Eddard sat quietly inside a tent, staring at the dust-covered canvas above him, deep in thought.
What should I do next… to avoid the worst?
He didn't want to be a rebel. He didn't want to see another Red Wedding.
Even if it meant playing the role of a nursemaid, he was willing—because only with strength and influence could he steer the North away from disaster.
After all, with his current identity, protecting the North wasn't just a duty. It was survival.
Otherwise? What, kneel to Roose Bolton and kiss his rotten feet?
Never.
During a recent negotiation, Robb had promised, "The North remembers." And with it, gave his word that House Karstark would be compensated for its loss.
Lord Rickard Karstark, Eddard's ever-convenient old father, had responded with a phrase of his own—one that carried a clear message:
A Lannister of sufficient importance must die.
Originally, it should have been two.
But thanks to a twist of fate—or divine irony—Eddard had transmigrated just in time to replace one of the victims. Now, only one blood debt remained.
The problem was, Robb Stark wanted to use that remaining Lannister—the Lannister—to barter for the release of his father and sisters, still trapped in King's Landing.
And that was the root of the conflict.
Eddard couldn't do much to change the situation. He was just the second son of Lord Karstark. His elder brother, Hallion, was serving under Roose Bolton, commanding their House's infantry. As things stood, Eddard held no claim to inheritance, nor had he been granted any land.
By Westerosi standards, he was a noble in name, a commoner in station.
All he could do now was grow stronger—fast.
Distinguishing himself on the battlefield was the surest path forward. Whether through cunning or brute force, it didn't matter.
If he could bring back a few more Lannister heads from the next campaign, maybe—maybe—the tension between Houses Karstark and Stark would ease. He might even earn a reward.
Land. A holdfast. A scattering of villages, perhaps.
With that goal in mind, Eddard went to his ever-reliable old man and made a request:
Four cavalrymen—loyal, disciplined, and trained—to serve as his personal guard.
His first step toward building strength of his own.
Technically, Eddard's request bent the rules a little.
But perhaps because he'd just lost a son, Lord Rickard didn't hesitate. He agreed without protest, then returned to his tent to mourn in silence, keeping his remaining son close.
The dead, after all, were always more cherished than the living.
Eddard was more than satisfied with the outcome.
To this point, he hadn't inherited any of the original Eddard Karstark's memories—so he preferred to keep interactions with his "convenient old dad" to a minimum.
After all, he wasn't the real Eddard Karstark.
And those four newly assigned cavalrymen? They conveniently filled the troop slots associated with his current identity as the son of a Northern lord.
Honestly, the system—his so-called golden finger—still felt oddly out of place in this world.
The ability to visualize loyalty? It was straight out of a Paradox Interactive game.
Especially the feature that let him see the exact reasons behind someone's loyalty—like shared personality traits, family ties, fear, or obligation. It was all a little too familiar.
Then there was the level-up mechanic—soldiers gaining experience and improving stats by killing enemies? That had the distinct flavor of Mount & Blade.
And the way identity and land ownership affected his recruitment capacity? Classic strategy game logic.
As for the Lord-Vassal Unity ability—Eddard had no idea where that one came from.
He didn't recall playing any game with that exact mechanic.
But regardless of its origin, it didn't matter now.
What mattered was learning to exploit every advantage the system gave him—and using those tools to survive.
"My Lord, they've arrived," Abel's voice called from just outside the tent.
He had returned with the four cavalrymen Lord Rickard had granted.
Eddard stepped out.
By southern standards, most Northern lords were poor. Their lands might seem vast on a map, but in truth, much of it was wild and untamed—barren plains, dense forests, and snow-covered peaks stretching to the horizon.
Some places were so cold, it snowed even in the height of summer.
Sparse land meant sparse population. Sparse population meant low production.And low production meant one thing: no money.
So even Karhold's elite cavalry—these four men—were dressed simply.
Each wore fitted chainmail over padded armor, and over that, the black cloak favored by many Northmen. On the back of each cloak was stitched the sigil of House Karstark:
A white sunburst on black.
They were clearly unlanded men—household soldiers outfitted directly from the lord's armory. Their livelihood depended on a modest salary, battlefield loot, and their lord's goodwill.
They were somewhat like sworn swords—similar in loyalty and service—but with subtle differences.
"My Lord."
As Eddard Karstark stepped out from his tent, the four cavalrymen immediately straightened their backs, eyes sharp, postures firm—eager to leave a strong first impression on their new commander.
"Introduce yourselves," Eddard said, scanning them calmly.
His system didn't react. Hmm. Maybe there's a trigger condition…
The four men exchanged glances, then one stepped forward.
He was broad-shouldered and solidly built, with black hair and piercing green eyes. After a crisp bow, he spoke with practiced ease:
"Karas Snow. Twenty-six. Born in Barrowton. I've served House Karstark for four years. No family."
His introduction was brief but informative.
Eddard understood the type immediately.
A likely bastard—probably the son of some lesser noble in the Barrowlands. When he came of age, he must've been sent to Karhold to earn his keep in service.
Without noble backing, a commoner would never have access to quality training in horsemanship or weapons. And that powerful frame? No smallfolk body looked like that without years of battle conditioning.
Eddard gave him a polite nod and a slight smile, which seemed to ease the man's tension.
Not every noble was willing to associate with bastards—especially not highborn sons. But Eddard was not the kind of lordling to turn up his nose at a loyal sword.
With the ice broken, the rest of the introductions followed smoothly.
Lando, a middle-aged man with brown hair and calm blue eyes, was the first to speak.
His family had lived in Karhold for generations. His wife had died of illness years ago; his son worked as a stable boy in the castle, and his daughter served as a lady's maid in the keep.
He spoke slowly, but his words were clear and deliberate—measured, like a man who thought before he acted.
Dita Kalander came next—a broad-shouldered man with bright, watchful eyes and streaks of gray in his hair. Once a free knight from the South, he had settled in Karhold after passing through White Harbor. His son was just three years old.
His tone was polite, almost courtly. He addressed Eddard with practiced deference, using various formal courtesies with ease. Possibly the descendant of a fallen noble house, Eddard thought.
Then there was Mam—young, wiry, with red hair and brown eyes full of eager ambition.
His father was a carpenter in Karhold; his mother, the castle's cook. Mam spoke with energy and enthusiasm, his entire bearing shouting I want to prove myself.
These four had each served House Karstark for years—some over a decade. They'd marched under Lord Rickard, fought in his campaigns, spilled blood for him. They had killed enemies, raided farms, even strung up the occasional wildling.
Their loyalty had been forged in war and hardship.
As soon as the last man finished speaking, a system prompt appeared in Eddard's mind:
[Four warriors eligible for recruitment. Accept?]
Of course, Eddard accepted them all.
However, their displayed loyalty was only "Normal."
And the reasons were surprisingly uniform:
Reason:
-Has served House Karstark for many years.
-Was personally assigned by Lord Rickard to serve you.
-Was impressed by your actions during the battle with Jaime Lannister.
Reading this, Eddard raised a brow, then reached into his cloak and pulled out several coin purses, heavy with silver.
Time to run a little experiment.