At that moment, Lord Rickard Karstark dismounted and knelt beside the body of his fallen son, his expression as dark and ominous as storm clouds gathering over the Dreadfort.
Even amid the chaos of the battlefield, the sight struck a chill into the hearts of the surrounding soldiers and nobles.
After a few tense seconds, Lord Rickard forced himself to his feet. Gripping his longsword tightly, he turned and walked in silence toward the captured golden-haired knight, all eyes fixed on him.
Only the fury in his eyes betrayed the storm boiling beneath the surface.
It looked as though, in the very next instant, he might drive his blade through the Kingslayer's handsome skull and mount it on a spear.
Jaime Lannister had already regained consciousness. Seeing Lord Rickard approach, sword in hand, and noting the white sunburst emblazoned on his armor, he showed not a trace of fear. Instead, he threw his head back and laughed.
"So, the father of those two blockheads finally shows up. If you've got the spine, untie me and hand me a sword—I'll gladly reunite the three of you. Father and sons. In the ground."
Arrogant, shameless, utterly unrepentant.
There was no doubt in his mind—if it were a fair fight, he could still take both Karstark sons and their father without breaking a sweat.
Lord Rickard said nothing. He advanced step by step, sword in hand, as if the man before him were already a corpse—not worth a single word.
"Lord Karstark!" Robb Stark's voice rang out across the field. He stepped forward, his tone firm and commanding."You can lower your weapon. The battle is over—we've won!"
Robb Stark understood perfectly well—he needed the golden lion alive.
Jaime Lannister was too valuable a captive. With him, there was hope of bartering for the release of his father and two sisters, still held hostage in King's Landing.
For that alone, Jaime had to live.
Moreover, Robb remembered his father's teachings: never execute a prisoner without a trial, not even in war.
Lord Rickard Karstark came to a halt at Robb's command. It wasn't obedience born of fear—it was loyalty. The kind forged through blood, honor, and Northern tradition.
Everyone present knew how much Jaime Lannister meant to House Stark.
But the fury and grief surging in Rickard's chest would not disappear just because a boy-king said stop.
"My Lord," Rickard said, his voice hoarse with pain, "as a bannerman who followed you into war, I believe I have earned the right to deal with my own prisoner. And as a father who has just lost a son, I believe I have the right to demand a Lannister's blood… and it must be one close to the heart."
There was fury in his voice, but sorrow too—and beneath it all, something close to pleading.
Robb met his gaze.
"You will have that justice, Lord Karstark. But not here. Not now. And not with this golden boy." He gestured to the battlefield around them."Not in this forest, already soaked with the blood of the North."
He took a deep breath.
"Trust me—the North remembers."
Robb Stark stood tall despite the blood splattered across his armor, despite the exhaustion pulling at his limbs. His face was calm, composed—but his clenched fists betrayed the storm inside him.
He was doing everything he could not to let it show.
Robb couldn't help but worry that one of his most powerful bannermen might challenge him—publicly—just as Greatjon Umber once had back at Winterfell.
And this time, Grey Wind wasn't beside him to bare his teeth in warning. The direwolf was likely off somewhere, ripping out an enemy's throat.
Setting aside his title as the King in the North, Robb was still only fifteen.
A young lord with powerful, suspicious vassals is vulnerable—no matter the kingdom.
"Father," Eddard said, stepping forward to stand beside the grim-faced Lord Rickard, "Toren died fighting for Robb. I'm sure Lord Stark will give us a just and honorable answer—when the time is right."
As a son, he stood beside his father. As a Karstark, he stood behind the head of his House. And as someone newly arrived in this world, he understood the importance of playing his role.
Personalities could shift. Abilities could change. But identity and allegiance—those had to remain steady.
It was the only way to survive.
Eddard knew the story too well. He couldn't just stand by and watch the bond between House Karstark and House Stark unravel again.
If Lord Rickard, driven by grief and the thirst for vengeance, ended up executing Lannister prisoners without permission, Robb—hot-blooded and bound by honor—would have no choice but to condemn him for treason.
By then, it would be far too late.
House Karstark would be ruined. Marked as traitors to both crown and North.
Neither loyal to the Iron Throne nor to Winterfell.
And when that time came, if Eddard wanted to live, he'd have two choices:
Either kneel to the flayed banner of House Bolton… Or don the black cloak and ride for the Wall.
Eddard had no desire to take the black, no matter how dramatic the Night's Watch oath sounded.
And as for the Flayed Man? Anyone foolish enough to kneel to House Bolton was welcome to it—but it sure as hell wouldn't be him.
Hearing Eddard's words, Lord Rickard remained silent. He turned slightly to glance at his surviving son, and for just a moment, there was a flicker of warmth in his eyes.
For all his stormy temper, Rickard Karstark was still a father who loved his sons.
Without a word, he sheathed his sword and gave Robb Stark a solemn nod.
"I trust you, Robb. The North remembers and Karstark remembers."
Then, under the eyes of the gathered soldiers, he knelt, lifted Torhen's bloodied body into his arms, and walked out of the valley—step by heavy step.
Eddard gave Robb a respectful nod and followed closely behind his father.
At Winterfell, Greatjon Umber had once openly challenged Robb's authority with steel—only to settle down after Grey Wind tore off two of his fingers.
It had been a test, and also a warning. The tension between liege and bannermen was always simmering.
And right now, there were cracks between House Stark and House Karstark as well.
Until the matter of Jaime Lannister was settled, Eddard doubted he would remain in his position as Robb's personal guard.
Not that it was an official title to begin with—Lady Catelyn had simply appointed him on short notice to protect her son during the chaos of battle.
Still, to assign such a task to the heir of a noble house?
Well… it was exactly the kind of reckless practicality you'd expect from the fierce, unrelenting North.
Of course, Eddard's quiet withdrawal from the battlefield didn't mean House Karstark would cease to serve Winterfell.
It was a minor matter, all things considered.
Handled properly, the rift between House Stark and House Karstark could be mended with time and care.
But Robb Stark—still only fifteen—might not yet grasp the depth of such political nuance.
And as for the future?
With his limited political instincts… well, who's to say there'll be one?
Still, when the Young Wolf saw the white-haired Lord Karstark bow and step away, a visible relief lit up his face. His eyes turned toward Eddard Karstark with a trace of new warmth—grateful, perhaps, for the son who had calmed the storm in his father.
A small smile broke across Robb's still-youthful face.
He needed that moment of affirmation more than he let on.
And as if sensing the shift, even the glances from the surrounding lords and soldiers now carried a touch more respect.
Above them, the silver moonlight slowly faded into the sky.
With Jaime Lannister captured, the remaining Westerlands soldiers realized the battle was lost. Those who still clung to life quickly dropped their weapons and knelt in surrender.
Cheers erupted through the valley, echoing through the blood-soaked forest.
The Young Wolf had claimed his first great victory.
And not long after, the Northern host returned triumphant to camp, where news of Jaime's capture spread like wildfire.
Praises of the Young Wolf's strength, courage, and invincibility rang out across the tents and fires of the Northern army.
According to a certain Ironborn's tally,the North had lost fewer than two hundred men in the battle.
The Lannister side? Ten times that.
Over a hundred knights had been captured, along with a host of nobles—including three titled lords.
In addition to Jaime, another member of House Lannister was taken alive, along with a Lannister cousin and two members of House Frey.
It was no surprise.
The Lord of the Twins had fathered enough children to field a small army and spent the rest of his days weaving marriage alliances like a spider spinning a web.
Now, many of them were in Robb Stark's hands—valuable bargaining chips for the wars to come.
But victory here did not mean peace. If anything, the real war had just begun.
And where there is celebration… there is always grief lurking nearby.