Galen had once dreamed of becoming a knight.
He trained with wooden swords behind barns. He copied the stances of traveling sellswords. Each night, he prayed... one day, a true knight might take him as a squire. But no one ever did… not in Deepwood Motte, not in the villages along the Kingsroad.
So he wandered.
He worked in fields for food. He slept in barns for shelter. All the while, he kept his rusty sword close, hoping that, sooner or later, fate would notice him.
It did, just not in the way he had hoped...
One night, near a small village not far from the Last Hearth, Galen woke to screams. Fire lit the sky, fierce and flickering. Men in mail rampaged through the streets, dragging people from their homes. Galen grabbed his sword and ran outside. His heart pounded.
He didn't even get a chance to swing... shock and panic froze him as chaos erupted around him.
A mailed fist struck him across the head, and the world went dark.
When he woke, his hands were bound. He sat in a cage with others... villagers, farmers, children. Outside, the men who had taken them laughed and beat anyone who resisted. They looked like knights, but their cruelty made Galen's stomach twist.
In that moment, something inside him broke. Hopelessness swelled, numbness replacing longing.
He no longer wanted to be a knight... not if this was what knights became... not if this was what "strength" meant.
But then the world changed again... a masked boy appeared... silent... swift... terrifying... and the slavers fell.
Galen never forgot the moment the cage opened and the boy... small, strange, and impossibly calm... offered them a choice.
Follow him... or go to Winterfell.
Galen didn't hesitate... he joined the boy who had saved him.
Boy had rules... simple ones.
Never betray and never use his gift to harm the innocent.
He accepted the rules without question.
Then the boy... Erick... placed a hand on his back... warmth flooded Galen's body... strength... energy... something new.. traveled through his body… chakra.
The others learned quickly. Within a week, most could hold a leaf to their forehead with ease. But Galen... his leaf never stuck. His chakra felt sluggish. Heavy. Unresponsive. He tried harder, asked questions, and watched the others. He repeated the exercise until his head hurt.
Still, nothing worked.
He began to fear he was a waste... shame and frustration gnawing at him... that he had been given a gift he couldn't use... that he was too dumb, a failure in everyone's eyes.
One evening, while he was questioning the others again, Erick overheard.
The boy walked up to him, mask tilted slightly, and spoke bluntly... "There's a chance you'll never control chakra like the others."
The words hit Galen like a hammer. His heart sank, heavy with dread and humiliation.
But Erick wasn't finished.
"There are other miracles chakra can do," he said. "Some people have bodies that don't shape chakra well. But they can use it differently. There's another path."
Galen looked up.
Erick continued, "It will be hard. It will test your will. But if you follow it, you'll become strong."
He agreed immediately.
So Erick created a training routine just for him.
The routine was simple, almost painfully so… push-ups, squats, pull-ups, and running.
But the rule was harsh. Whenever an exercise became easy, Galen had to double the amount of work. If he could not finish the set amount, he had to add a punishment exercise on top.
If he could do one hundred push‑ups, the next day he had to do two hundred. If he managed two hundred, the next time he had to do four hundred. And so on.
It felt endless, exhausting, and merciless. Galen often battled despair, but pride flickered as muscles ached with newfound strength.
Galen lay on the grass of the training clearing. His chest heaved. His arms trembled. Sweat dripped down his face. Muscles burned. His lungs felt like fire.
He grew stronger… every day, he noticed a little more progress.
Erick talked about the importance of youth. He even joked that Galen's smile might become a weapon one day. Galen didn't understand half of it.
But none of that mattered, because the training was working. Relief replaced his doubts. He was getting stronger.
For the first time in his life, Galen believed he could become more than just a knight… someone worthy of the gift he had received and of Erick's trust.
For several days, Erick's mind spun like a storm.
He sat on the cliff overlooking the sea, mask pushed up on his forehead. He stared at the waves as if they might give him answers. His new community was growing... slowly, steadily. But they needed more than just safety. They needed a future and a way to sustain themselves, without depending on luck or Erick's own strength.
At first, he considered the obvious path.
Maybe he could sell his skills, work as a mercenary, and earn coin that way, but the idea made him freeze.
He remembered something from his past life, something every Naruto fan eventually learned... the greatest enemy of shinobi was not other villages, but the corrupt leaders who used them as tools.
If he sold his skills for coin, he would be walking the same path that led to endless wars in the Naruto world. He would be creating the same conditions that destroyed entire nations.
He shook his head.
He would never sell his skills for coin.
They needed another way.
He looked down at the fish nets drying on the rocks. They had plenty of fish. Too much, really. All of it ended up as salted fish. Erick was already having nightmares about it. He wanted pasta, meatballs, bread, eggs, milk... anything but fish.
For that, they needed livestock... chickens... cows... pigs.
According to old Elira, they had enough resources to buy all of that if they traveled to Winterfell. If they needed more, there were plenty of villages along the Kingsroad. They could make a loop… Winterfell to Torrhen's Square and back to Sea Dragon Point. It was a good plan.
But they still needed a way to earn coin in the long term.
That's when Erick's doctor brain kicked in.
"Medicine."
Not the addictive, dangerous kind like Milk of the Poppy, which was basically medieval morphine. It was too strong and easy to abuse.
But there were safer, natural remedies he knew from Earth, like willow bark, which contains salicin… the precursor to aspirin. It was perfect for headaches and joint pain, and they could make Willow Bark Tea or Willow Tonic.
Ginger and mint... excellent for stomach upsets.
Valerian root... a natural sleep aid, with a calming effect.
Azure Snapdragon was the Westerosi version of aloe vera. It was good for skin irritation, inflammation, and jaundice.
These remedies were safe. Useful. Valuable.
And they could be sold anywhere.
Erick's mind raced.
"With these, we can earn coin without selling violence."
And that wasn't all.
If he could get essential oils and lye, he could make soap... something his community desperately needed. Something every village needed. Something that could be sold for good coin.
He pictured a future where Sea Dragon Point was known for soaps, salves, herbal remedies, healing tonics, and natural medicines… safe products.
Erick stood up, brushed off his clothes, and said, "Alright, first step… livestock and soap."
Snow drifted past the high, narrow windows of Ned Stark's solar, carried by a wind that whispered against the stone like an old ghost. The room was quiet, lit only by a pair of beewask candles. The orange glow of the hearth flickered. Shadows stretched long across the floor, broken by the heavy wooden desk at the center of the chamber.
Ned sat behind it, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched.
A small parchment lay before him... a message from Bear Island... from Jorah Mormont.
His hands were balled so tightly into fists that they trembled. Knuckles had gone white… veins stood out like cords beneath his skin.
Across from him… Maester Luwin waited silently, hands folded in his sleeves, concern on his face.
He lifted his eyes to Luwin.
"Send ravens," Ned said… his voice low but steady. "To every house in the North. And to the King."
Luwin blinked. "My lord… all of them?"
"All of them," Ned repeated. "Tell them Jorah Mormont has betrayed the North. Tell them he sold our people into chains. Tell them I, Warden of the North, want him brought to justice."
Luwin bowed his head. "At once, my lord."
He turned and left the solar, the door closing softly behind him.
Ned remained seated, staring at the parchment as if it might burst into flame under the weight of his anger and frustration... his jaw tight, eyes filled with cold resolve.
The desk was cluttered with reports… sightings of raiders near the coast, missing villagers, terrified accounts from his scouts, and now, Jorah's message.
Ned rose and walked to the window.
From here, he could see the entire courtyard of Winterfell... the training yard, the stables, the smithy, the great hall with smoke curling from its chimneys.
Snow blanketed everything in white… softening the edges of stone and timber.
Beyond the walls, the world stretched into a vast, frozen horizon. The Wolfwoods loomed dark in the distance, their branches heavy with frost. The sky above was a pale, icy gray, promising more snow before dawn.
Ned rested his hands on the cold stone of the windowsill.
"You think you can run," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "Not on my watch."
His breath fogged the glass.
He was already thinking... calculating... how to catch a man who knew the North. How to hunt someone who had fled into the wilds with guilt at his heels.
Jorah Mormont had chosen exile over honor... and Eddard Stark would not let that stand.
Erick spent the next few days preparing… he brewed remedies in clay pots… filling the hall with the scent of willow bark, mint, and ginger.
The woman helped him grind herbs… the man carried crates. By the time they finished, they had enough tonics, teas, and salves to fill half a wagon.
On the final evening before departure, Erick walked the perimeter of Sea Dragon Point and adjusted the mist barrier.
The ring of fog thickened, expanding from two miles to three. The illusions inside grew stronger, more subtle, more disorienting.
When morning came, the community gathered in the courtyard to see them off.
The wagon stood ready. The harness was strapped to Strike... who tossed his head dramatically, snorting as if offended by the indignity of pulling cargo.
Erick patted the stallion's neck... "Don't complain. You're the strongest one here..." Strike flicked his ears back in protest.
Freedom stood nearby, watching with what could only be described as judgment. Barbatos and Exia trotted in circles, full of energy, occasionally bumping each other like overexcited children.
He climbed onto the wagon seat. Galen took the reins beside him, posture straight, eyes bright with determination. Elira settled in the back, checking the crates one last time.
The villagers waved as the wagon rolled forward.
Because of the wagon, their pace was slow. Strike pulled steadily, hooves crunching over the frost‑hardened ground. After three hours, the pale wall of mist rose ahead like a silent guardian.
Galen and Elira sat frozen.
They knew Erick was up to something. The way Weir-Grip felt like spring in the middle of winter was proof enough. Everyone was curious, but no one dared to ask.
But now seeing this up close, a mist that stretches across the land like a living wall... their jaws dropped.
"Erick… what is this…?" Elira whispered, pointing with a trembling finger.
Galen nodded vigorously beside her, eyes wide.
Erick tilted his head. "Hmm… remember when I said no one would be able to touch you in Weir‑Grip?"
Elira blinked. "You… did say that. I thought you would defend us."
"Yes, but at the same time nope," Erick said cheerfully. "Around a Weir-Grip, a hundred miles of land is covered by a barrier. It creates mist with illusions. People can leave, but entering is almost impossible."
Both Elira and Galen stared at the mist, a mix of awe and fear.
Erick sighed. "Oh, come on… don't be scared. Here, take this."
He handed each of them a small, rounded stone, no bigger than a thumb.
"Don't lose it. I didn't make extras. If you carry this, the mist won't affect you."
They clutched the stones like lifelines.
"Alright, Strike… go."
Strike did not go... he stood perfectly still, muscles trembling.
Erick stared. "Not you too… listen, the mist only works on..."
He stopped... indeed... Strike was no longer a normal horse... chakra had changed him... he was… self‑aware.
Erick hopped off the wagon, grabbed a rock, etched on it anti-distraction runes, and quickly shaped it into a crude pendant. He tied it around Strike's neck.
The stallion immediately calmed.
"Good boy. Now go."
This time, Strike obeyed.
The mist parted like a curtain, and they stepped through.
Outside... the world changed instantly.
A storm of white swallowed them. Snow whipped across their faces, stinging their cheeks. The temperature dropped so sharply that Galen gasped.
Inside the formation, it had been spring... outside, it was the North in full winter.
They were now grateful that Erick had insisted that they wear warm clothing.
The journey that normally took two weeks took them four days... and that was with Strike moving carefully to protect the fragile crates of remedies.
Before reaching Winterfell, they arrived at Ironpine... a small village on the edge of the Wolfwoods, a few hours away from Winterfell. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the people moved slowly through the cold, wrapped in furs.
Galen, who knew the region well, could provide more details about this village.
Before entering, Erick formed a single hand sign... Ram... and his body puffed in a white cloud of smoke. In an instant, he transformed into an elderly man with Bran's features, only much older.
Elira and Galen gawked.
Erick adjusted his voice, testing tones until it rasped like a tired old traveler.
"Ea… hu… aa… we should move," he croaked.
If they hadn't seen the transformation, they would have sworn it was a different person entirely.
The villagers were surprised to see travelers in such weather, but when they learned the group had goods to trade, their faces brightened.
Elira handled the talking... Galen unloaded crates... Erick sat on the wagon, pretending to be an exhausted old man, muttering about the weather.
Most villagers had no coin... which was normal in the North... but they traded goods instead. Furs, dried vegetables, wool, and tools. The remedies sold well... ginger‑mint tea for stomach troubles, willow tonic for aches.
But when Elira quietly explained the village's condition... injuries, sickness, lack of healers... Erick made a decision.
He would help.
Inside the inn, Erick sat at a table, still disguised as the old man. Villagers lined up, curious and hopeful.
The first was a couple with a young boy whose shoulder hung at an odd angle.
"A dislocation," Erick murmured.
He gently guided the boy, laying him on his back. With slow, careful movements, he lifted the arm upward as if the child were reaching for something above himself. With a soft press of his thumb, he guided the bone back into place.
The boy gasped. His parents stared, and the room fell silent.
Then whispers spread... "Did you see that...?"… "He fixed it without pain!"…"Is he a healer?"…"Where did he come from?"
Erick simply nodded, voice raspy. "Next."
He worked until evening, treating aches, examining fevers, easing stiff joints, and helping wherever he could. There was no magic or chakra involved… just knowledge and gentle hands.
By the time the sun set, Ironpine looked at the strange old traveler with awe.
Elira and Galen knew that their new leader was amazing, but now they looked at Erick with something deeper… respect.
They stayed in the Ironpine Inn for the night.
The first rays of morning light cut through the drifting snow, revealing the full silhouette of the ancient fortress. Winterfell wasn't just large… it was colossal… a sprawling stone giant carved into the heart of the North.
The TV show had never done it justice.
The walls were thick, layered, and uneven, just as only truly ancient fortifications could be. Towers of different heights pierced the sky… some squat and broad, others tall and narrow with pointed roofs dusted in white. Steam rose from hidden vents in the stone, as the warm springs beneath the castle breathed out into the cold air.
Beyond the walls, Winter Town stretched outward like a great cloak around the fortress. Dozens of snow-covered houses, workshops, inns, and stables formed a bustling ring of life. Smoke curled from chimneys, dogs barked, merchants shouted, and children played in the snow.
On Erick's map, Winter Town held more than twenty thousand people... a city in its own right.
But Winterfell itself was a dominating view.
The outer gatehouse was massive, flanked by two thick towers with murder holes and battlements. The walls behind it rose in layers, each inner ring higher than the last. The Great Keep stood at the center like a stone mountain, its windows glowing faintly with firelight.
The Godswood's ancient trees peeked over the walls, their branches heavy with snow. The First Keep loomed like a forgotten relic beside it, dark and silent.
The whole fortress was wrapped in mist and steam, giving it an almost mythical aura, as if… the castle itself was breathing.
Erick's jaw was open…
Galen, who had seen Winterfell before, guided the wagon inside… Elira murmured something under her breath.
Wagon rolled through the Winter Town streets… wheels crunching over packed snow.
Winter Town was alive despite the cold... blacksmiths hammering, traders shouting, guards patrolling.
"This way," Galen said confidently. "I know the market square."
They passed rows of wooden houses, smoke drifting from chimneys, the smell of cooked oats and roasted meat filling the air. Some people stared at the wagon... mostly because a massive stallion was pulling it.
Elira took charge the moment they reached the market.
She straightened her cloak and began speaking with merchants. Galen helped unload crates, stacking them neatly on a stall table.
Erick?
Erick decided to wander.
Still disguised as the old man, he shuffled away from the wagon, leaning on a stick he didn't actually need. His posture hunched... steps slow.
He wanted to see Winterfell with his own eyes... the people, the guards, the layout, the atmosphere.
As he walked through the bustling square, steam rising from the castle in the distance, Erick felt something he hadn't felt in a long time... excitement.