"Cough—"
Eddard's lungs seized. He coughed again, hard enough that his ribs ached. Each breath scraped like sand.
For a moment he thought he was waking from a fever dream.
Then he opened his eyes.
Trees.
Not a ceiling. Not a room. Not even a sky he recognized at first—only branches knotting together above him like black veins.
The ground beneath him was damp, cold, and wrong.
He pushed himself up—and saw the bodies.
Men sprawled across the grass and among the roots, broken and bleeding. Some were dead. Some were not dead enough, their mouths working soundlessly as arrows jutted from flesh.
Blood ran downhill in thin streams, pooling in the low places.
Armor lay cracked. Weapons lay chipped, abandoned where hands had fallen limp.
Steel rang somewhere ahead. Men shouted. Men screamed.
Eddard's mind reached for an explanation and found none that made sense.
He remembered movement. Impact. Darkness.
He remembered dying.
And now—this.
A thought came unbidden, absurd in any world that wasn't a story.
I'm not where I was.
He forced his gaze toward the clash of noise.
Not far away, warriors in red-and-gold were driving forward with ruthless momentum, slamming into black-armored soldiers who fought stubbornly to hold a line.
At the head of the red-and-gold charge was a knight in gilded plate, a crimson cloak flaring behind him like a banner. His longsword flashed with every step—fast, clean, practiced. He moved as if he had done this a thousand times.
A lion shone on his armor.
A Lannister.
Even without knowing every name, the image felt infamous—too bright, too rich, too certain.
His target was a red-haired youth with sword and shield, surrounded by black-armored men who threw themselves into the gap like living barricades.
The golden knight carved them down anyway.
A tall fighter lunged—
Steel flickered.
A hand dropped to the ground.
A second cut opened a throat.
Blood sprayed across leaves. The dying man stumbled, clutching at his neck, eyes wide with disbelief as he collapsed. A white sunburst was stamped upon his chest.
Eddard stared at it.
That sigil…
His stomach tightened.
This wasn't just violence. This was familiar violence—familiar in the way books and screens could make something feel familiar before reality proved the cost.
Westeros had always been fictional to him.
Until now.
He tried to stand and nearly fell.
A hand grabbed his arm.
He reacted on instinct, swinging a fist without looking. Leather glove met bone with a dull crack.
"Ow—!"
A young voice, pained and offended. "Young master?! Why did you hit me?"
Eddard blinked and finally looked.
A brown-haired youth in hardened leather armor held his face, eyes watering.
Young master?
Eddard seized him and dragged him behind a thick tree, putting bark between them and the chaos.
"Who are you?" Eddard hissed. "Where are we?"
The boy swallowed hard. "I'm your retainer. This is the Whispering Wood—near Riverrun."
Whispering Wood.
The name struck like a nail through memory.
The War of the Five Kings.
The trap.
The Kingslayer's capture.
"I'm Abel Qashtak," the boy rushed on, as if speed could ward off danger. "Your cousin… your retainer."
Eddard's thoughts spun.
He had read this. He had watched it. But knowing a story was not the same as standing inside it while men bled out in the grass.
He forced the next question out.
"Who am I?"
Abel's expression turned frightened, as if the answer itself was dangerous. "You are Eddard Karstark—second son of Lord Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold."
Karstark.
Not Stark.
Eddard exhaled through clenched teeth.
So close to Winterfell in name, and yet worlds away in standing.
He looked again toward the battlefield.
The red-haired youth—Robb Stark—was still there, still surrounded. The golden knight was cutting for him like a man determined to end a war with one swing.
Eddard's neck prickled.
A faint, ugly awareness settled in: in this world, men like him often died as scenery.
He glanced down and spotted a battle-axe half-buried in mud and leaves. He took it by the haft.
It fit his grip too well, like a tool that belonged to this body even if the mind inside it did not.
He could run.
He could hide.
And then he would live a little longer—until someone decided a coward was worth less than a corpse.
He looked at Abel.
"Stay close," Eddard said. "And don't get separated."
"Yes, young master."
Eddard took one breath, then another, and stepped out from behind the tree.
— — —
Something cold and sharp slid across his senses.
Words appeared in his vision as though carved into the air.
[Detecting a willing subject.][Lord System activated.][Identity: Lord's Son — Troop Slots: 0 / 5]
Eddard did not have time to be astonished. The battle did not pause for disbelief.
More lines followed—too clean, too certain.
[Absolute Loyalty…][Rank Advancement…][Lord-Vassal Unity…][Currently willing to pledge loyalty: Abel Qashtak][Recruit?]
It was grotesque in its own way: order and numbers presented in a world ruled by blood and weather.
But if this was real—if anything here was real—then refusing it out of pride would be stupidity.
Eddard's gaze flicked to Abel, who stood alert and frightened, waiting for instruction.
He accepted.
[Abel Qashtak — Loyalty: Good]
A faint surge of strength warmed his limbs. The axe felt slightly lighter.
Eddard's mouth tightened into something that was not quite a smile.
"Good," he muttered. "Then we'll live."
— — —
By the time he moved to rejoin the fighting, the moment was already turning.
Jaime Lannister had reached Robb's line. Steel crashed against shield. Robb staggered under blows he could barely endure.
Then a warhorse burst from the shadows, hooves thundering.
A rider in dark mail raised a pale greatsword.
The cut came down like judgement.
Jaime's blade met it with a clang—and Jaime was thrown from his feet. His sword spun away into the mud.
Men surged in.
Theon Greyjoy slammed into him first, pinning him before he could rise.
Another Northman struck Jaime's head with a sword hilt.
Blood ran.
The Kingslayer went limp.
The rider reined in his horse and turned, face drawn and haggard, hair and beard pale as frost.
Lord Rickard Karstark.
When his eyes found the body of his son among the fallen—
the old lord's face went still.
Not calm.
Not resigned.
Just still in the way a man becomes still when something inside him snaps and does not return to its former shape.
Eddard tightened his grip on the axe.
He had arrived in time to see the Kingslayer fall.
Now he had to survive what came after.