"Cough! Hack... damn it..."
My lungs felt like they were full of dry glass. Every breath was a total struggle, accompanied by this unbearable, crawling itch deep in my chest like my muscles were knitting themselves back together while I was still awake to feel it.
I forced my eyes open, and my pupils immediately blew wide.
"Where... where am I?"
The last thing I remembered was a screech of tires and the blinding glare of high beams. Some kid had sprinted right into the middle of the road, and I classic move didn't even think. I'd lunged. Then came the roar of a heavy engine, the scream of a horn, and a sudden, bone-shattering thud.
Wait, did I seriously just get isekai'd? Like, for real? I knew I shouldn't have played hero with that semi-truck.
I blinked, trying to clear the red haze from my vision. This wasn't a hospital. This was a straight-up nightmare. I was lying in a dim, suffocatingly dense forest. The ground wasn't just dirt; it was a swamp of mud and gore. Everywhere I looked, there were bodies shattered armor, limbs twisted at angles that made my stomach flip, and wounded guys groaning in the shadows with arrows sticking out of them like human pincushions. A literal stream of blood was trickling down a nearby slope, pooling around the roots of an ancient tree.
The air was thick with the smell of iron, sweat, and something much worse. And then there was the noise: the rhythmic clang-clash of steel on steel and the kind of guttural screaming you only hear when men are fighting for their lives.
I tracked the sound, my head spinning.
Not far off, a unit of soldiers in gold-and-red armor was tearing through a line of guys in black. It was a slaughter. Right in the middle of it was a knight who looked like he'd stepped straight out of a high-budget fantasy flick. He was draped in polished gold plate that shimmered even in the low light, a crimson cloak billowing behind him like a bloodstain. He was fast terrifyingly fast. His longsword was a golden blur, carving through anyone who got close like they were made of paper.
His target? A red-haired kid further back, holding a shield and trying to keep his cool while the golden god of death carved a path toward him.
I couldn't take my eyes off the golden knight.
Jesus, look at this guy. He looks like some trust-fund brat with a gold mine, just bullying a bunch of country hicks.
The knight's armor was embossed with a lion. A lion. And the sword was gold-plated. Even if it was just a flashy paint job, it was the ultimate "new money" flex.
The battle was hitting a fever pitch. The black-armored guys were throwing everything they had at the golden knight, swinging maces and axes at his vitals, trying to keep him away from the red-haired kid. But the knight was just too smooth. He danced through the chaos, his sword catching an opening every time a defender overextended.
A massive, brown-haired warrior tried to take a swing, but the knight's blade took his hand off at the wrist before he could even blink. A second later, the golden sword tasted the man's throat. The warrior went down hard, clutching his neck, his eyes locking onto mine as the light faded. He looked terrified. Confused. On his chest, there was a white sunburst symbol.
Wait. White sunburst. Gold armor. Lion. Red-haired kid.
"What the hell is this place?" I hissed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Who am I even supposed to be helping here?"
I groaned, trying to push myself up, when a pair of hands suddenly grabbed my shoulders from behind. I hadn't even heard the guy coming. Pure adrenaline took over. I didn't think; I just pivoted and threw a desperate, gloved fist.
WHACK.
It landed square on the guy's nose.
"Ow! Dammit!" a young voice cried out, sounding way more hurt than angry. "Young Master?! Why'd you hit me?"
I looked down. A kid about my age maybe younger with messy brown hair and hardened leather armor was holding his face, eyes watering.
Young Master?
I didn't waste time. I grabbed the kid by the collar and hauled him behind a massive oak tree, out of the line of fire. "Who are you? And where the hell are we?"
The kid, Abel, froze. He looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "I'm your retainer! We're in the Whispering Wood, man. Near Riverrun. You okay?"
He saw the blank look on my face and tried again, slower this time. "Abel Qashtak. Your cousin. Your distant relative. Your guy? Remember?"
Abel looked worried. He was from a branch of the family that had missed out on the big titles his grandpa, Alf, never became the Earl of Karhold so Abel had been stoked when Rickard, the Earl, picked him to be the personal bodyguard for his second son. It was a good gig. Or it was, until the second son started punching him in the face.
My brain started firing on all cylinders.
Young Master. Eddard Karstark. White sunburst. Whispering Wood.
"Wait... A Song of Ice and Fire?" I whispered. "This is Westeros? I'm a Northman?" I paused, a terrifying thought hitting me. "Wait, am I Eddard Stark?!"
I felt a weird surge of hope. If I was Ned, I could change things! I could keep my head!
"Then who am I?" I asked, my voice shaking.
Abel's eyes filled with genuine fear. "You're Eddard Karstark, sir. The second son of Lord Rickard. You don't remember? Jaime Lannister kicked you so hard you flew into that tree. You've been out cold for five minutes."
Abel was sweating now. Rickard Karstark was a man with a legendary temper, and he'd already lost one son, Toren, in this fight. If the second son had gone brain-dead on Abel's watch, he was as good as dead.
Eddard Karstark?
"Oh. So I'm not the main character," I muttered, feeling a sharp sting of disappointment. "No Winterfell for me, I guess."
But the name rang a bell. I'd read the books, watched the show. I knew the author still hadn't finished the damn series back on Earth. I was stuck in a world where everyone I knew was fictional, and I was a guy who if I remembered correctly was basically a footnote.
Wait. Eddard Karstark. The Kingslayer's personal kill count.
I remembered a line from the story. Something about Jaime cutting through Toren, then Daryn Hornwood, then "forgetting his sword in Eddard Karstark's neck."
I instinctively touched my throat. Still there. No holes.
It looked like I'd jumped into this body just seconds before the "original" Eddard was supposed to die. If I'd been the old Eddard, I'd probably be charging into that golden meat grinder right now to do my duty as Robb Stark's bodyguard.
But I wasn't that guy anymore.
Still, I couldn't just sit here. In the North, being a coward was a death sentence in itself. You couldn't get a drink, a job, or a wife if people thought you ran. I needed to play the part.
"Alright," I said, trying to sound a lot more confident than I felt. "I remember now. Everything's fine. My dad won't hear about the 'brain-dead' thing, Abel. You're off the hook."
I looked down at the weapon lying in the mud. It was a heavy battle-axe with a blackened wooden handle and a blade that looked sharp enough to shave with. It felt balanced. Right. Like it was made for my hand.
"Abel, get up. We're moving."
I twirled the axe, feeling a weirdly natural rhythm to it.
Detecting someone willing to pledge loyalty. Lord System activated.
Identity: Son of an Earl.
Troop Slots: 0/5
A transparent blue screen flickered in my vision. I nearly jumped out of my skin. A system? Really? Okay, I can work with this.
The screen detailed functions like Absolute Loyalty (showing how much my men liked me) and Rank Advancement (where soldiers could literally level up and get stronger by killing stuff).
Current Troop Type: Northmen.
Northmen Ranks: Descendant of the First Men -> Soldier -> Ice Warrior -> Bloodthirsty Wolfguard -> Winter Retainer.
Lord-Vassal Unity: The strength of your loyal warriors becomes your strength.
Abel Qashtak is willing to pledge loyalty.
Recruit?
I looked at Abel, who was looking back at me with a mix of relief and intense loyalty. He thinks I just saved his skin from my dad's wrath.
Recruit, I thought.
Abel Qashtakrecruited.
Loyalty: Good (Reason: You saved his job).
Suddenly, a warmth flooded my muscles. I felt faster, sharper. The heavy axe in my hand suddenly felt like it weighed half as much.
Oh, this is definitely cheating, I thought with a grin. I love it.
I hefted the axe, ready to jump back into the fray, but the tide had already turned.
While I'd been sorting out my mid-life-re-incarnation crisis, Jaime Lannister had made his big move. The Kingslayer had screamed Robb Stark's name and charged with his last few guys, trying to end the war with one stroke. He'd killed the Hornwood kid, smashed Robb's shield to splinters, and was inches away from the Young Wolf.
But Jaime was alone. His men were dead or dying, surrounded by Northmen who were hacking them apart. Theon Greyjoy had jumped into the mix, keeping Jaime busy just long enough for the cavalry to arrive.
Literally.
A massive warhorse thundered out of the treeline, its hooves churning the bloody mud. A rider in black chainmail, his hair and beard a shock of white, leveled a massive silver greatsword.
CLANG.
The horse slammed into Jaime, and the silver blade deflected the golden sword with enough force to send it flying. The Kingslayer hit the dirt hard.
Theon didn't hesitate he pounced on Jaime, pinning him down before the knight could scramble for a dagger. Then, a massive guy I recognized as the Greatjon showed up, slamming his sword hilt into the back of Jaime's head.
The golden knight went limp.
The rider pulled his horse around. It was Rickard Karstark. He looked exhausted, his face a mask of grief and rage. He'd won the battle, but he'd seen his son go down, and he looked ready to burn the whole world down to get him back.