"Cough! Cough! Cough!"
Each violent cough tore through Eddard's chest like claws raking against raw flesh. His throat burned, his ribs ached, and a strange heat surged through his body as if his veins had been scalded from the inside. When the fit finally subsided, he gasped hoarsely for air, blinking through the haze that clouded his vision.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the canopy above. The sight before him made his pupils contract sharply.
A forest.
But not the peaceful kind he remembered from childhood hikes or fantasy video games.
The ground was littered with broken corpses sprawled at grotesque angles. Some men still clutched shattered shields, others lay impaled on snapped spears. Arrows jutted out of ribcages, necks, and faces. Pools of blood seeped into the grass, gathering into a sluggish crimson stream that trickled downhill, staining tree roots as it passed.
The stench was overwhelming—iron, sweat, and the unmistakable reek of spilled guts.
Scattered across the battlefield were fragments of ruined armor, dented helmets, and chipped swords. Somewhere nearby, a dying soldier moaned in agony, his voice fading into silence before being drowned out by the clash of steel and the furious roar of men locked in combat.
The battle was still raging.
Eddard's heart skipped a beat. He dragged his gaze forward and froze.
Not far away, warriors in golden-red armor stormed through the chaos, their formation like a gleaming spear driving deep into the ranks of black-armored men. The golden tide surged, swords flashing, shields battering, crushing resistance beneath sheer ferocity.
At their head strode a knight whose golden hair gleamed even under the blood-soaked sky. He wore shining lion-engraved plate armor, a red cloak snapping behind him as he advanced with predatory confidence. The longsword in his hand was no ordinary weapon—it shimmered like molten gold, cleaving through enemy defenses as though their steel were made of parchment.
The knight's movements were terrifyingly precise. He ducked under a halberd, sidestepped a spear thrust, and in a single motion severed the weapon's shaft before driving his blade clean through its wielder's chest.
His goal was clear: a red-haired youth standing not far away, gripping sword and shield with both hands.
Eddard swallowed.
That knight… Jaime Lannister?!
And that boy… Robb Stark?
The realization made his stomach twist.
Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Time out. Where the hell am I?
His heart raced. He looked down at his own hands, caked with mud and blood, his body clothed in torn leather and chainmail.
Transmigrated?
Memories flashed—blinding headlights, the screech of brakes, and a child stumbling into the street. He remembered throwing himself forward instinctively, then… nothing.
And now, here he was.
"Oh, great," he muttered bitterly. "I knew I shouldn't have played hero. Save a kid, get sent to Westeros. Just my luck."
The battlefield stretched before him like a scene ripped from a nightmare. He forced himself to focus. Golden armor clashed against black. Men screamed as they died. The knight in golden plate—Jaime Lannister, surely—cut down enemies as easily as a butcher culling pigs.
One unfortunate brown-haired warrior stepped up, swinging a heavy axe. Jaime's sword blurred. First the man's hand flew, then his throat split open in a crimson spray. As he collapsed, his eyes met Eddard's. They were filled with terror, confusion… and a white sunburst sigil emblazoned across his chest.
Recognition struck like lightning.
White sunburst.
Karstarks.
Eddard's brain whirred. Wait. My name…? Don't tell me…
Before panic could fully take root, someone grabbed him under the arm. A pair of hands steadied him.
Instinctively, Eddard threw a punch. His fist, wrapped in a leather glove, cracked against a nose.
"Ahhh!" a young voice cried out in pain. "Young Master, why did you hit me?!"
Eddard blinked down at the boy. Brown-haired, dressed in hardened leather, holding his bleeding face.
Young Master?
Confused but wary, Eddard dragged him behind a tree and hissed, "Who are you? Where is this?"
The boy stared, wide-eyed. "Huh? I'm your retainer! This is the Haunted Forest, near Riverrun!" His voice trembled, as if he feared for his life. "I—I'm Abel Qashtak. Your distant relative. Your cousin. Your sworn retainer."
The words hit Eddard like stones tumbling down a cliff.
Karhold. Karstarks. A Song of Ice and Fire.
He wasn't Eddard Stark. No…
He was Eddard Karstark.
The other Eddard.
The name rang a faint bell. He dug through half-remembered lore from the books and show. Yes, Karstark. Loyal bannermen to the Starks. But this specific Eddard… hadn't his death been little more than a footnote?
A background character. Forgotten. Disposable.
Eddard's throat tightened. Fantastic. I didn't just transmigrate—I transmigrated into a redshirt.
He ran a trembling hand across his neck. Still attached. No sword lodged there—yet.
His thoughts spun furiously. If this was the Haunted Forest near Riverrun, then this was the War of the Five Kings. Robb Stark's early victories. Jaime's capture.
And him? He was just a glorified bodyguard destined to get killed by the Kingslayer.
"Bloody hell," he muttered.
But before despair could settle in, something even stranger happened.
[Detecting someone willing to pledge loyalty to the Host. Lord System officially activated.]
Eddard's mind jolted.
Wait. What?! A system?!
[Identity: Son of an Earl, Troop Slots 0/5]
[Current Dominated Area: None]
[Function: Absolute Loyalty, Rank Advancement, Lord-Vassal Unity]
Lines of glowing text appeared in his vision, explaining abilities like something straight out of a strategy RPG. He could recruit followers, see their loyalty, empower them through battle, and even share in their strength.
And right now…
[Currently willing to pledge loyalty: Abel Qashtak. Loyalty: Good.]
Eddard glanced at the boy clutching his bloody nose. Abel looked terrified, yet still gazed at him with gratitude.
He didn't hesitate. Accept.
A faint surge of power coursed through his body. His grip tightened instinctively around the axe at his feet.
The blade gleamed, its edge sharp and deadly. Its weight felt natural, as though it belonged in his hands.
For the first time since waking in this nightmare, Eddard smiled faintly. "Well. That's unexpected."
But the moment didn't last.
The battle was reaching its climax. Jaime Lannister, golden sword flashing, had nearly carved his way through to Robb. The Young Wolf's shield was splintering under relentless strikes. Sparks flew with each clash, and blood streaked the boy's arm.
Robb was outmatched.
But Jaime's retinue was dwindling. For every Northman he felled, two more closed in. The battlefield was a storm of chaos—shouts, screams, the ring of steel, the thunder of hooves.
Then came the sound that shifted everything.
A warhorse's hooves, pounding like thunder.
From the darkness, a rider surged forth, his greatsword raised high. The blade caught the faint light, gleaming silver.
"Whoosh—!"
The strike slammed against Jaime's sword. The Kingslayer staggered, knocked from his feet. His golden blade spun through the air, landing uselessly in the mud.
Theon Greyjoy lunged, tackling Jaime before he could recover. Jon Umber stormed forward, slamming the pommel of his sword against Jaime's unprotected skull.
Blood sprayed. The Kingslayer collapsed, unconscious.
The rider reined in his horse. A grim figure in black chainmail, face lined with age, hair and beard white. His eyes burned with fury and grief.
Rickard Karstark.
Eddard's supposed father.
The battlefield fell into uneasy silence as shouts of victory echoed.
Eddard gripped his axe tighter, his mind reeling.
He wasn't just fighting for survival anymore. He had a role, a family, a system. And if he wanted to live—if he wanted to carve out something more than a forgotten death—he would have to seize every chance this brutal world gave him.
And that started now.
He lifted his axe, eyes blazing. "Abel. Stay close. We've got work to do."
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