Chapter 4: The Karstark Assessment
The arrival of Lord Karstark's summons sent a ripple of anxious energy through the meager household of Greywater Keep. Maester Hannis, his hands trembling as he re-read the parchment, was the first to voice his concerns.
"Lord Rickard Karstark," he breathed, his voice hushed with a mixture of awe and trepidation. "A hard man, m'lord. From the North. They say Karstarks are an offshoot of the Starks themselves, made of iron and ice. Fiercely loyal to Winterfell, and known for their… unyielding justice." He looked at Elian, his watery eyes filled with worry. "The Ruby Ford… it was one of the bloodiest battles of the Rebellion. For him to be encamped there, mopping up… he will not be a man to suffer fools or perceived weakness."
Elian, or rather Momonga within, listened patiently. This was valuable intelligence. "Un-yielding justice," he mused. That could mean anything from fair but stern, to brutally uncompromising. He needed to project an image of competence and loyalty, without revealing the true, alien nature of his power.
"Tom," Elian said, turning to his steward. "Prepare our best provisions, such as they are. We ride in two days. Hal and Timms will accompany me." He paused, considering. Two men were a pitiful retinue, even for a minor lord. "And select two of the sturdiest men from Oakhaven." Oakhaven was the name they'd settled on for the newly vassalized village. "Ensure their attire is… presentable."
Tom nodded, already looking burdened by the logistics. "It will be done, m'lord. Though 'presentable' is a high bar for our current wardrobe."
The next two days were a flurry of quiet activity. Elian had Hal and Timms drill relentlessly, focusing on marching discipline and weapon bearing. He wanted them to look like soldiers, not armed peasants. He himself spent time with Maester Hannis, absorbing every scrap of information about Northern customs, the political climate of the Riverlands under Tully rule, and any known history of House Karstark's interactions with Riverlords. He also spent hours in his chamber, ostensibly resting, but actually meditating on his mana reserves and contemplating the obsidian amulet he'd found.
He'd tried channeling small amounts of mana into it. There was no visible effect, no sudden surge of power. However, he did notice a subtle internal warmth when he focused his will through it, and on one occasion, while practicing [Detect Magic], the range of his perception seemed to extend a few crucial feet further than usual. It was inconsistent, difficult to quantify, but the amulet felt like it was slowly, almost imperceptibly, attuning to him, or he to it. He decided to wear it, hidden beneath his tunic, for the journey. It might offer some small, unforeseen advantage.
His mana capacity, bolstered by the souls from the Whispering Woods, felt more robust. He could now maintain minor spells like enhanced senses for extended periods, or cast multiple [Magic Arrows] without significant depletion. He wouldn't be challenging a dragon, but for the mundane threats of this world, he was rapidly becoming formidable.
The journey to the Ruby Ford took the better part of a day. Elian rode the best of Greywater's bony nags, a patched dark cloak covering his simple but clean tunic and breeches. Hal and Timms, their old leather jacks polished and their spear points sharpened, rode beside him. Behind them trudged the two men from Oakhaven, looking uncomfortable but determined in their ill-fitting, borrowed gear. They passed through lands still bearing the scars of war – burned-out cottages, fallow fields, and the occasional makeshift grave. The King's Peace, it seemed, was still a fragile thing in these parts.
Elian observed everything, his mind cataloging, analyzing. The few travelers they encountered gave their small, armed party a wide berth. He noted the lack of Tully patrols, the general air of unease that still permeated the countryside. This meeting with Karstark was more than just a summons; it was a test of his ability to navigate the treacherous currents of Westerosi politics.
Sebas Tian, in the guise of the elderly scholar 'Master Tian,' had made his way to a small village a few miles west of the Ruby Ford. He'd arrived the previous day, his inquiries subtle, his demeanor unassuming. He learned quickly that Lord Rickard Karstark's Northmen were indeed camped by the Ford, a disciplined and somewhat intimidating presence. They paid for their supplies, kept to themselves, and dealt harshly with any hint of local banditry.
Then, he'd heard it: Lord Hollow of Greywater Keep, a young boy barely of age, had been summoned. The timing, the location, the rumors of this boy-lord's sudden and inexplicable prowess – it all aligned too perfectly with the strengthening mental call he'd felt from his Master.
Today, positioned discreetly in a copse of trees overlooking the road leading towards the Ford, Sebas waited. His powerful senses, far beyond those of any normal human, allowed him to perceive the approaching party long before they were visible. He noted their meager numbers, their worn equipment, but also a certain grim determination in their bearing, especially the two men flanking the young lord.
And then he saw him. The boy at the head of the group, Elian Hollow. He was young, true, with a lean, almost fragile build. But there was something in the way he sat his horse, the unnatural stillness of his gaze as he surveyed his surroundings, the subtle air of command that even his youth could not entirely conceal. Sebas felt a jolt, a profound sense of recognition that went deeper than physical appearance. It was in the very essence of the being before him, a faint echo of the overwhelming majesty of the Supreme One he served.
His heart, a construct of magic and loyalty, beat faster. It must be him. Lord Ainz.
The disguise, the weakness, the primitive setting – it mattered not. Sebas knew, with an unshakeable certainty, that his vigil was nearing its end. He would observe this meeting with Karstark, if possible, from a distance. He needed to understand the situation his Master was in, the threats he faced, before revealing himself. Caution was paramount. Lord Ainz's safety was his only concern.
The Karstark camp was a stark contrast to the often-haphazard encampments Elian had read about or imagined. It spread across a rise overlooking the Ruby Ford, tents laid out in orderly rows, sentries posted at regular intervals, their movements crisp and disciplined. Pennants bearing the white sunburst of Karstark snapped in the wind alongside a few Tully trout banners. The air hummed with a quiet, efficient energy. These were veteran soldiers, far from home, but still maintaining Northern discipline.
Elian's small party was challenged at the perimeter by a grim-faced guard whose accent was thick and Northern. "State your name and purpose."
"Elian of House Hollow, summoned by Lord Karstark," Elian replied, his voice calm and even.
The guard looked them over, his gaze lingering dismissively on their worn gear, but he gave a curt nod. "Wait here."
After a few minutes, a hardened man-at-arms with a scarred face and the Karstark sunburst crudely stitched onto his breastplate emerged. "Lord Karstark will see you. Follow me. Your men will wait here."
Elian dismounted, handing his reins to Hal. "Stay alert," he murmured, then followed the soldier deeper into the camp. He passed rows of men cleaning equipment, tending to horses, or engaged in quiet conversation. They were tough, bearded, and watched him with curious, unsmiling eyes.
He was led to a large, unadorned tent pitched in the center of the camp. The flaps were open, revealing a spartan interior: a camp table, a few stools, maps pinned to a board, and a tall, powerfully built man standing over the table, studying a map.
Lord Rickard Karstark was exactly as Maester Hannis had described: a figure hewn from granite. His beard was shot with grey, his face deeply lined, and his eyes, the pale grey of a winter sky, were piercing and missed nothing. He wore boiled leather and a fur-lined cloak despite the mild Riverland air, a sword girded at his hip. He looked up as Elian entered, his expression unreadable.
"Lord Hollow," Karstark said, his voice a low rumble, like distant thunder. "You are younger than I expected."
Elian inclined his head respectfully. "Lord Karstark. Time makes men of us all, eventually. I came as summoned."
Karstark gestured to a stool. "Sit. We have matters to discuss." Elian sat, maintaining an outward composure that belied the rapid calculations whirring in Momonga's mind. This was the moment.
"Your lands," Karstark began, his gaze unwavering, "are small, impoverished, and until recently, seemingly insignificant. Yet, I hear tales. Tales of bandits vanishing. Of a boy-lord who wields… unusual methods." He leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, Lord Hollow, how does a boy barely old enough to shave suddenly pacify a stretch of land that has troubled older, more experienced men?"
Elian met his gaze. "My lands were threatened, Lord Karstark. My people suffered. I did what was necessary to protect them. The bandits were disorganized, overconfident. They underestimated Greywater Keep and its lord." He chose his words carefully. "Desperation can be a sharp teacher."
"Desperation?" Karstark's lip curled slightly. "Or something else? Magic is not unknown in the South, though we Northmen place little store by it unless it serves a clear purpose. Are you a sorcerer, boy?"
This was a critical juncture. Deny it outright, and any future display of power would be seen as deception. Admit it, and he could be branded a dangerous unknown.
"I have… studied certain arts, Lord Karstark," Elian said, opting for a careful ambiguity. "Knowledge that has proven useful in defending my home. The Seven work in mysterious ways, and perhaps they have seen fit to grant me means beyond the purely martial." He invoked the local religion, a safe, if somewhat disingenuous, deflection.
Karstark grunted, seemingly unimpressed by the religious overtone but not outright dismissing the claim. "The only god I trust is the one who puts steel in a man's hand and courage in his heart. Your… 'arts'… have they harmed any loyal to House Tully or King Robert?"
"Never, my lord," Elian replied firmly. "My only targets have been those who prey on the innocent and defy the King's Peace."
"Commendable, if true." Karstark straightened, his gaze sweeping over Elian again. "Lord Tully has tasked me with ensuring this region remains stable as our main forces withdraw north. Minor lords like yourself have a role to play. Your lands, though small, sit near vital crossroads and the Whispering Woods, which has long been a den for outlaws."
He paused, then delivered his terms. "Continue your efforts, Lord Hollow. Keep your domain clear of brigands. Report any significant threats or movements of suspicious groups directly to Raventree Hall or Stone Hedge, who will relay it to Riverrun. In return, your loyal service to House Tully will be noted. Do we have an understanding?"
It was more an order than a negotiation, but it was also a tacit acknowledgment of Elian's authority in his small sphere. He wasn't being asked for troops or crippling tribute, merely to do what he was already doing, but now with an official, if indirect, sanction.
"We have an understanding, Lord Karstark," Elian affirmed. "House Hollow will continue to uphold the King's Peace in its lands and report as required."
"Good." Karstark gave a curt nod. "One more thing. There are whispers… of something stirring in the Blackmorass, west of here. Strange beasts, disappearances. My men are stretched thin. If your 'arts' give you any insight into such matters, or if you hear credible reports, that information would also be… valuable."
The Blackmorass. Maester Hannis had mentioned it. Another potential source of souls, perhaps more powerful ones than common bandits. And Karstark was inadvertently pointing him towards it.
"I will keep my ears open, Lord Karstark," Elian said.
"See that you do." Karstark dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "You may go."
Elian rose, bowed once more, and exited the tent. The audience had been shorter, and less overtly hostile, than he'd braced for. Karstark was a pragmatist. A young lord who could handle his own problems, even with unconventional methods, was an asset, not a threat, as long as he remained loyal.
As he rejoined his men, who looked visibly relieved to see him unharmed, Elian felt a sense of quiet triumph. He had passed the first test. He had a mandate, of sorts, and a new area of interest to explore.
On the ride back, as the sun began to set, Elian subtly touched the obsidian amulet beneath his tunic. He focused, trying to extend his senses towards the distant Blackmorass Karstark had mentioned. For a fleeting moment, as he poured a tiny trickle of mana into the amulet, he thought he felt… something. Not a clear vision, but a cold, damp sensation, a feeling of ancient, slumbering things, and a faint, almost inaudible whisper that seemed to echo the name of the marsh itself. The amulet was indeed a focus, amplifying his nascent connection to the deeper, unseen currents of this world.
From his concealed vantage point, Sebas Tian watched the small party from Greywater Keep depart Lord Karstark's camp. He had not been able to get close enough to overhear the conversation, but he had observed Elian Hollow's entrance and exit. The boy – no, his Master – carried himself with a quiet dignity and composure that was utterly at odds with his apparent youth and the meagerness of his retinue.
When Elian had emerged from Karstark's tent, Sebas had focused all his formidable senses. For a moment, as the setting sun caught the young lord's face, Sebas saw past the youthful features, past the human guise. He saw a flicker of the profound wisdom, the ancient power, the sheer overwhelming presence of Ainz Ooal Gown. It was like recognizing a beloved monarch even if they were dressed in beggar's rags. The essence could not be entirely hidden from one so devoted.
It is unquestionably Lord Ainz, Sebas affirmed to himself, a wave of profound relief and fervent loyalty washing over him. He is alive. He is here. And he is already navigating the perils of this new world with his peerless intellect.
His next course of action was clear. He could not rush in. His Master was operating under a disguise, for reasons Sebas could only guess at – perhaps to assess this world without revealing his true power, a typically cautious and brilliant strategy. An unannounced appearance by a Floor Guardian or their equal could compromise that.
Sebas would make his way towards Greywater Keep, discreetly. He would observe, gather more information, and await the opportune moment to present himself. Perhaps he could offer his services as a tutor, a skilled craftsman, or even a simple servant, to be close to his Lord, to protect him until the other Guardians could be found and Nazarick's strength re-established.
He melted back into the shadows of the trees, his mind already formulating a dozen plans. The search was over. The service would now begin anew.
Elian returned to Greywater Keep under the cover of darkness, the meeting with Karstark replaying in his mind. He had a clearer understanding of his position now. He was a minor lord, yes, but one with a degree of acknowledged autonomy as long as he fulfilled his duties. The mention of the Blackmorass was particularly intriguing.
As he dismounted in the courtyard, Tom and Maester Hannis rushed out, their faces anxious.
"M'lord! How did it fare with Lord Karstark?" Tom asked.
"It went well," Elian replied, a hint of his newfound confidence in his voice. "Lord Karstark acknowledges our efforts. Greywater Keep has its duties, and we will see them done." He looked towards the west, in the vague direction of the Blackmorass. "And it seems new opportunities for us to… serve the realm… may soon present themselves."
His men looked at him, their expressions a mixture of relief and anticipation. Under their strange young lord, life at Greywater Keep was rapidly becoming anything but dull. And for Momonga, the path ahead was becoming clearer: consolidate power, gather his forces, and unlock the secrets of this new world, one soul, one mystery, at a time. The obsidian amulet felt warm against his skin, a silent promise of deeper powers yet to be understood.