Every additional step in the process takes more time.
And time is money, my friend.
With his own armor serving as a perfect reference, Ethan skipped the entire design and drafting phase. He only needed to make minor size adjustments to match Kevin's build before he could begin forging.
Driven by the urgent desire to equip his student as quickly as possible, Ethan started hammering out the first plate that would form the breastplate of "Lightbringer – Pseudo."
Over the following days—except when it was his shift at the Wolf's Kiss Tavern—Ethan and Kevin spent nearly every waking hour at the riverside forge, meticulously crafting protective armor for the apprentice.
Meanwhile, thanks to relentless word-of-mouth, the number of visitors coming to see the giant spider's corpse in the blacksmith's courtyard never dropped; if anything, it kept climbing, holding steady at seventy to eighty people a day.
One afternoon the sound of chaotic hooves clattered down the alley.
A middle-aged nobleman riding a tall destrier—accompanied by a dozen attendants and several teenagers—reined up in front of the courtyard gate.
The lord had a commanding presence: long dark-brown hair framing a stern, long face, and piercing gray eyes.
He raised his riding crop, pointed at the gate, and asked:
"Haiward—is the giant spider you spoke of in there?"
If anyone around Winterfell—besides Brother John and the five members of the Silver Hand—was intimately familiar with the creature, it was Haiward, the Stark household guard who had traveled with Ethan to Rabbitpaw Village.
Hearing his name, Haiward quickly pulled his mount up beside the gate, peered inside, and reported:
"That's it, Your Grace. I watched them drag this monster out of the Wolfswood on a wooden frame.
For days in Rabbitpaw the stench from its corpse saturated the entire village. I wanted to cut my own nose off—I'll remember that smell until the day I die."
Lord Eddard Stark—Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell—dismounted and gently pushed open the courtyard gate.
Because more and more people had been coming to view the spider's remains, Brother John—on Lennar's advice—had commissioned a brand-new monk's robe from a market tailor to better proclaim the glory of the Seven.
Though still plain gray, the garment at least had no patches or holes; it instantly raised John's presence to a new level.
When the noble entered, John paused only a heartbeat before stepping down from his preaching platform and approaching with a respectful bow.
"Your Grace—is there anything this humble servant can do for you?"
Lord Eddard glanced at the hammer pendant hanging on John's chest.
"You are a monk of the Seven?"
John nodded.
"Yes, my name is John. I have sworn myself to the Smith of the Seven for ten years without faltering."
Eddard gave a small nod.
"Few septons of the Seven are willing to settle in Winterfell. Where do you hail from?"
"I come from the Sept of Saint Morse on the shores of Gods Eye in the Riverlands, Your Grace."
"The Riverlands…" Eddard murmured. "Catelyn would be pleased to meet a septon from her homeland."
He considered a moment, then said:
"Septon John—would you come to Winterfell tomorrow to pray for my wife?"
Brother John had already guessed the nobleman's identity but wanted confirmation.
"And you are…?"
Haiward—standing half a step behind—quickly stepped forward.
"This is Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North."
"Of course!"
Brother John bowed again.
"I will pray to the merciful Seven for the Lady's health."
Eddard nodded, then—ignoring the septon for the moment—walked over to the giant spider's corpse.
He removed his gloves and gently ran a hand across the gleaming black exoskeleton.
Afterward he took out a handkerchief and vigorously wiped the faint foul-smelling dust from his fingers.
At that moment a boy of about seven or eight—clutching a small puppy—edged up behind his father and asked timidly:
"Father—is this the ice spider Old Nan told me about?"
"Don't go near it, Bran."
Eddard stepped sideways to block his son.
"The ice spider is only a tale Old Nan told us…"
Bran craned his neck to stare at the hideous corpse again and protested:
"But Old Nan said the White Walkers carry longswords of ice, ride giant ice spiders across the Wall, and kill everyone they meet."
"Bran—Old Nan's stories belong to the Long Night. We're still in summer."
A sturdy older boy approached and gently laid a hand on the child's shoulder.
"She also said ice spiders have blue shells. Look—this one's black, isn't it?"
Bran was unconvinced.
"But…"
A slightly thinner boy—who looked very like a younger version of Lord Eddard—chimed in:
"Bran—I've heard Old Nan tell that story too. They *are* blue."
Theon Greyjoy—who had been mingling among the crowd—seemed determined to contradict the thinner boy.
"When Haiward first came back from Rabbitpaw he told me this spider was still alive at times.
Sometimes gray and blue aren't so easy to tell apart."
Hearing this the sturdy boy turned.
"Haiward—is that true?"
Haiward—wanting no part of the young lords' debate—evaded:
"I don't remember clearly. Those days in Rabbitpaw I was busy helping Commander Ander train the militia—I didn't have time to notice much else."
Lord Eddard ended the small quarrel.
"Enough. Whether it's an ice spider or a fire spider, it's dead now—and slain by men of the North. That's what matters.
Whether White Walkers, wildlings, or anything else—no force can overcome House Stark, blood of the First Men."
He turned to the children.
"We came outside the walls today to carry out justice on oathbreakers. Seeing the spider was only a detour.
Now that duty is done and we've seen the creature—it's time to return home for supper with your mother.
Come, children."
With that Lord Eddard strode out first, mounted, and rode away.
Bran glanced after his father's retreating figure, then back at the monstrous shell. He clearly wanted to stay longer—but the thinner boy lifted him onto his pony.
"Come on—Father's already far ahead. I'll bring you back alone another time."
"Will you invite Arya, Jon?"
"If Arya wants to come."
"She will. I'll go tell her."
Jon led his little brother after their father.
In the end only Theon Greyjoy and the sturdy boy remained in the courtyard.
Seeing the older boy gripping his sword hilt tightly and staring fixedly at the spider's corpse—refusing to move—Theon reminded him:
"Robb—aren't you leaving? Your father and brothers are already far ahead."
"Winter is coming—that is our family's ancient creed, Theon," Robb said softly.
"Today we found a dead direwolf in the wild, and then we saw the legendary ice spider.
These things have never appeared so close to Winterfell in my lifetime.
If winter comes and creatures like this are everywhere—what will become of my people?"
"Let your father worry about that. You're not Lord of Winterfell yet."
Robb gave the enormous corpse one last long look, took out a silver stag, tossed it into the donation box, and turned to leave.
In the end only Theon Greyjoy remained.
Seeing no one else nearby he grinned—showing a mocking smile—and said to Brother John:
"Septon—please tell Captain Ethan Cole that Theon Greyjoy still has a score to settle with him."
That night Ethan had just returned to the courtyard carrying the newly forged armor plates when Brother John relayed Theon Greyjoy's message.
Ethan wasn't concerned.
As Howard had pointed out Greyjoy held no real power in Winterfell.
As long as Ethan's actions remained reasonable and lawful Theon couldn't touch him.
On the contrary Ethan was far more interested in the fact that Lord Stark himself had visited.
"So—the duke now knows my name?"
"No," John shook his head. "I never heard His Grace mention your name at all.
But I did learn the name of this creature.
They call it an ice spider—said to be the mount of the White Walkers."
White Walkers?
Ethan—encountering the term for the first time—asked curiously:
"White Walkers? What are those?"
"You don't know? Ah—right—you're from the East.
They're monsters said to live north of the Wall. I can't explain it well.
Wait till Lennar gets back—he's the one among us who knows these tales best."
After dinner Ethan waited in the main house for Lennar.
As soon as the bard returned from work Ethan asked him directly.
Lennar settled more comfortably on the bench and began:
"White Walkers—the ultimate villains of every myth and legend in Westeros."
According to ancient tales passed down through the ages the Others are a race of tall, intelligent, humanoid beings who dwell north of the Wall.
They have pale skin blue eyes and wield weapons of ice.
Their origins are unknown but their powers are mysterious and deadly—regarded by the Night's Watch as an evil force that threatens all Westeros.
During an age of endless darkness called the Long Night—a winter that lasted a generation—the Others first descended upon the world roughly eight thousand years before Aegon's Conquest.
They were finally driven back by the Night's Watch and the Wall was raised to hold them at bay.
Since then thousands of years have passed with no confirmed sightings of the White Walkers.
Over time they faded into pure legend—used mainly to frighten children.
In some tales the White Walkers could raise the dead to serve them as slaves.
They rode the reanimated corpses of animals—direwolves bears mammoths horses—and turned fallen men into wights.
These wights brought a killing cold with them carried the weapons they bore in life and slaughtered everyone they encountered…
"What's wrong?"
Lennar stopped mid-sentence because he noticed Ethan's strange state.
Ethan—who was always calm composed and seemingly fearless—was visibly trembling.
Seeing this Lennar exclaimed in surprise:
"No way—no way! Our invincible Captain Ethan is actually shaking because of an old nurse's ghost story?"
Ethan wiped cold sweat from his brow forced a laugh and said:
"Haha… ha… do you think I'm a child? Haha… ha… my stomach hurts a little. I—I'll go relieve myself."
There was no privy in the courtyard. To keep the place clean they usually went into the woods outside when nature called.
Ethan barely managed to stand and staggered to a large tree where he leaned against the trunk breathing hard.
*Damn it—so the so-called threat from the north is the undead Scourge?*
Ice-blue eyes frost magic commanding the dead to fight—you dare say this isn't a Death Knight? I'll eat my own name if it isn't!
I knew what kind of apocalyptic crisis this world faced—but why didn't they send a Grandmaster an Archdruid or a Master Hunter? Why send *me*?
So it's undead? Perfect match!
Ethan was a veteran of *Warcraft III*. He had fought the Lich King himself before transmigrating. He knew exactly how terrifying the Scourge could be.
Remember—Azeroth's technology and magic far surpassed Westeros yet half the Eastern Kingdoms two mighty kingdoms and the entire Order of the Silver Hand had still been destroyed.
If not for Illidan Stormrage's attack on Icecrown diverting Arthas's attention Stormwind might have fallen a second time and become ruins.
*Mastermind—oh mastermind—you didn't even give me mana and you expect me to stop the Scourge? You're overestimating me…*
Ethan stared up at the sky speechless.
"Teacher… is that you?"
Kevin's voice came nervously from the bushes.
"Why did you come out here?"
Kevin—with his back turned—held out a small bundle of soft leaves.
"Lennar said you had a stomachache but he didn't see you take any leaves… so he asked me to bring you some."
"…Thanks."
Ethan took the leaves wiped his nose roughly and tossed them into the undergrowth.
The two walked back to the courtyard together.
Ethan asked:
"Kevin—if—I mean *if*—the legendary White Walkers were real and about to sweep across the entire continent—what would you do?"
Kevin looked at his teacher puzzled.
"Teacher—White Walkers are just stories for children. I'll be an adult next year."
"Forget that. I said *if*."
"If there really were White Walkers…" Kevin thought a moment then answered firmly:
"Then I could only pick up a sword and fight them. What else could I do?"
"You're not thinking of fleeing east?"
Kevin scoffed.
"Run away without even fighting? That won't do.
Men of the Fingers don't act that way.
Besides—if that day really came there wouldn't be enough ships to carry everyone in Westeros.
The survivors would fight each other for places on the boats until only the strongest were left aboard.
I can't guarantee I'd be one of them.
Better to die quickly at the hands of White Walkers than at the hands of the living."
Ethan was silent for a long moment then sighed.
"You've thought it through."
"Heh—my father once told me: a soldier who goes to the battlefield shouldn't expect to come back.
Only those who aren't afraid to die will survive.
The ones who die fastest are usually the most cowardly.
So Teacher—are you satisfied with my answer?"
Ethan forced a pleased expression and lightly punched Kevin's shoulder.
"Not bad. Very satisfied. That's my good student."
After Kevin carried the wooden basin to the yard to wash up Ethan was left alone in the cramped hut.
In the darkness he sat motionless for a long time—then suddenly let out a short bitter laugh.
What was wrong with him?
He had believed every word and actually started trembling in fear over an old woman's ghost story. Utterly shameful.
There aren't really any other ghouls or walking corpses in this world… right…?
Ethan tried—and failed—to comfort himself.
🪽✨🪽✨🪽✨🪽✨🪽✨🪽✨🪽✨🪽
Read Extra Chapter Visit My Patreon
I have only 1 tier
19$ Tier – Access to 40 advance chapters
patreon.com/Lempil
patreon.com/Lempil