Chapter 3: Saelen Stark (I)
On the training grounds of Castle Edd, men were paired off in twos, sparring with wooden swords. A grim-faced, middle-aged man weaved through the crowd with a stout stick in hand, cursing nonstop. Any mistake—no matter how small—earned a sharp strike. Some hot-blooded youths, unable to vent their frustration elsewhere, could only pour their suppressed fury into their opponents, lending the field a growing air of violence.
Watching this, the master-at-arms, Mora Snow, nodded in satisfaction.
In a far corner of the yard, Saelen trained alone.
Dual swords flashed in his hands as he moved fluidly among straw dummies, slashing and weaving without pause. He kept at it for nearly an hour before finally stopping. Sheathing both blades, he staggered to the side, breathing heavily, and silently summoned the system interface.
---
Name: Saelen Stark
Note: This surname is forcibly bound by the system and cannot be altered.
Strength: 5.62 + 0.02 (Can be increased through training)
Agility: 3.36 + 0.02 (Can be increased through training)
Endurance: 4.56 + 0.02 (Can be increased through training)
Spirit: 9 (Max level. Complete construction tasks to unlock further upgrades. Each Spirit level allows control of one animal; current limit: 9.)
Mana: 0
Mana can be obtained by killing magical creatures:
Wight +0.1 | White Walker +10 | Night King +100
Mana Exchange: 0
Spirit Exchange: 0
Exchange Ratio: 1:1
Swordsmanship: Max
Archery: Max
Spear Technique: Max
Horsemanship: Max
Construction Tasks:
✔ Porcelain Factory – Completed
✔ Glass Factory – Completed
✔ Weapons & Armor Workshop – Completed
---
Seeing that his Strength, Agility, and Endurance had all risen—if only slightly—Saelen nodded in satisfaction. The gains were small, but steady. Being able to see immediate results from effort made training far more motivating.
It had been more than twenty years since he had transmigrated into this world of A Song of Ice and Fire.
The original body's owner had died of illness at the age of three. Saelen's soul had taken its place. When the parents saw their child "come back to life," they wept with joy and praised the Old Gods for their mercy.
After the initial shock and confusion, Saelen gradually accepted the truth: a modern-day laborer, worked to death, had crossed worlds and awakened on the magical continent of Westeros.
His original father was an old hunter named Quinn—a strong, agile man whose mastery of the bow was said to be uncanny. In his youth, Quinn had served the previous Lord of Winterfell. Tired of bloodshed, he declined the lord's attempts to retain him, returned home with his savings, married a local girl, and lived a quiet life—warm bed, wife, and child.
When Saelen was one year old, Quinn named him according to Westerosi custom: Saelen. No surname.
Saelen accepted the name easily. His only regret was the lack of a family name. In a land where bloodline determined destiny, how could one without lineage rise—even with foreknowledge?
That question was answered when Saelen turned seven.
One night, a band of wildling raiders descended on the village, slaughtering without mercy. Saelen's mother, buying time for her son to escape, picked up a hoe and charged the invaders. She was killed on the spot.
Saelen fled into the dark forest. Along the way, he met several villagers who had also escaped. They huddled together and survived the night in the wild.
Days earlier, Quinn had taken a dozen young men out hunting. When they returned the next day, they found corpses strewn everywhere. All valuables had been looted—only the grain remained, too heavy to carry.
They found Saelen and the others nearby. Seeing his son alive, Quinn finally exhaled in relief. He immediately sent word to Winterfell.
During this time, Quinn continued scouting for wildling tracks and confirmed their general direction.
Ten days later, Lord Eddard arrived with dozens of Winterfell guards.
Quinn, having once served in Winterfell and knowing the terrain well, volunteered as guide—also hoping for vengeance. Saelen, too young to be left behind and now motherless, remained with the group. The surviving villagers, driven by grief and fury, insisted on joining as well, swearing blood would be repaid with blood.
Lord Eddard reluctantly agreed.
They were all able-bodied men, skilled with bows. Only a handful of children—including Saelen—were noncombatants. Leaving them behind would be even more dangerous. Besides, mountain children were hardy by nature.
The group set out with ample food and water, following the wildlings' trail.
After two or three days, Quinn determined that the wildlings had split into three groups, fleeing in different directions. But he couldn't tell which was real and which were decoys.
Left with no choice, Lord Eddard divided the force into three and sent them after each trail, instructing them to return immediately if they found the path false.
Quinn and Saelen stayed with Eddard's group.
A day later, they were ambushed in a narrow valley.
Over two hundred wildlings lay in wait—along with a dozen archers. Caught off guard, the Winterfell guards suffered devastating losses.
In the end, only by sacrificing the remaining guards to hold the line did Quinn manage to escort Lord Eddard and Saelen out of the encirclement, fleeing back the way they came.
But more than a dozen pursuers followed.
Quinn's expression turned solemn. He looked at Lord Eddard and spoke:
"Lord Eddard, I know you are a man who values honor and promises above all else. I need a vow from you."
Eddard glanced back at the pursuing wildlings, then nodded.
"What vow do you seek, Quinn?"
Quinn looked at Saelen.
"My lord, I ask that you take Saelen as your squire. When he comes of age, grant him knighthood. After that, his fate will be his own."
He sighed and gently pinched Saelen's cheek.
"This boy has always loved stories of knights. He even devised his own training methods—odd and laughable, perhaps—but he practices them earnestly."
Eddard answered without hesitation.
"Quinn, I swear by the Old Gods. Saelen will receive the same education and training as my eldest son, Robb. What Robb eats, Saelen eats. What Robb wears, Saelen wears."
"When he comes of age, I will find him a knight of great repute in the south to knight him."
Quinn finally relaxed.
"Go, Lord Eddard. As long as I still stand here, these wildlings won't pass."
He turned to Saelen, his eyes firm.
"You're a clever child. Remember Lord Eddard's kindness. Never—never—do anything that harms House Stark or Winterfell."
"Father…"
Saelen's voice caught.
Though a transmigrator, he had lived with these parents for years. The bond was real.
Quinn was not only choosing to stay behind—he had dared to demand a promise from one of the greatest lords in Westeros. And Eddard could have refused.
Instead, Eddard had sworn by the Old Gods.
For the first time, Saelen truly reassessed the man he once thought rigid and foolish.
Stubborn. Honorable. And… admirable.
"Father," Saelen said firmly, "I will never forget Lord Eddard's grace."
Quinn smiled, waved them away, then drew his bow and faced the pursuers.
As Eddard retreated, guilt weighed heavily on him. If not for his decision to divide the force, none of this would have happened.
Winterfell would soon gain more widows and orphans.
And he did not know how he would face them.
___
A day later, Saelen and Eddard stumbled back to the rendezvous point where the force had split. The other two detachments had already gathered there and were preparing to ride out in search of Eddard's party.
They never expected to see the lord himself return in such a wretched state—alone with a child, without horses.
The guards rushed forward in alarm.
Eddard offered only a brief explanation: they had fallen into an ambush; the others were dead. He then ordered an immediate return to Winterfell.
Though doubts lingered among the men, none questioned the command. After a hasty regrouping, they turned north toward Winterfell.
Saelen understood Eddard's reasoning.
Though they still had forty or fifty men, all cavalry, the wildlings numbered more than two hundred—and there was no telling whether more bands lurked nearby. Charging in blindly risked another ambush and complete annihilation.
The prudent course was clear: return to Winterfell, issue a summons, and gather a force of over a thousand riders before hunting the wildlings down.
Eddard, meanwhile, was burdened by frustration and self-reproach.
He had assumed they faced nothing more than a small raiding party. Instead, they had encountered hundreds of wildlings—cunning, organized, and capable of laying traps. Such coordination was unheard of among the Free Folk of old, who had once lacked discipline or strategy.
Yet now, they were thinking—and it was Eddard who had paid the price.
His thoughts drifted to the Wall. To Castle Black.
A force this large had crossed into the North, yet the Night's Watch had raised no alarm. Winterfell and the North provided the Watch with food and supplies year after year—had they become so blind that they could no longer even send warning?
Misfortune, it seemed, had not yet finished with them.
On the road back to Winterfell, Eddard's party was ambushed once more—this time by bandits.
What made it unbelievable was that these outlaws, seeing the direwolf banner of Winterfell, did not flee. They charged.
They asked for no ransom, sought no plunder, took no hostages.
They wanted only Eddard Stark's head.
The guards fought desperately, but the bandits were many—two to three hundred strong—and well equipped. They wore mail, wielded finely forged steel swords, and pressed the guards hard, steadily gaining the upper hand.
During a clash with the bandit leader, Eddard was struck from behind. A blade pierced his left calf.
He fell to one knee.
The bandit leader grinned savagely and raised his sword with both hands, bringing it down toward Eddard's neck.
Eddard's strength had already failed him. He could not lift his blade in time.
He closed his eyes, awaiting death.
Then—
Saelen.
The boy, nearby, gathered every ounce of courage he had. He seized a fallen sword, rushed behind the bandit leader, and drove the blade into the man's left leg.
The leader screamed and collapsed, his sword halted mid-swing.
Saelen did not hesitate.
He wrenched the blade free and thrust it upward from behind, piercing the man's throat through the back of the neck, killing him instantly.
At the same moment, the bandit who had wounded Eddard was cut down by charging guards.
Eddard looked at Saelen, his expression complicated.
"You saved my life," he said slowly. "And your father saved my life as well. I now owe your family two lives."
Saelen merely smiled, saying nothing.
Yet standing there—bloodied sword in hand, a corpse at his feet—there was something deeply unsettling about the sight.
Seven hells, Eddard thought grimly.
He's only seven years old.
With their leader dead, the bandits fell into chaos.
Seizing the moment, the guards lifted Eddard and Saelen onto horses and broke through the encirclement.
A dozen mounted guards escorted them at full gallop toward Winterfell.
Those without horses stayed behind voluntarily, forming a rearguard to hold off the pursuing bandits.
One by one, they were swallowed by the crowd.