The North, the domain of House Stark, stretched endlessly across Westeros — fertile, vast, and harsh.
Even in the height of summer, the wind cut through the land with a biting chill, reminding any traveler that winter was never far away.
Beyond Winterfell's ancient walls, the Wolfswood spread like a dark sea of green, stretching north past Last Hearth to the New Gift, west across Deepwood, and south to the mountains of Torrhen's Square.
Within its depths, wild animals thrived — some as food, others as predators who would quickly remind mortals that the forest did not forgive carelessness.
Between Winterfell and Last Hearth lay the Long Lake, its shores dotted with settlements, but none so prosperous as the Village of Rams.
Nestled conveniently between the lake and the Kingsroad, it was home to just over a hundred souls — of whom three dozen were strong, trained men.
Enough to make the village a local powerhouse.
The village itself sprawled along the lake, houses forming a tight semicircle protected by a two-meter-thick earthen wall. A massive wooden gate stood at its center, giving the impression of a small fort.
To the west ran the Kingsroad; to the east, the lake shimmered under the summer sun.
A long pier stretched into its waters, lined with seven or eight long, narrow boats.
Their high bows and sterns, furled sails, and menacing appearance were reminiscent of Viking raiders, built for speed and shallow waters.
Midday approached, and the village gates were wide open.
Outside, women hoeing the soil pulled thick vines and gathered potatoes into wicker baskets, while children trailed behind, collecting and carrying the harvest.
The potato tops weren't wasted; elders chopped them for the village cattle.
Deeper in the forest, axes rang as lumberjacks felled trees. Burly men sawed the trunks into planks, loading them onto ox carts to transport to village warehouses. All of it ran like a well-oiled machine — or at least, it would run smoothly under someone with eyes sharp enough to notice inefficiencies.
Farther still, a dozen hunters moved quietly through the forest, leather armor softening their movements. They led dogs on leashes, yew bows at their backs, short swords at their belts, scanning for prey.
At the head of the company strode a giant — almost two meters tall, broad-shouldered, his short-cropped chestnut hair and superior yew bow marking him as more than just a skilled hunter.
Even among the tall northerners, he was a colossus, a figure whose presence alone demanded attention.
The dogs growled, sensing prey, and he signaled his men to fan out. A large herd of reindeer grazed ahead. Harwin studied the tracks, checking the wind with a pinch of dry soil tossed into the air. Conditions were perfect.
Silently, the hunters spread into a line, arrows drawn. Harwin knelt, placing a few arrows in the ground and holding two more in his fingers. Then, with a fluid motion, he loosed the first arrow — precise, deadly.
Chaos erupted as arrows rained down, each striking its mark. Harwin moved calmly, every shot calculated, ensuring the kill would leave the pelts intact. The hunting dogs bolted, and the hunters rushed forward to finish the injured.
"Oh-ho-o-o!" the men cried, triumph echoing through the forest.
"Twenty-one deer, Harwin! Skins intact. We'll make a fortune from this," a burly man reported, having counted the haul.
Harwin's mind raced beyond the immediate reward. "John, tell them to hurry. We must return before noon, then set out after dinner. The rains have swollen the Long Lake and White Knife. If we leave today, we'll reach White Harbor by the day after tomorrow morning."
John saluted in mock knightly fashion, earning a smirk from Harwin.
Good.
Let them think I'm simple, focused only on the hunt.
The less they suspect, the better.
He tapped the air as if in thought. Open the panel!
[Host name: Harwin Redmoor]
[Talent: Mountain]
[Warrior Level: 1]
[Personal Attributes:
Strength: 7
Constitution: 7
Dexterity: 6]
[Skill Attributes: Swordsmanship Lv1, Archery Lv1, Knockback Lv1, Shield Wall Lv1]
[Passive Skill: Standing Firm on Your Feet (Using a shield allows you to withstand blows and attacks, preventing you from falling)]
[Equipment: Viking Sword, Yew Longbow, Warhammer, Great Shield, Barrel Helm, Chainmail, Scale Armor]
No change. Only battle grants experience…
Interesting, Harwin thought, eyes glinting.
It had been three years since Harwin woke up in this world.
At first, he'd been dazed and disoriented, unsure if he was dreaming or dead.
But after listening to the people around him, hearing names like Winterfell, the King's Road, and House Stark, the truth had sunk in — he was in Game of Thrones.
The man whose life he now lived was no fool. His grandfather had served in the Stark guard and died in King's Landing seeking justice from the Mad King.
His father had fallen in Robert's Rebellion. His mother had died three years ago — the same day Harwin's soul arrived.
Winterfell had sent aid — a few silver stags — and he'd made the most of it. He rallied his village, built a longboat, and hunted with the skill that came naturally to him.
Over time, he'd built up a tidy sum of gold and the arms and armor of a man ready for far more than just hunting deer.