ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

Arthur opened the System Store after making sure the cold would not kill him within the next few minutes. Four categories appeared before him: Recruitment, Weapons, Equipment, and Mounts. Recruitment sat at the top like a promise. Arthur clicked it first, because a man alone in a frozen forest quickly learned to value other bodies standing between him and danger.

The Recruitment section was divided into Lords, Followers, and Soldiers.

Arthur opened Lords first.

He closed it almost immediately.

The prices were absurd. Tens of thousands of dinars for ordinary lords, more for men with actual talent. The Followers section was not much kinder. A slightly useful follower cost enough to make Arthur's one thousand dinars look like a child's savings box. Looking at things he could not afford was a form of self-harm, and he had already suffered enough for one evening.

He opened Soldiers.

There, at least, hope had the decency to show its face.

Battania Wolf Cubs. Battania Volunteers. Clan Warriors. Forest Raiders. Old Wolf Warriors. Battania Elite Infantry. Battania Legendary Hunters.

Arthur's eyes sharpened.

He knew these troops. Battania infantry were not elegant, not noble, and not gentle. They were built for forests, mountains, ambushes, raids, and close combat. In the right terrain, they could make larger armies bleed themselves stupid. Arthur had used them often enough in Calradia to know their value. They were not knights shining under banners. They were men who survived where prettier soldiers died.

He looked around at the snow-covered woods.

At least the system had taste.

The Quests section was almost empty. Only the main quest remained.

Unify Westeros.

Arthur frowned.

Westeros.

The name bothered him. It hovered at the edge of memory, familiar but unclear. He had heard it before. A show, perhaps. A book. Something with too many lords, too much incest, and not enough people making reasonable decisions. He tried to remember, but the thought slipped away before he could catch it.

A scream tore through the forest.

Arthur froze.

It was not a shout of surprise. It was not anger. It was agony, raw and sharp, the kind that made the body understand danger before the mind could name it. His fingers tightened around the axe.

He should have walked away.

He knew that.

A sensible man did not move toward screams in an unknown forest.

Arthur moved toward the scream.

Men were cursed creatures. Even the cautious ones sometimes mistook curiosity for courage.

He pushed through snow-covered bushes, moving as quietly as he could. The forest seemed to swallow sound, then return it changed. The wind moved through branches above him. Snow cracked softly beneath his boots. The scent reached him first.

Blood.

Fresh and thick, sweet in a way that made his stomach twist.

Arthur crouched behind a tree and looked through the branches.

A thin man in a black cloak sat collapsed in the snow. He trembled so badly Arthur could see it even from a distance. His face was pale, his eyes wide and empty, full of a terror too large for words. In front of him lay a severed head, thrown carelessly onto the snow. Blood spread beneath it in a red stain too bright against the white ground. The dead man's mouth hung open, as if he had tried to scream after death and failed.

Around the man stood several figures.

People, at first glance.

Not people, at the second.

The tallest among them was over two meters. Its skin was pale as old bone. Its body was stiff, like a corpse that had learned to move. Its eyes shone with a cold blue light, empty of pity, anger, or anything human. Every breath it released seemed to freeze the air. The bushes near it were coated in frost, and the snow beneath its feet hardened into ice.

Arthur's mind went blank.

Then the memory struck him.

White Walkers.

His heart nearly stopped.

He knew where he was now.

Westeros. The North. The Wall. The dead.

Game of Thrones.

Arthur pressed his back against the tree and covered his mouth with one hand. The axe suddenly felt pathetic. A toy. The sort of thing a child might raise against a nightmare because he had not yet learned shame. He did not move. He barely breathed.

A heroic man might have charged.

Arthur was not heroic.

He preferred being alive.

The White Walkers did not seem to notice him. They looked at the black-cloaked man for a while, as if deciding whether he was worth killing. Perhaps they were curious. Perhaps amused. Perhaps they felt nothing at all. After a moment, they turned and walked deeper into the forest, their movements slow but certain. The blue lights of their eyes faded one by one between the trees until only darkness remained.

Arthur stayed hidden until the unnatural cold faded.

Only then did he stand. His legs were weak, and sweat clung to his back beneath the armor, already turning cold. He walked toward the man in black, still keeping one eye on the forest.

The man heard him and jerked his head up. When he saw Arthur, his lips trembled.

"Run," he said. His voice cracked. "Run! There are White Walkers. They'll kill us. They'll turn us all into monsters!"

After saying that, he staggered to his feet and fled.

Arthur looked once more toward the forest.

White Walkers already appear.

That was bad.

Even with his poor memory of the story, he knew that was bad. They were supposed to be the end of things. Winter given shape. Death with blue eyes. Their appearance meant the world was already moving toward disaster, and Arthur had arrived without a map, without allies, and without remembering most of the plot.

He cursed softly and ran after the man.

They fled through the snow. Branches struck his arms and face. The cold air burned his throat. His lungs began to ache, and his legs grew numb, but he did not stop. The man in black ran ahead like a hunted animal, stumbling, gasping, almost falling more than once. Arthur followed silently. There was nothing useful to say. Words would not make the dead slower.

As he ran, more memories returned. Not cleanly. Never cleanly. A throne made of swords. A northern lord with too much honor. A boy pushed from a tower. A queen with dragons. A war of kings. A wedding painted red. A wall of ice. Names drifted through his mind without order: Stark, Lannister, Targaryen, Baratheon.

He had watched only part of the show.

That was the sort of mistake a man did not expect to be punished for by reincarnation.

After what felt like half an hour, there were not a sign of white walkers anymore. They just left and Arthur could see the Wall. It was… massive.

The other man doesn't stop. Arthur followed him. He was north of the wall and that desertor knew how to go south.

—------

A few days later.

A group of riders appeared through the falling snow. They wore fine armor and carried spears. Their horses were sturdy, their movements disciplined. On their armor and banners was the sigil of a direwolf.

House Stark.

The riders surrounded them quickly. Spears lowered toward Arthur and the black-cloaked man. The captain was middle-aged, with a hard face and harder eyes. His gaze moved over both of them before settling on the man in black.

"We are a patrol under Lord Stark of Winterfell," the captain shouted. "Drop your weapons and submit."

Winterfell. Stark. Direwolf.

The last pieces settled into place.

Arthur remembered the beginning. Not all of it, but enough. A man of the Night's Watch fleeing south. White Walkers. Eddard Stark. Execution for desertion.

Will.

The black-cloaked man was Will.

Arthur felt his stomach sink.

Will began babbling about White Walkers, dead men, blue eyes, monsters in the forest. The riders heard a deserter inventing excuses to save his neck. Arthur saw it in their faces. They did not believe him. Why would they? Men preferred familiar lies over impossible truths. It made dying easier.

The captain turned his gaze to Arthur. His eyes narrowed at the armor, the axe, the bow. Strange equipment. Foreign style. No obvious house colors. In a land like this, that was enough to make a man suspicious.

Arthur lowered the axe slowly and raised his empty hand.

"My lord," he said, keeping his tone respectful but not weak, "I have no wish to offend Lord Stark or his men. I was part of a merchant ship sailing on the Narrow Sea. Pirates attacked us. The ship was destroyed, and I drifted north in a small boat. I survived by luck and came inland looking for shelter. I found this man only a few days ago."

It was a lie, but not a foolish one. A merchant ship explained his foreign equipment. Pirates explained why he was alone. Survival explained why he looked half-dead. He did not overexplain. Too many details made lies fat, and fat things were easier to cut open.

The captain watched him.

He did not believe him completely. That was clear. But he did not call him a liar either.

"Your identity is uncertain," the man said. "We cannot prove it, nor disprove it here. You will come with us to Winterfell. Lord Stark will decide."

Arthur bowed his head.

That was better than being killed in the snow.

Barely.

Will was bound and forced onto a horse. He continued to speak of the dead and the cold, his voice cracking with desperation. The patrol ignored him. Arthur walked beside one of the horses under guard, feeling the weight of northern eyes on his back.

Soon, he stood before Eddard Stark.

The Lord of Winterfell wore simple northern leather armor. He was tall, solemn, and cold in a way that had nothing to do with weather. His face was not cruel, but it was not soft either. He looked like a man who had carried duty long enough for it to become part of his bones.

Will was dragged forward.

The law was spoken. A man of the Night's Watch who deserted had to die. Will tried to speak of White Walkers, of dead men, of what he had seen beyond the Wall. No one listened. Or perhaps they heard him and refused to understand. There was not much difference.

Eddard Stark gave the sentence himself.

The sword fell.

Will's head struck the ground.

The yard went silent.

Arthur watched the blood spread and felt something cold settle in his chest. This was not a screen. Not a game. Not a scene he could pause and laugh at. A man had just died in front of him because the truth sounded too much like madness. In this world, laws were sharp, and men with swords made them sharper.

Eddard Stark turned toward him.

His gaze moved over Arthur's equipment and settled on his face.

"You say you were part of a merchant ship attacked by pirates."

"Yes, Lord Stark," Arthur replied.

Eddard said nothing for a time. Arthur remained still. Respectful. Not servile. Fear was expected. Panic was dangerous. He did not know how much of his lie the man believed, but he knew enough about the Starks to understand that honor did not mean stupidity.

"The North has little reason to trust a man of unknown origin," Eddard said at last. "Your story cannot be confirmed. It also cannot be disproven. Until it is, you will remain in Winterfell. You are not to leave without my permission."

Arthur lowered his head.

"I understand, Lord Stark."

It was not freedom.

It was shelter.

For now, shelter was enough.