eyes.
Just moments ago, he had seen Jaime Lannister—a golden blur of death on the battlefield—kick the young Lord with terrifying force.
Eddard had slammed into a tree with a sickening thud and immediately lost consciousness.
Now, with Lord Rickard Karstark already grieving the death of his eldest son, Torhen Karstark, Abel couldn't even begin to imagine what would happen if the second son returned from battle broken in the head.
At the very least, he'd lose this rare and honorable position.
And that meant disgrace—shame not just for himself, but for the Qashtak name.
That thought alone made the fear in his eyes deepen.
Desperately, he declared, "You're Eddard Karstark—the second son of Lord Rickard of Karhold!"
Eddard Karstark?
Ah… not Eddard Stark.
Tsk. Eddard clicked his tongue in disappointment, a subtle wave of regret rising in his chest.
So Winterfell's not in the cards, huh?
Still, the name rang a faint bell.
As a young man in his previous life with a deep love for cold weapon warfare and medieval fantasy, he'd of course read parts of A Song of Ice and Fire and watched episodes of Game of Thrones. By the time he transmigrated, Old Man Martin still hadn't finished the damn series.
And even if he did finish it one day…
Well, Eddard seriously doubted he'd live long enough to read it now.
He had no idea which bored-to-death god—or perhaps some alien tech, doing it for laughs or a lab experiment—had thrown him into this world.
What the hell do you expect me to do here?
I'm not even into Cersei or Daenerys!
One of them had a literal hole in her head.
The other? Well… if the show was anything to go by, she wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders either.
Don't tell me they want me to unify Westeros and defeat the Night King or something?
Grumbling inwardly, Eddard shook the complaints from his mind and forced himself to focus. He needed to figure out exactly where—and when—he was.
Oddly enough, since transmigrating, his mind felt sharper, more focused than it had ever been.
Haunted Forest, Abel had said.
That meant the current timeline was likely during the early stages of the War of the Five Kings—the point when Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, captured Jaime Lannister in battle.
And he… Eddard Karstark, second son of Lord Rickard of Karhold… was part of Robb Stark's personal guard.
In the books, he was barely more than a background character, used to add texture to the scene around Robb and Jaime.
His fate? Just a footnote.
—"He forgot where he put his sword… His sword first cut off Torhen's hand, split Daryn's head, and then was forgotten on Eddard Karstark's neck."
That was how Robb had described Jaime's rampage in a quiet conversation with Catelyn.
Gulp.. Eddard swallowed hard.
So that's how he dies.
At the thought of that grisly fate, Eddard instinctively reached up and touched his neck.
Still intact.
No extra ventilation.
It seemed he'd transmigrated just before the original Eddard Karstark met his end.
If he'd arrived any later, knowing the infamous impulsiveness of House Karstark, the old Eddard would probably have already picked up the battle-axe at his feet, let out a war cry, and charged headlong into the fray—repaying the Young Wolf's favor with his life in one glorious, suicidal moment.
After all, being named Robb Stark's personal bodyguard was a coveted honor.
At Twins—Twin River City—many had died vying for it.
Eddard's mind worked quickly now. Within a few seconds, he had sorted through the fragments of memory and present reality. He bent down and picked up the heavy battle-axe from the grass.
No matter what he eventually wanted—to become a lord, a king, a hero of the realm, or even cross the Narrow Sea and "negotiate" with Daenerys over a few shared interests—
None of it mattered yet.
Right now, he had a role to play: Eddard Karstark, second son of Lord Rickard, sworn to the King in the North.
And he had to play it well.
Otherwise, his foundation—his name, his family—would collapse, if not from outside enemies, then from his own stubborn, short-tempered father.
At this moment, protecting Robb Stark in battle was not only his duty—it was the safest and smartest path forward.
If he kept dodging the front lines, sooner or later the whispers would begin.
Coward. Craven. Disgrace to the North.
In the North, once word got out, he'd be done for.
Of course, Eddard was under no illusions about his own abilities. Sure, he'd trained a bit in swordplay, picked up a few cold weapon techniques, and even participated in a handful of amateur jousts back in his original world.
But compared to the Kingslayer?
Not even close.
He wasn't about to go toe-to-toe with Jaime Lannister—but he could probably get in a few convincing swings at the Westerlands soldiers trailing behind him.
Purely for show, of course.
With that plan forming in his mind, Eddard turned to look at Abel, who was still stiff with fear, eyes wide and uncertain.
He patted the boy lightly on the shoulder and said, "Alright, I remember everything now. Don't worry—my father won't hear a word of this. It's not your fault."
As he spoke, he lowered his gaze to the battle-axe in his hand.
The handle was dark, made from seasoned wood with a smooth, aged patina. The axe head was snow-white, with a brilliant sheen along the sharpened edge.
It felt balanced and solid in his grip—clearly the work of a master blacksmith, likely crafted specifically for the original Eddard Karstark.
"Abel, stick close. We're going in."
Eddard gave the axe a casual twirl, the motion surprisingly natural, then stepped forward, preparing to charge into battle.
"Yes, My Lord!"
[Lord System initializing... Detected: individual willing to pledge loyalty to Host. System now fully activated.]
[Identity: Son of a Northern Lord — Troop Capacity: 0 / 5]
[Controlled Territory: None — Garrison Slots: 0 / 0]
Current Available Functions:
[Absolute Loyalty]
Displays the loyalty status of any warrior under the system's control. Influencing factors are listed for clarity.
Loyalty tiers are ranked as follows:
– Abysmal: On the verge of betrayal. Immediate action recommended.
– Very Poor: Carries deep resentment toward you.
– Normal: Willing to serve.
– Good: Supports you and your cause.
– Excellent: Would follow you through fire and death without question.
Note: Kill the disloyal, cherish the loyal. That is the meaning of Absolute Loyalty.
[Rank Advancement]
Warriors incorporated into the system will gain experience in battle.
Experience is based on individual performance and kill count.
Once the experience bar is full, the warrior levels up—gaining increased stats in Strength, Constitution, and Agility.
[Current Troop Type: Northmen]
[Northmen Rank Structure:]
Descendant of the First Men
Strength +10%, Constitution +5%
Northman Soldier
Strength +20%, Constitution +10%
Ice Warrior
Strength +40%, Constitution +20%, Cold Resistance increased
Bloodthirsty Wolfguard
Strength +70%, Constitution +30%, Cold Resistance increased
Winter Retainer
Strength +100%, Constitution +50%, Cold Resistance greatly increased
PS: Kill your enemies—grow stronger.
[Lord-Vassal Unity]
When a warrior pledges loyalty to you, a portion of their strength becomes your own.
Bonus received is based on their loyalty tier:
0%, 0.5%, 1%, 5%, 10% (corresponding to Abysmal, Very Poor, Normal, Good, Excellent).
PS: Loyalty is power.
[Currently willing to pledge loyalty: Abel Qashtak]
[Recruit? — Yes / No]
A hidden bonus? Really?
Eddard Karstark, who had just lifted his foot to charge into battle, suddenly paused and turned.
Abel stood beside him, eyes brimming with gratitude and devotion.
Eddard didn't hesitate. With a single thought, he chose—
Yes.
[Abel Qashtak]
Loyalty: Good
Reasons:
Sent by Lord Rickard Karstark to serve you.
Your distant kin by blood.
Your reassurance saved his valued position.
Rank: None
A faint surge of power washed through Eddard's body.
He could feel it—subtle but real. Even the axe in his hand felt a little lighter, easier to wield.
Well, now. That's a pleasant surprise.
He gave the weapon a testing swing, the weight familiar and manageable.
Time to get back into it.
But… it seemed there was no longer any need.
From the moment he'd awakened—to the questioning, the rapid thinking, grabbing his weapon, and readying for the fight—barely one or two minutes had passed.
In ordinary circumstances, that might be enough time to relieve yourself behind a tree and give the "tool of the trade" a shake.
But here, in the chaos of battle, it was more than enough time for Jaime Lannister to shout "Robb Stark!" at the top of his lungs—then, with only a handful of retainers, carve a bloody path straight toward the red-haired youth.
In the process, Jaime had already slain the only son of House Hornwood who tried to intercept him—and with two vicious blows, nearly split Robb's shield in half.
In terms of swordsmanship and sheer combat prowess, Robb Stark was no match for the Kingslayer.
Jaime Lannister's blade moved with deadly precision, each strike heavy with experience and intent. But his men were quickly falling—cut down one by one, outflanked and surrounded by the Young Wolf's personal guard. Screams of dying Westerlands soldiers filled the air as the tide turned.
Robb raised his shield just in time to deflect another blow—then another.
But before Jaime could press further, Theon Greyjoy leapt in, having just dispatched his own opponent. He intercepted the Kingslayer, forcing him to break momentum and halting his advance.
As a warrior, Jaime was nearly unmatched.
But as a commander?
He was leagues beneath Robb Stark.
Even now, encircled and outnumbered, he refused to fall back. Like a maddened beast backed into a corner, Jaime Lannister slashed and lunged, still aiming to take Stark's head.
And then—
A warhorse came thundering from the shadows, hooves pounding like rolling drums of doom. Northmen scattered instinctively, parting like water before a crashing tide.
The rider—dark and swift—raised a gleaming silver greatsword high into the air.
Whoosh—
The blade sliced through the air like a streak of moonlight, aiming directly for Jaime Lannister, who was locked in combat, unaware of the incoming strike.
Clang!
Jaime spun just in time to raise his sword and block—only for the full force of the horse's charge to crash into him.
He was thrown violently to the ground, his golden longsword spinning from his grip and landing several paces away.
Theon Greyjoy, eyes wide and gleaming, saw his chance.
And he was ecstatic.
Without sparing a thought as to whom the credit belonged, Theon lunged forward and tackled the Kingslayer, who was still trying to rise to his feet.
Jaime Lannister struggled, dazed but defiant.
Then, from seemingly out of nowhere, Jon Umber appeared—massive and furious—and brought the hilt of his sword crashing down on Jaime's unprotected head.
Blood spattered.
The golden-haired knight collapsed instantly, unconscious before he hit the dirt.
The mounted rider who had delivered the decisive charge circled his horse around.
He wore blackened chainmail, and his face was lined with exhaustion. His hair and beard were snow-white.
It was Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold.
When the Kingslayer realized the battle was lost and made his final, desperate charge toward Robb Stark, Rickard had already broken through his own front and rushed to reinforce his son and liege.
As a cadet branch of House Stark, the Karstarks had sworn fealty to Winterfell for over a thousand years. Lords had come and gone, but their loyalty had never faltered.
Even so, when Rickard saw his son—his only remaining son—go down in the chaos of battle, something inside him cracked.
For a brief moment, rage overtook reason.