The Awakening Of Alaric of Hoise Forrester
A sharp gust of wind tore through the small keep of House Forrester, nestled deep within the Wolfswood in the North. The ancient stone walls groaned under the weight of the blizzard outside. Inside, a boy of sixteen winters lay unconscious on a straw-stuffed bed, his breaths shallow and labored.
Then, as if by magic, his eyes snapped open.
The boy blinked, confusion clouding his vision. He could feel the cold air biting into his skin, but there was an unfamiliar weight in his chest. His hands trembled as he raised them in front of his face, marveling at how foreign his own body felt. He remembered dying—drowning, actually. He remembered struggling against the darkness and cold in his past life, but this? This was new.
Before he could make sense of the chaos swirling in his mind, a voice echoed inside his head. Not a voice from the outside world, but something within him.
"Welcome to your new life, my lord."
The boy flinched. The voice was crisp, emotionless, and distant, as if it came from nowhere and everywhere all at once. He tried to sit up, but his head swam. Thoughts of his old life surged through his mind—a life in a world so different from the one he now found himself in. A world of machines, buildings taller than mountains, and armies without swords. But now…
He was Alaric Forrester, the young lord of House Forrester, a small and nearly forgotten house of the North, sworn to the Starks of Winterfell. As the memories of this new life filtered into his mind, he realized that his family was known for two things: their small holdings deep in the Wolfswood and their skill at harvesting ironwood, a rare and valuable resource in the North.
House Forrester's sigil flashed in his mind: a towering ironwood tree, dark and imposing, its branches spreading like claws. The words of House Forrester, "Iron from Ice," echoed within him. They were a family known for their resilience, surviving through the harshest winters, but they were not a house of wealth or power. In fact, they were barely surviving, with wildlings from beyond the Wall threatening their lands and a winter fast approaching.
He clenched his fists. This life was not one of luxury or power. His house controlled a small swath of the Wolfswood, and their seat, Ironrath, was more a sturdy fortress than a grand castle. The men under his command? A few dozen ill-trained woodsmen, loggers, and hunters. And to make matters worse, food was scarce, and supplies for the winter were dangerously low.
He could feel the pressure building, the weight of responsibility suffocating him. But before despair could take hold, the voice returned.
"The Path of the Wolf system has been activated."
A glowing screen materialized in front of his eyes, translucent and faint, as if made of northern mist. Words and numbers hovered in the air, but they seemed... weak, faint, as though the magic powering it was fragile.
---
Name: Alaric Forrester
Title: Lord of House Forrester
House Words: Iron from Ice
House Strength: 25 Soldiers (militia)
Land Resources: Wolfswood, Small Ironwood Holdings
Current Reputation: 10/100 (Minor Northern House)
Current Allies: None
---
Quest: Strengthen House Forrester
Secure food for the winter.
Train your men for battle.
Defend your lands from wildlings and bandits.
Rewards: Incremental skill improvements, resources, potential alliances.
---
It was far from the overpowered systems he had read about in tales, where protagonists grew stronger with every breath. Here, it was clear that everything would need to be earned, fought for, and struggled over. If he was to survive, he would have to rely on his own wits and hard work.
He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. This wasn't a dream, nor some strange illusion. This was real. The screen was real. And so was his predicament.
He could hear footsteps approaching, and a voice—a real one this time—called from outside the door.
"Lord Alaric, the men have returned from the hunt. They await your orders."
Alaric stood slowly, feeling the cold floor beneath his bare feet. His heart raced, but he forced his face to remain calm. He had no choice but to play this out. If he was truly going to survive here, in the brutal North of Westeros, he would need to think carefully, plan wisely, and fight fiercely for everything he wanted.
The door creaked open, revealing a young man with auburn hair, a leather jerkin, and a thin smile. His name was Duncan Tuttle, Alaric remembered from the boy's memories. He was his family's trusted steward and one of the few men who had always supported the Forresters, even during their darkest times.
"Let me see the hunters," Alaric said, his voice steady but unfamiliar to his own ears.
He grabbed the heavy fur cloak lying on the wooden chair beside his bed and wrapped it around himself. As he followed Duncan into the small hall, he could hear the murmurs of the men, gathered around the fire, shaking off the snow from their boots and armor.
They turned as he entered. He saw the mixture of skepticism and respect in their eyes, and for a moment, he faltered. These men, the same ones his father had commanded for years, now looked to him. They saw him as their lord—someone who would lead them through the harsh winter ahead. They expected him to act the part.
But he was not truly their lord. He was someone else, someone from another world entirely.
And yet, if he was going to survive here—if he was going to build something out of the ashes of this small but proud house—he had to become Alaric Forrester.
He took a deep breath and spoke, his voice carrying through the hall with a strength he didn't know he had.
"Winter is coming, and we have little time to waste. Let us prepare. We may be few, but we are strong. Together, we will rise from the ice."