Chapter 5: Territory Development (I)
Saelen's position had grown increasingly awkward—and increasingly dangerous.
In Catelyn's heart, Saelen had already been branded as Eddard's bastard. From that moment on, he was treated no differently than Jon Snow.
Whenever Catelyn saw Saelen, she was reminded of what she believed to be Eddard's betrayal—of a broken oath and stained fidelity. Especially when she thought of inheritance, of how Saelen's claim might take precedence over her own children's, the disgust and contempt in her eyes were no longer concealed.
It was as if Saelen had stolen the thing she cherished most.
Only then did Saelen truly understand Jon Snow's fragile, sensitive heart—and why, in the original history, Jon had been so determined to join the Night's Watch.
Jon needed honor to answer Catelyn's rejection.
A bastard could still possess honor.
But Saelen had no intention of joining the Watch.
He was not Eddard Stark's bastard—and he did not need black cloaks to prove his worth.
From then on, he avoided Catelyn as much as possible.
Even King Robert, far away in King's Landing, sent a raven asking whether the rumors were true. That letter made Eddard realize that the matter was far more serious than he had anticipated.
Thinking of Saelen's increasingly precarious situation, Eddard could not help but question whether his earlier decision had been too hasty.
In the end, however, he did not linger in doubt.
He made a swift decision.
Eddard offered Saelen two choices.
The first: land near Winterfell—along with three manors to govern.
The second: to be sent south as a squire to Bronze Yohn Royce, and upon coming of age, to be knighted.
Saelen chose the first without hesitation.
With land of his own, he could focus on developing his territory—cultivating loyal retainers, building strength, and expanding his influence. With the system's support, he was confident he could carve out a real power base.
The second option was clearly inferior.
Two more years as a squire, only to be knighted into landlessness—what then? Become a wandering hedge knight, drifting wherever coin or conflict beckoned?
After weighing the options, the choice was obvious.
Maester Luwin then produced a map. The territory had already been roughly marked—east of Winterfell, spanning about thirty leagues, roughly four days' ride, and bordering the White Knife River…
Saelen's thoughts drifted.
So much had happened since then.
Five years had passed.
His domain now possessed a stone keep. In times of war, it could house and defend more than a thousand soldiers. Around the castle, rows of homes had been built for his smallfolk.
"Lord Saelen?"
The voice pulled him back from his thoughts.
Saelen dismissed the system interface and looked at the man before him—the maester of Castle Edd, who assisted him in managing the castle's affairs.
"Maester Rosmund. What is it?"
"My lord," the maester replied respectfully, "Ser William has returned from King's Landing. He has also brought back a number of men recruited there. They are currently resting at the temporary camp."
Saelen's eyes lit up.
"At once," he said. "Maester Rosmund—summon Ser William, as well as the stewards of the porcelain works, glassworks, weapons workshop, and the manors. Tell them to gather in the council hall."
"Yes, my lord."
The maester departed.
---
Council Hall, Castle Edd.
Saelen sat at the high seat, waiting as the others took their places.
Saelen cleared his throat lightly and said,
"Ser William, when you led the party to King's Landing to recruit workers this time, did you run into any trouble?"
Saelen still remembered the first two trips all too well. Obstruction, harassment, endless excuses—he had faced no shortage of difficulties. In the end, only gold dragons had opened the way, and even then, he had managed to bring back barely ten thousand people.
"My lord," Ser William replied with a hearty laugh, "this time was different."
"When we arrived in King's Landing, the city had just gone through a minor riot. There are simply too many people there—countless smallfolk without food or work. Hunger led to unrest, and quite a few people died."
"After learning of my purpose, Hand of the King Jon Arryn summoned me personally. He told me the manpower had already been prepared and urged me to return north as quickly as possible."
William chuckled again.
"The Hand was in such a hurry that I didn't even have time to screen them properly. I brought everyone back as they were. It took far less time than the previous two trips."
Saelen laughed.
"The Hand didn't recruit workers for us—he was just clearing out King's Landing's dungeons."
Maester Rosmund nodded in agreement.
"King's Landing now holds five or six hundred thousand people. The Crownlands alone can't feed such numbers. King Robert spends recklessly, and the Iron Throne is said to be drowning in debt—several million gold dragons' worth. Faced with starving crowds, even the Small Council can do very little."
Ser William added with a grin, half admiring, half awed,
"And we must also thank King Robert's generosity. Every tourney he hosted, Lord Saelen never missed—and he won every single one."
"Just from tourney prizes alone, my lord earned a fortune. In fact, King Robert eventually had no choice but to forbid you from participating any further."
There was undisguised reverence in William's voice.
After all, how many knights in history had ever been banned from tournaments simply for being too strong? Was that not the highest form of recognition?
Saelen smiled smugly.
With the system backing him, his Strength, Agility, and Endurance had steadily increased over the years. Swordsmanship, archery, horsemanship, and spearwork were all maxed out. His combat power had soared—to the point that there were few left in Westeros who could truly challenge him.
Black magic practitioners aside, of course.
Over the past four or five years, confident in his overwhelming strength, Saelen had never missed a single tournament—whether hosted by King Robert or by lesser lords. He had participated in over a hundred tournaments and fought several hundred matches.
The rewards were immense.
Not only had he gained priceless combat experience and honed his techniques, but the prize money alone totaled four to five hundred thousand gold dragons. That fortune became the financial backbone of his territorial development.
Eventually, all tournaments across Westeros began refusing Saelen entry.
In his heart, Saelen cursed those miserly nobles thoroughly.
I won fair and square. Why shouldn't I be allowed to compete?
Those prizes were earned with sweat and blood.
As for whether such overwhelming strength truly came from "hard training"… only Saelen himself knew the answer.
In truth, the nobles' reasoning was understandable.
They funded tournaments partly to display their wealth and power, and partly to recruit capable knights. But whenever Saelen appeared, he crushed his opponents so utterly that they looked like useless fools by comparison.
Worse still, Saelen rejected every offer of service.
The nobles spent gold and effort hosting tournaments, only to gain nothing in return. So once King Robert banned Saelen from royal tournaments, the rest quietly followed suit.
Some hot-headed lords even hung signs reading:
"Saelen and dogs not permitted."
That was crossing a line.
Saelen felt deeply insulted.
He responded by publicly humiliating the offending noble—and, incidentally, extorting a sizable sum of compensation.