Chapter 23: Facing the White Walkers
As expected, killing wights granted an increase in Spirit.
Previously, his Spirit had been at nine. Each wight killed added 0.1, and today he had slain ten of them—raising his Spirit by a full point. Reaching Level 10 had also unlocked a new construction task: building a papermaking workshop.
In Westeros, parchment was still made from animal skins—absurdly expensive and painfully inefficient. Once he established a papermaking workshop, it would become yet another major source of Gold Dragons. Cheap, practical paper would spread rapidly and become a daily necessity for everyone.
Paper was a fast-consumption good as well—demand would far exceed that of porcelain. By dividing it into several grades, he could ensure affordability for common folk while still extracting profit from the wealthy. That way, he wouldn't just earn money from a few nobles—he'd earn from everyone.
Seeing his Spirit capped at ten instantly lifted Saelen's mood.
This was his greatest foundation in this world.
As long as he could lie low and continue developing, it wouldn't matter what kind of monsters or demons appeared later—he would crush them all with overwhelming force.
The only pity was that the system couldn't detect danger.
Saelen snorted softly at his own greed.
At that moment, Jon hurried inside, bringing with him a wave of bone-chilling cold. His cloak was coated in frost, ice crystals clinging to every fold.
His expression was grim.
"Saelen," Jon said urgently, "something's wrong. It's far too cold outside. A freezing wind has risen, and several of the sentries have been frostbitten alive. They can't even move anymore—we need people to carry them back inside."
The night had finally bared its fangs.
Saelen was utterly stunned.
Jon had only been gone a short while—yet he had nearly frozen into an icicle. Just how cold was it outside?
"Go wake everyone," Saelen said as he stood, lighting a torch. He stepped outside to check for himself.
Good gods.
By the torch's faint glow, the world beyond had turned into a vast sheet of white. Snowflakes whirled wildly through the air, dancing up and down like ghosts. The wind was savage—razor-sharp and bone-deep. Ice crystals were forming everywhere.
In that instant, Saelen finally understood the Stark words—Winter Is Coming—in a visceral, tangible way.
Frost was already creeping across his armor.
Something was wrong.
Saelen didn't hesitate. He turned and hurried back inside.
The White Walkers are here.
Carrying a trail of freezing air with him, Saelen strode back to the firepit. Seeing that everyone was awake, he spoke in a low, grave voice.
"The situation outside is not normal. Jon—take men and bring the sentries back inside immediately."
Jon nodded and moved at once.
Saelen turned to the others, his expression grim.
"The White Walkers are coming—along with their army of wights."
The words hit like a thunderclap.
"They're already here?"
"How many?"
"Are we surrounded?"
Fear rippled through the crowd.
Saelen raised his voice sharply.
"Enough. You all have dragonglass weapons now. When you see them—kill them. I will stand at the front."
His gaze swept across the room, cold and unforgiving.
"Anyone who wants to be a coward can crawl to the back—quietly. From this night on, you will make yourself scarce in my presence. Otherwise, every time I see you, I will shame you. I will even pay bards and singers to spread tales of your cowardice across the land."
Then his tone shifted—hard, resolute.
"But those who stand with me and fight the White Walkers and their wights—whether you live or die—will be honored. Survivors may drink freely at Edd Castle and receive twenty Gold Dragons each. Those who fall—do not worry. I will personally see that the gold reaches your families."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"And I will hire the greatest singers of Westeros—and even across the Narrow Sea—to sing of what you do here tonight."
Saelen looked at them steadily.
"Now choose—heroes… or cowards."
"I'll be a hero with you," Robb said at once, stepping to Saelen's side. "We grew up together in Winterfell. If we die tonight, we die together."
Ser Rodrik and several Winterfell guards silently took their place behind him.
Theon stepped forward as well, his face flushed, nodding firmly. Five quivers hung at his side—his archery was exceptional, and Saelen had made sure he was well supplied.
"Of course I'll stand with you," shouted Smalljon Umber, voice trembling with excitement.
"Saelen the Unbeaten—victory!"
"Saelen the Unbeaten—victory!"
"Saelen the Unbeaten—victory!"
The chant spread, voices rising, fear burning away into resolve.
Saelen felt his confidence surge.
"Move," he commanded. "Tear apart anything wooden. Pile it on both sides of the main exit. Leave only a single passageway—seal every other route."
The men scattered at once, gathering beams, broken timbers, and abandoned structures. Fire oil and resin were poured over the piles. Torches were stationed, ready.
Soon after, Jon returned with several men carrying the frostbitten sentries. They laid them near—but not too close to—the fire.
Saelen examined them grimly. Their minds were already slipping, bodies coated in ice crystals. Whether they would survive… no one could say.
Four fighters lost before the battle even begins, he thought, rubbing his brow.
Before long, everything was ready.
Then came the sound.
Distant howls—layered, overlapping.
Heavy footsteps. Countless.
Ice spread rapidly across the floor. Frost crept even over the piled fuel.
Saelen's eyes sharpened.
"Light it—now! If the frost takes it, it won't burn!"
"Whoom—whoom!"
The fires roared to life, flames leaping high under the oil's fury. Light flooded the area.
The men tightened formation, dragonglass spears clenched, breathing slow and steady.
Through the narrow passage, Saelen looked out.
Wights—countless wights—crowded the darkness, snarling and writhing before the firelight.
Then they parted.
A path opened.
Three towering figures stepped forward.
Their faces were gaunt and deathly pale. Ice-crystal armor covered their bodies, and massive swords of frozen blue crystal rested in their hands. Their eyes—deep, glacial blue—glowed with merciless cold.
Just meeting their gaze sent frost racing through the blood. Eyes burned. Men looked away instinctively.
"Stay sharp," Saelen called out. "They're preparing to advance."
Yet… they didn't.
The wights remained still. The three White Walkers stood silently at the front, their blue eyes fixed on the living.
The silence pressed down like a weight.
Saelen stared at the sea of glowing blue eyes beyond the firelight, then slowly shifted his gaze to the flames.
A chill crept into his chest.
"They're waiting," Jon said quietly.
"For the fires to die out."