Eddard examined the aftermath of the forest skirmish carefully, his eyes narrowing as they fell on one particular figure. The casualty was Konn, the young subordinate whom Eddard had temporarily appointed as a squad leader. He had always been clever, agile, and sharp-minded—a man whose azure eyes could captivate anyone when he smiled. Even among the soldiers of Twin River City, Konn had made a name for himself, charming widows and enjoying life with a freedom that surpassed even his master's.
And now he was dead.
The loss felt like a punch to the gut, a sudden void where laughter and vitality had once been. Eddard's mind briefly flickered to thoughts of compensation for Konn's family. Gold, silver, any reward he could offer—he had to ensure his loyal soldier's kin were cared for. One could not resurrect the dead; that much was certain.
"Young Master."
The familiar voice snapped Eddard out of his reverie. He looked up, expecting a fellow soldier—or perhaps the lingering whisper of his imagination. Instead, he saw Konn walking toward him, alive.
Alive.
Or at least, wearing the mask of life.
The figure retained Konn's handsome features, his body unmarked, his steps leisurely, his smile perfectly familiar. And yet… the azure eyes—so bright and playful before—were now void of warmth. They glinted with something far darker, a predatory killing intent that made Eddard's stomach tighten.
Damn it.
Was this a ghost?
No, ghosts in this world didn't move so naturally, nor did they bear such vivid beauty. If Konn had been resurrected by an Other, his eyes would glow faintly blue, his face stiff, his movements unnatural. Specters didn't take human form in such a flawless disguise. Even the followers of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, could not mimic life so perfectly without noticeable flaws.
Eddard's mind raced. Only one explanation seemed possible: the Faceless Men of Braavos. The legendary assassins, masters of disguise and death, had come for him.
A cold fury surged through him. Several hundred gold dragons must have changed hands for this mission. Did the House of Black and White even have a branch in Westeros? A ship from Braavos would take weeks to reach Twin River City. How had they managed to arrive in time?
Eddard's jaw tightened. This was not just an ordinary challenge—this was a calculated, insane provocation.
"Hm?"
The Konn before him tilted his head, raising an eyebrow as if sensing he had been detected. His pace quickened, light as smoke despite the weight of his chainmail. In an instant, a hand swiped through the air, a blade flashing toward Eddard's throat with deadly precision. But the attack met steel—a battle-axe swung with perfect timing.
"Clang!"
The sound of metal meeting metal rang sharp and true. The Faceless Man's thin rapier clattered harmlessly aside. His face betrayed a flicker of surprise, the first sign of vulnerability he had shown.
He had chosen this target carefully, studying him for days, even mimicking Konn's eye color to perfect the disguise. Yet he had been exposed.
Eddard's eyes narrowed as he assessed the enemy. The assassin moved like a shadow, drifting backward after the failed strike, prepared to vanish within seconds. The Faceless Men excelled at subtlety, poisons, and stealth, preferring to kill unseen rather than confront directly. But Eddard had anticipated this.
He extended his left hand, shaping a virtual grip in the air, and tightened it with sudden force. The Faceless Man let out a strangled grunt and collapsed, his body unable to resist the invisible grip.
"Do you have accomplices?" Eddard demanded, pressing the question, "Where are they?"
"Valar Morghulis," the assassin managed to choke out, eyes wide with defiance, before fading to nothing. His lifeless body slumped in Eddard's grasp.
Eddard exhaled sharply. Though Faceless Men could resist many magical and physical constraints, they were not invincible. Even in death, they could attempt to summon the God of Many Faces—but not if their throat was crushed and body held firmly.
"Damn it," Eddard muttered under his breath, swinging the battle-axe in a precise, single motion. The blade met neck, and the head separated cleanly from the body.
He examined the corpse carefully. The features shifted, the face settling into a grotesque mask of black eyes, a hooked nose, and a gaping mouth revealing yellowed teeth. These creatures, so trained in death, were still only mortal in the end.
Eddard spat and waved a hand. "Go."
His soldiers, who had been watching in tense silence, scattered to search for Konn's actual body. Dita Kalander, observing closely, finally understood. He had been with Eddard long enough to know the master did not kill his own men without reason.
"This is a Faceless Man in disguise," Dita called out, voice low but firm. "Konn is likely dead. Everyone, search carefully—he may be lying somewhere."
The teams fanned out quickly, scouring the forest. The soldiers who had been closest to Konn were the most diligent; their confusion and guilt fueled a meticulous search.
Fifteen minutes later, one shout pierced the forest.
"Found him!"
Konn's body was recovered, his chest bare save for a thin sword wound in the throat. The blood had turned black-blue, indicating a fast-acting poison. A faint shiver ran through Eddard. The Faceless Man had used everything at his disposal: disguise, stealth, and deadly toxins.
Meanwhile, outside the forest, Sir Lyman Frey waited atop his horse, anticipating the outcome with a mix of pride and apprehension. His mission had succeeded in gathering the bandits for the ambush, though he had no idea of the precise carnage inside. His son, Black Ward, had prepared food to lure over a hundred twenty bandits into the trap—three times the number of Eddard's force. The plan should have guaranteed chaos and victory.
And yet… he had no way of predicting the Faceless Men.
From the shadows of the forest, the House Karstark soldiers emerged, each carrying heads like grim trophies, blood spattered across their armor and faces. Lyman Frey's eyes widened; the sight froze him in place. His stomach lurched as the reality of the North's ruthlessness sank in.
"Seven Gods!" he whispered, pressing a hand to his chest. His warm clothing could not shield him from the cold terror radiating from the soldiers. He closed his eyes, praying frantically—first to the Father, then the Mother, and finally, trembling, he settled on the Maiden. "Maiden, protect me. Fill my mind with visions of beauty!"
Eddard's voice cut through the tension. "Sir Lyman, what are you doing?"
Startled, Lyman blinked, realizing his absurdity. "N-nothing," he stammered, forcing a trembling smile. "Congratulations, Young Master Aed… a great victory, a great victory indeed!"
Eddard's eyes gleamed, sharp with authority. "This is a joint victory for House Karstark and House Frey. The bandits near Twin River City have been eliminated. We can enjoy peace for a while. Lord Frey will need to prepare a significant reward—gold dragons for each head collected."
Lyman Frey's voice remained stiff, but his nod was fervent. "Naturally… naturally."
Eddard surveyed the returning soldiers. Their faces were grim, their expressions unreadable, yet the precision and efficiency of the forest ambush left no doubt of their loyalty and skill. The fallen Faceless Man had been a shocking reminder of the perils even the most prepared warriors could face—but it had also underscored Eddard's unmatched power and foresight.
He turned his gaze toward the horizon, the forest now silent save for the distant rustle of animals returning to the woods. Konn's body would be honored, his family compensated, but Eddard knew one lesson had been reinforced: in a world rife with shadows and killers, vigilance and preparedness were the only constants.
No old man's schemes, no Faceless Men, could surprise him twice.
Eddard's hand rested on his battle-axe. The coming days would bring more challenges, more enemies, more chaos—but he was ready. And the world, he reflected grimly, would learn that House Karstark's wrath was both precise and unstoppable.
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