Earl Rickard's tent stood at the very center of the bustling military camp. Unlike many of the southern lords who preferred opulent silk, his tent was made of thick, coarse black canvas. The material radiated both durability and austerity, a reflection of the Earl's own character—practical, unpretentious, and perpetually vigilant. The cold northern wind did little to pierce the heavy walls, though Rickard's sharp eyes were always alert, scanning for any sign of danger or deception.
As the flap of the tent rustled open, the Earl looked up from the letter in his hand. Eddard entered, his movements precise but subdued, his face a mask of composure. Fatigue etched subtle lines around his eyes, and there was a faint look of puzzlement in his gaze as he addressed his father.
"How was it? Did you rest well?" Rickard asked, his tone calm, though there was a flicker of suspicion in his gray-blue eyes. He could sense that Eddard's current demeanor was not that of a man who had simply returned from a night of indulgence. The faint undercurrent of deadly intent in his eyes betrayed a focus far more dangerous than mere weariness.
Eddard lowered his head politely and replied, "Thank you for your concern, Father. I rested well."
He knew that concealing the true state of his mind was necessary. His body had endured little rest, and his mind was still spinning from recent events, yet it would be inappropriate to display the exhaustion and tension that had consumed him.
Rickard nodded thoughtfully, his hands brushing the letter aside. Conversations between father and son were rarely intimate; words had to be measured and weighed. Silence hung heavily in the air, broken only by the faint rustling of the canvas as the camp around them carried on its noisy rhythm.
Eddard's outward calm masked the storm of thoughts within. Does Father suspect something? he wondered. The people surrounding him had long loyalties to House Karstark, some even born and raised in Karhold itself. It would not be surprising if information about his recent actions had leaked. Yet, if that were the case, surely their loyalty—or lack thereof—would have provided him with some hint.
No matter, he thought, I can handle this. If asked directly, he would claim that Theon Greyjoy had provoked him during the previous skirmish, and in a fit of justified vengeance, he had pursued and killed him. Earl Rickard's character, Eddard knew, was such that he would not pry further, nor would he expose his son's actions.
Breaking the quiet, Rickard leaned back slightly, a serious expression crossing his face.
"Eddard," he began slowly, "I heard that Robb Stark has named you Hand of the King. Is that true?"
Eddard allowed himself a small breath of relief. Compared to the day's earlier events, this question was trivial, almost mundane.
"Yes, Father," he replied simply, keeping his tone measured.
Rickard listened carefully as Eddard recounted the circumstances—his contributions to previous battles, the counsel offered to Robb at Riverrun, and the eventual bestowal of the title. Eddard left out nothing that might raise suspicion, but he was careful to exclude the darker, secretive deeds that had recently transpired.
Rickard considered the account, nodding subtly. He had heard praise from Ser Brynden "Blackfish," who had complimented Eddard's intelligence and judgment. Yet the Earl also recognized that wisdom came in degrees. Even the most capable mind had limitations, and every victory carried risks, especially for a northern lord of House Karstark navigating treacherous political waters.
After a moment, Rickard's voice hardened.
"Eddard, regardless of any promises Robb Stark makes, never forget that your brother's bones are still unburied. When you face any Lannister on the battlefield, show them no mercy. Kill them, avenge Toren, just as you struck down Fowler Prester."
Understanding dawned on Eddard, and a sense of reassurance followed. His father's concern was rooted in familial loyalty and the preservation of honor. It was precisely the kind of cautious oversight Eddard had anticipated.
"I will, Father," he said firmly, "and I've gathered some intelligence. Robb's main target this time will be the recruits trained by Stafford Lannister. I also learned that Martin Lannister is serving as a squire by Stafford's side. He is Kevan Lannister's legitimate son and William Lannister's brother."
Earl Rickard's face showed faint relief at this news.
"When the battle begins, Stafford Lannister will be yours to deal with, and Martin will fall to me. We'll leave no one alive," Eddard continued, outlining the grim strategy. "This ensures that no captives can later be demanded by Robb or others, avoiding any entanglements of honor or negotiation. It is the most efficient path to victory and revenge."
Rickard's stern visage softened slightly. "Good. You've thought this through. You understand the importance of precision and discretion. Now, you've just returned—you've likely not eaten yet. Stay and have a meal with me."
Eddard, never one to refuse a familial gesture, nodded. Meals with one's father, even in a world rife with scheming and cruelty, carried weight. The attendants brought forth hearty northern fare: a roasted leg of lamb coated with honey and cloves, a venison pie filled with carrots, bacon, and mushrooms, and a small barrel of frothy ale.
Eddard's hunger, sharpened by days of exertion and stress, led him to tear into the lamb without ceremony, followed by generous bites of the venison pie and deep gulps of ale. Each taste reminded him of the simple, robust cuisine of the North. He made a mental note to someday sample the famed chefs of King's Landing, whose culinary arts were said to surpass even the richest northern dishes.
Rickard watched silently, his gray-blue eyes softening as he observed his son consume the meal. "Eddard," he said, setting down his utensils, "prepare yourself. Tonight we leave as the vanguard to Golden Tooth for reconnaissance. The mission will be crucial."
Eddard raised an eyebrow at the responsibility. That Robb Stark had entrusted such a critical task to House Karstark spoke volumes. Survival, discretion, and strategic acumen had already altered his father's perception. The resentment that had lingered in Rickard's heart had softened, if only slightly, thanks to the young man's skill and subtle influence.
"I will prepare immediately, Father," Eddard replied. Draining the last of his ale, he wiped his mouth and rose.
Rickard's voice followed him as he left. "Do well, Eddard. You must do well. Understand?"
Eddard paused, offering a formal bow. "I understand, Father."
Outside, Abel and Dita Kalander waited, faces clouded with concern. Their unease was not about the mission, but rather about the potential fallout from the day's secret events.
"It's nothing," Eddard said, shaking his head. "Tell the others to prepare. We depart in two days."
The two nodded, relief evident in their expressions. The immediate danger of discovery had passed, and the world would remain oblivious to Theon Greyjoy's fate. Time, as always, would erase traces, leaving only carefully laid deceptions in its wake.
Two days later, the morning sun illuminated the fields outside Riverrun. Eddard rode slowly, his eyes tracing the receding black banners adorned with white sunbursts. He wore black chainmail beneath Baron Fowler's plate armor—a trophy of the previous battle, repaired and reforged, painted with his house's sigil in the center.
Despite his readiness for battle, a pang of regret struck him. He would have liked to test his full magical strength against the Lannister scouts, but Smalljon, dispatched by Robb Stark, had restrained him, ensuring that House Karstark's forces rode ahead.
"Eddard, Theon is dead," came a low voice from beside him. The words cut through his thoughts, drawing his attention to the young king riding in the procession.
Eddard widened his eyes in feigned shock. "Theon? That Ironborn? How is that possible?" he asked, carefully hiding any hint of prior knowledge.
The girl left behind by Eddard had already delivered the carefully worded message to Riverrun. Earl Jason would maintain its secrecy, ensuring the news did not leak to those who might misinterpret it. The Ironborn's customs, the low status of women, and the strategic implications of Theon's death all weighed heavily on Eddard's mind. Balon Greyjoy, as a father and king, would act according to Ironborn principles, paying the iron price with vengeance, and potentially launching a full-scale attack on the North.
Robb Stark, oblivious to the underlying machinations, considered Eddard's counsel carefully.
"Yes, although it's hard to believe, Earl Jason confirms the deceased is indeed Theon. He has kept it confidential, and preliminary analysis suggests Westerlands deserters may have been involved."
Eddard nodded, explaining the likely scenario with precise reasoning. The young king, naive in political matters and inexperienced in leadership, listened intently. He absorbed Eddard's warnings about Ironborn ruthlessness, the risk of retaliation, and the fragile state of the northern leadership, particularly given Bran's illness and Rickon's youth.
In conclusion, Eddard proposed a course of action: conceal Theon's death, spread misleading information about a secret mission, and fortify the North's defenses in preparation for possible Ironborn aggression.
Robb, recognizing the gravity of the situation for the first time, felt the weight of his crown. Though young, he now grasped the danger, the responsibility, and the necessity of careful, decisive planning.
"I understand," he admitted, his youthful confidence tempered by the sobering advice of a far more experienced mind. "I will arrange for ravens to be sent, instruct garrisons to monitor the Iron Islands, and prepare for any attack."
Eddard allowed a quiet sense of satisfaction to settle over him. His strategy had worked; Theon's death would serve the North's interests, and the young king had been guided safely toward wiser decisions. For now, the North's fragile peace and the safety of the Stark children had been preserved, at least for the moment.
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