Game of Thrones: From the War of the Five Kings

Earl Rickard's tent was located at the center of the military camp.

Unlike most southern lords who preferred silk, his tent was made of thick black canvas, exuding a sense of simplicity and toughness from its very core—as well as a vigilance and fear of the cold.

Feeling the tent flap open, the earl put down the letter in his hand and looked at Eddard, who entered with a tired expression. A hint of confusion appeared in his eyes as he asked, "How was it? Did you rest well?"

He felt that Eddard's current state did not look like someone returning from a night of revelry. The faint killing intent in Eddard's eyes made him seem more like a man who had pursued someone for a thousand miles to take their life.

"Thank you for your concern, Father. I rested well."

Eddard responded with his head lowered. He knew he looked far from someone who had just climbed out of a woman's embrace, so it was wise to play it down.

"Hmm."

Earl Rickard nodded and didn't press further, instead falling into thought as if carefully choosing his words. Conversations between father and son were sometimes not very intimate and required tact.

The tent fell into silence.

Eddard's face remained calm, but internally, his thoughts churned.

Did his father suspect something?

After all, those around him were longtime retainers of House Karstark. Some of their families had lived in Karhold for generations—it wouldn't be surprising if they had leaked information.

If asked, he'd claim Theon had offended him during the last battle, and in a fit of anger, he pursued and killed him. His father, being the kind of man he was, likely wouldn't pursue the matter too deeply.

While Eddard was preparing his excuse, Earl Rickard broke the silence.

"Eddard, I heard that Robb Stark named you Hand of the King. Is that true?"

"Ah? Yes, Father."

Relieved by the direction of the conversation, Eddard relaxed inwardly. Compared to the matter earlier in the day, this was easy to handle.

"Perhaps it's because I performed well in the last two battles—or maybe to compensate us—but a few days ago, Robb summoned me to Riverrun for a planning meeting. I gave some suggestions, and he seemed pleased. That's when he gave me the title."

Eddard gave a simple explanation, glossing over the rest.

"Hmm."

Earl Rickard nodded. He had heard Ser Brynden speak highly of his son, calling him a rare intelligent man from the North. But being intelligent didn't mean there weren't drawbacks—especially for House Karstark.

After a moment's hesitation, he finally spoke: "Eddard, no matter what Robb Stark promises you, don't forget your brother's bones are still unburied. If you see any Lannister on the battlefield—don't show mercy."

"Kill them. Avenge Toren. Just like you did with Fowler Prester."

So that's what he was worried about.

Now understanding his father's concern, Eddard felt more at ease. He nodded.

"I will, Father. I've gathered some intelligence. Robb's main target this time is Stafford Lannister's newly trained recruits. I've also heard that Martin Lannister is serving as Stafford's squire—Kevan Lannister's legitimate son and William Lannister's brother."

"When the battle begins, Stafford will be yours to deal with. Martin is mine. We'll try to leave no survivors."

The outcome of the battle was all but certain to be a decisive victory. But if they took captives, Robb Stark would almost certainly demand custody of them. Even if Earl Rickard refused, Lady Catelyn would talk herself hoarse to exchange them for her daughters.

She would definitely do it.

If they wanted revenge, killing them outright on the battlefield was the only clean solution.

"Good."

A hint of relief appeared on Earl Rickard's weary face. He had worried his son had sided with Robb Stark and abandoned their family's grudge.

Now, it seemed he had been overthinking.

He gave a rare smile and said, "Eddard, you've just returned. You probably haven't eaten yet. Stay and dine with me."

"Hmm."

Eddard nodded, pulled up a chair, and sat opposite his father.

As a son, sharing a meal with his father—even under strained circumstances—was something you couldn't easily refuse.

Even in Westeros, where betrayal and bloodshed were commonplace, such moments between family remained rare and valuable.

Before long, attendants brought in a whole roasted leg of lamb coated in honey and cloves, a venison pie filled with carrots, bacon, and mushrooms, and a small barrel of foamy beer.

Northern food, like its people, was hearty, simple, and filling.

After returning from Fairmarket, Eddard had slept until the afternoon, then cleaned up and headed back—he hadn't eaten.

He tore off a steaming piece of lamb and tossed it into his mouth without bothering to cool it. He followed it with large bites of venison pie and a deep swig of honeyed beer to cool his tongue.

If he ever got the chance, he wanted to try the cuisine in King's Landing. There, dishes were carefully paired with wine to enhance flavor. Northern cooks were good, but their offerings were repetitive.

Earl Rickard ate only a little before setting down his knife and fork to watch his son devour everything.

He smiled and said, "Eddard, prepare yourself. In two days, we depart as the vanguard to scout Golden Tooth."

Eddard, full and content, raised an eyebrow. It seemed the relationship between his father and Robb Stark had improved considerably. Otherwise, the King of the North wouldn't entrust such an important mission to House Karstark.

Just surviving had already changed many things.

"Alright, Father. I'll go prepare."

Draining the last of his beer, Eddard wiped his mouth with his sleeve and rose to leave the tent.

Behind him, the earl spoke with meaning: "Do well, Eddard. You must do well. Do you understand?"

Eddard hesitated at the door, unsure what exactly that meant. He turned back, bowed, and said, "I understand."

Outside, Abel and Dita Kalander were waiting, faces tight with worry. They feared the old earl might pursue the matter of Theon's death.

Upon seeing Eddard, they called out nervously.

"Young Master?"

"It's nothing," Eddard replied, shaking his head. "Tell the others to prepare for battle. We leave in two days."

"Yes, Young Master."

Hearing of a new mission, Abel and Dita were relieved. It meant the matter of the Ironborn wouldn't be a problem in the short term.

As for the long term—time could bury everything. And even if it didn't, who would know they were the ones who did it?

Did anyone really think there was a greenseer watching?

As the two left, Eddard shook his head and headed to his tent. After days of evasion, travel, and scheming, he was utterly exhausted.

Back on home ground, he planned to finally sleep well.

---

Two Days Later – Morning Outside Riverrun

Eddard rode slowly on horseback, watching the black banner with a white sunburst grow smaller in the distance.

He now wore a black chainmail shirt beneath Baron Fowler's plate armor. The hole from the lance had been riveted shut, and the whole set had been repainted black, with a white sunburst at the center.

He wanted to ride with his father to test his magic against the Lannister scouts—but he'd been intercepted at dawn by Smalljon Umber, sent by Robb Stark.

All he could do was watch House Karstark's cavalry ride farther and farther away.

"Eddard, Theon is dead."

The King's quiet words snapped Eddard from his thoughts.

They rode at the front of the column. Only Ser Brynden was close enough to overhear, so there was little concern about eavesdropping.

Eddard raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes in mock surprise.

"Theon? That Ironborn? How is that possible?"

He had deliberately left the girl who seduced Theon behind to spread word of his death back to Riverrun. He trusted that Jason Mallister would keep the secret.

He'd burned Theon's corpse beyond recognition to avoid discovery.

He believed Balon Greyjoy still saw Theon as his heir. Ironborn culture didn't favor female rulers—even a capable daughter like Asha would cause chaos if placed on the throne.

Still, Eddard knew Balon wouldn't cancel his invasion plans over Theon. But the boy's death would buy the North precious time.

He hadn't expected Robb to bring up the matter so soon.

"Yes," Robb said. "Unbelievable as it sounds, Lord Jason confirmed the identity. He's keeping it quiet for now. The leading theory is that some Westerland deserters killed him."

Robb had sent Theon to the Iron Islands in secret. Few knew of it. That he had died at the hands of random deserters—who wandered off course and happened to kill a disguised envoy—was hard to believe.

"Is that so?"

Eddard kept a straight face. "When I was resting, I heard that some merchant caravans were traveling with the prisoner escort to Seagard. Perhaps some Westerland deserters were among them, recognized Theon, and struck."

Robb blinked, surprised by how quickly Eddard connected the dots.

"Yes, that could explain it."

Then, the King added cautiously: "Eddard, should I write to Balon Greyjoy and continue negotiating an alliance?"

Eddard stared at him, genuinely shocked.

Was the boy King serious?

But then again, Robb had made the decision to send Theon over his mother's objections. Writing to Balon after Theon's death wasn't surprising.

But Eddard had to stop this.

Otherwise, Theon would've died in vain.

"Your Majesty, I know you and Theon grew up together—but he's not like other Ironborn. He was raised by Lord Stark, he had honor."

"But King Balon is pure Ironborn. His mind is full of blood and plunder. Without Theon as a bridge, and considering the past war, the chance of an alliance is slim."

"Worse, when Balon hears his son is dead, he might go mad and launch a full assault on the North."

"Bran is ill. Rickon is barely four. Even with Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik, they may not withstand an Ironborn invasion."

"My advice: don't send a raven. Don't let anyone know Theon is dead. Instead, spread rumors he's away on a secret mission."

Robb fell silent.

He wasn't stupid—just inexperienced. He had no political training and often saw only the surface of problems. Becoming King so young had left him overwhelmed.

But now, Eddard's reasoning, combined with concern for his brothers, made sense.

Balon might retaliate like Robb had—by mustering his fleet for war.

The Starks couldn't deny involvement in Theon's death.

Robb frowned. "You're right. I'll handle it. I'll send ravens to the North to monitor Ironborn activity—and prepare for war."

"Your Majesty is wise," Eddard replied calmly.

Another disaster quietly averted.