"How could my father attack the North?!" Theon Greyjoy's voice rang out, laced with disbelief and fury.
"Eddard Karstark! Do you know what you're saying?!" Theon continued, his tone rising in desperation. "I went to the Iron Islands myself, seeking allies for Robb! You'd better release me immediately, or Robb will chop you into pieces and feed you to Grey Wind!"
He shouted loudly, trying to leverage his noble identity and his supposed mission as a shield. But as he looked into Eddard's steadily hardening eyes, his bravado faltered. His heart thumped violently in his chest. Horror replaced defiance, and the shaky, faltering words of a plea escaped his lips: "No… you can't kill me. I'm… I'm an adopted son of Stark, Robb's brother… you can't…"
"Ha," Eddard interrupted mercilessly, a cruel smile forming on his lips. "Do you still think you're a Stark?"
Theon faltered, unable to continue.
Eddard's cold gaze swept over the bound Ironborn. He reflected silently: I was blinded by the rules and customs of this world for too long. I actually considered sparing an idiot like him because of his succession rights? He wouldn't truly serve me. Even if he swore allegiance, it would be lukewarm at best. He's a Greyjoy—fickle to the bone. Taking him in would only bring trouble.
He glanced at the small notched longsword at his waist. A simple weapon from the Westerlands, its hilt engraved with ox horns, a mark of the Prester family. One of the spoils taken after a previous raid, ordinary in the hands of most, but in his it would deliver judgment.
"Look at yourself, Theon Greyjoy," Eddard said coldly. "You have no resilience of the Running Wolf Flag in your bones. Your actions are devoid of honor. Forget being a Stark—you are not even a true Northman."
Theon's lips quivered, despair flickering in his eyes like the cold wind Beyond the Wall. He realized, with a sickening certainty, that his life was ending here.
"You've squandered the life you were given," Eddard continued, voice cutting. "You claim to be the heir to the Iron Islands, yet where is your resolve? Where is your defiance? In all this, you are not even as noble as those born in Snow. At least they cannot choose their birth. And you… you've simply wasted yours."
Theon's anger boiled over. "No! It's not like that, it's not—!"
"No," Eddard said evenly. "You are exactly as I describe."
He raised his longsword. "Theon, in my name, I send you to meet the sea god—who is said to symbolize cruelty and ruthlessness."
The blade fell. In a single swift motion, it cut across Theon's fragile throat. Whimpers faded into silence, eyes that had been filled with terror, grief, and indignation dimming completely.
Eddard didn't stop there. A ball of scorching orange flame appeared in his hand. With a flick, it enveloped the Ironborn's body. Five seconds later, all that remained was a blackened, smoking shard of charcoal.
Abel Qashtak, standing nearby, gaped at the sight. His mouth opened, as if to speak, yet no words came.
A notification appeared in Eddard's mind: Abel Qashtak's loyalty has increased: [Fears your mysterious and powerful strength.]
Eddard allowed himself a small smile. A pleasant surprise, he thought.
"Keep it a secret, for now," he instructed silently. To his trusted, loyal subordinates, revealing his strength posed no threat. But to others, he would wait. Being too different would only lead to suspicion.
"Understood, young master," Abel replied.
Eddard nodded and left the room, whispering to Dita Kalander: "Cut her ropes. She'll find her own way once she wakes. We leave first."
Dita only saw a faint red glow inside the room. She complied without question.
Mounted and armored lightly, Eddard, Dita, and Abel rode swiftly out of Fairmarket. Hours passed, and night fully enveloped the land.
Inside the dark room, the Earl of Seagard held a torch, examining the charred remains on the floor. Tall and thin, with clean-shaven features and sharp gray-blue eyes, he studied the corpse quietly. Though the situation was unusual, Westeros was no stranger to strange deaths. Wildfire, maester-prepared combustibles, or other arcane means could reduce a body to such a state.
Earl Jason did not know why Theon Greyjoy had been in Seagard, but he felt disgusted with the Ironborn, who squandered every day in debauchery alongside his son. The King's foster brother's death in such circumstances was inexplicable. If the murderer could not be found, accusations might fly.
"Patrick," he said at last, "have you questioned the woman? Did you notice their accents?"
Patrick Mallister, his son, furrowed his brow. "Yes, father. One had a Southern accent, deep and middle-aged. The other two… one seemed the leader, but spoke only once. The other was silent."
"Southern accent?" Earl Jason mused, stroking his chin.
Patrick continued, recalling her words. "They wore black cloaks, leather armor worn and dusty, boots showing wear. Probably hedge knights. But they offered a golden dragon, so perhaps disguised. Their swords had curved ox horn hilts—familiar, but I couldn't place them."
"Prester family swords," Jason said with a sigh. "After Ser Foeller's defeat, many were captured and sold. Anyone near Riverrun with money could own one."
He looked at Patrick, noticing fatigue in the boy's eyes. "There's nothing more for you here. Rest."
Patrick left, glancing back at the blackened remains with a pang of regret.
Earl Jason penned a letter, sending a maester with a raven to inform the King of Theon Greyjoy's supposed death. He wrote a simple explanation: the corpse was a robbed merchant, not the man they sought. Suspicion never reached House Karstark.
Meanwhile, Eddard, having left misleading clues, rode north of the Tum Stone River. Following the slow prisoner escort, it took three days to reach Fairmarket. He, Dita, and Abel, lightly armored and on fast horses, returned at nightfall.
Along the Tum Stone's northern bank, farmers had reclaimed fields, merchants arrived in steady streams, and life resumed amid the war's remnants. Changing into fresh clothes near the village, the trio entered quietly, posing as hunters.
They quickly located Kalas Snow, enjoying the company of several women. "Young master, what did you hunt? You've been gone so long," he asked, puzzled.
"A wild boar that looked like a squid," Eddard replied casually, "jumped into a fire pit and burned itself to death."
Kalas scratched his head, confusion evident. He had little imagination, but obedience to his young master left him accepting whatever was said.
Eddard handed coins to the woman in his arms, coaxing her into a smile, and then found an inn for the group to rest.
As they moved about, Eddard noticed Edmure Knight sneaking away. The heir to the Duke of Riverrun, already known to Eddard, hastily mounted and galloped off. Now is not the time for pleasantries, he thought. The Riverlands were on alert, lords already mobilizing to defend reclaimed lands. A distracted lord could spell disaster for many.
The following evening, as darkness settled, the camps near Riverrun glimmered with activity. Soldiers inspected armor, sharpened swords, and prepared warhorses. Even the feed included oats, soybeans, and eggs—luxuries ensuring the cavalry's strength for the coming campaign.
"Young master, you're finally back," Konn said, running up. "Lord Earl sent people looking for you multiple times."
"I know. I'll go right away," Eddard replied, moving towards the camp.
Days earlier, he had integrated five remaining people into his troop. Their loyalty was high, bolstered by past service, belief in his leadership, and the reputation of House Karstark. Random recruits would not have been as steadfast. Even Bronn, though victorious in combat, had complex motivations.
As Eddard rode along the road, McKen, the oldest and most meticulous among them, approached. "Young master, Lord Earl ordered the army to prepare. Your warhorse, weapons, and armor are ready."
"Mm, thank you for your hard work," Eddard said, nodding, appreciating the man's loyalty and precision.
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