By the time Eddard Karstark's group returned near Twin River City, the sun was already setting, painting the sky a fiery red. Its light seeped through the layered clouds, casting long shadows across the city walls. The horizon seemed to glow with an ominous warning, and on the walls, Black Ward's anxious eyes scanned the approaching cavalry. His heart pounded in his chest.
He and his great-grandfather, Walder Frey, had plotted a trap in the guise of bandit suppression. They intended to lure Eddard into the forest, where the Karstark commander would be surrounded and killed. It was a clever scheme: if it failed, no blame could touch House Frey. Young Master Aed had been too confident, eager to earn gold by hunting bandits. If he perished, it could be easily attributed to his own ambition. There would be no proof, no reason for the blame to fall on Frey. At most, they might pay a small sum in compensation.
But as the cavalry approached, Black Ward's face grew increasingly grim. His lips pressed tight, eyes narrowing as he counted the soldiers in the fading light. The banner fluttering atop the approaching force was unmistakable: House Karstark's black sunburst.
The plan had failed.
Could it be that the Northern soldiers were stronger than he had imagined? A force three times their number, yet they could not crush Karstark's men. Black Ward rubbed his eyes in disbelief, counting again. When Eddard had left, he had taken roughly forty cavalrymen. Now, over thirty returned. They had killed one hundred and twenty bandits and lost barely a handful of their own.
Something must have gone differently than expected. Perhaps the bandits hadn't been there? But the grim display of heads hanging from each horse told another story. The bandits had been slaughtered almost to the last man. House Karstark's cavalry had achieved this with horrifying efficiency, losing nearly no one.
Black Ward's mind reeled. To ensure the success of his own plan, he had supplied the bandits with weapons: old armor and over a hundred finely crafted daggers. And this was the result? The Northern soldiers had not only survived but triumphed effortlessly.
Panic surged through him. If Eddard suspected that House Frey had set him up, the consequences would be unimaginable. Heart pounding, Black Ward descended the city walls, racing toward his great-grandfather Walder Frey's chambers. Every second counted; they needed to discuss damage control before Eddard reached the city.
"Hiyah!"
Eddard spurred his warhorse, galloping toward the city with a measured unease. Though he had won the battle, he could not shake the worry that Old Frey might attempt a hidden attack against his returning soldiers. Eddard had given precise instructions for vigilance during garrison duty, rotations, and rest periods, insisting that the men be prepared for any contingency. Yet, even the strongest forces could be vulnerable if caught off guard.
As the troop approached the city walls, Eddard's eyes finally relaxed. The familiar silhouettes of Karstark patrols, steadfast and disciplined, confirmed that the city had remained loyal and alert. Old Frey, he realized, was not bold enough to openly provoke him while Robb Stark's prestige still held sway. The man could only attempt underhanded schemes in secret.
"Let's go, into the city!" Eddard commanded, his voice calm, his smile faint and controlled—a balance of warmth and distance, enough to inspire respect without inviting contempt.
The gates of Twin River City opened, and Black Ward rode out to meet him. He forced a smile, glancing at the gruesome trophies adorning the returning cavalry. "Congratulations, Young Master Aed, on your victorious return!" he called. "To have slain so many bandits, you must have faced fierce resistance. Truly, you have worked hard."
He drew closer, spurring his horse with forced enthusiasm. "My lord, my great-grandfather has prepared a banquet to honor your efforts in suppressing the bandits. We hope you and your men can grace us with your presence."
Eddard's mind sharpened. The words were laced with ill intent. He thought silently, Isn't this a feast at Hongmen? You failed to trap me in the forest, so now you attempt the 'courtesy before force' tactic? He smiled faintly but coldly, masking his thoughts. Your brains may exist, but there is little in them.
"Alright," he said with composed agreement. "However, my armor is covered in blood. I should at least return to the barracks to clean it before drinking wine or eating meat that reeks of gore. Some of my men are also injured and need immediate treatment. I must trouble Walder Frey to wait a moment."
"No problem, of course! I'll inform him immediately. We'll hold the banquet after dark, Young Master Aed. Will that suffice?" Black Ward's forced cheer masked his inner panic.
"Hmm, alright," Eddard said, nodding. Black Ward spurred his mount back into the city to deliver the message.
As Eddard rode through the streets, the faint smile remained. Yet the dried blood on his armor and the heads tied to the horses caused local residents to scurry indoors in fear. Only when he reached the camp and entered his tent did his expression harden with gravity.
Something was off.
Old Frey's eagerness to host a feast suggested urgency. If the assassination attempt in the forest had failed, the city should have remained a neutral ground. A banquet at Hongmen so quickly after the skirmish implied that Frey had already taken measures he had not disclosed. What could have prompted such haste?
Eddard's thoughts flicked to the communication system. Messages carried by ravens often had to pass through House Frey's maester; interception or delay was a common risk. Perhaps Frey had received intelligence Eddard had not. What news could push the man to orchestrate a banquet under the pretense of hospitality while plotting treachery?
"Abel," Eddard called, stepping from his chair. "Send Doren here. I need him to help me clean my armor."
"Yes, Young Master," Abel responded, departing quickly. Soon, two sets of footsteps approached. Doren lifted the tent flap and entered, dressed in black chainmail. A dagger hung from his belt, and he carried a basin of water with a linen cloth. He bowed to Eddard, then approached the plate armor on the stand without a word.
In the North, polishing one's lord's armor was an intimate act, a demonstration of trust and loyalty. For a squire, it was both a privilege and an opportunity to earn merit and recognition. Abel had risen from a landless second son to a knight with lands—a testament to the social mobility possible under Eddard's leadership.
Doren, however, seemed distracted. His eyes darted toward Eddard repeatedly, and his weathered face betrayed hesitation. Eddard seated himself and spoke gently. "Doren, your family has lived in Karhold for generations, correct?"
Doren paused mid-polish. "Yes, Young Master. My grandfather came here as a mason. My father continued the trade and passed it to my eldest brother. He then gave me some money to buy equipment and join the military. Counting the years, it's been about seventy or eighty."
Eddard nodded, maintaining a calm demeanor. "I understand Roose Bolton promised you land and loyalty. But I don't understand how he contacted you to attempt my assassination. Given your long history as a servant, can you explain why?"
He glanced briefly at the system. Doren's loyalty had shifted from [Poor] to [Extremely Poor], with an annotation: [Roose Bolton ordered him to assassinate Eddard]. The revelation confirmed Eddard's suspicions and revealed the treachery in Karhold.
Doren froze. Then, with a surge of panic and anger, he drew his dagger. "How did you know? I don't drink, I rarely speak, and I never reveal secrets! How… how could you know?" His voice cracked, the fury and fear barely contained.
Abel and Dita Kalander immediately drew weapons, stepping between Eddard and Doren. The once spacious tent now felt claustrophobic.
Eddard's expression remained calm, his voice low and controlled. "Doren, there's much you must understand. Your wife is alone in Karhold, caring for three children. Your eldest son, eighteen, tends the horses and admires the neighboring girl. Your daughter, twelve, serves as a maid to my sister. Your youngest, only five, is already intelligent and obedient, helping in the fields. If I send a single word, all of you could be arrested and executed. Do you consider this? Or are you only curious how I discovered your betrayal?"
Doren's resolve crumbled. His dagger clattered to the floor. He fell to his knees, burying his face in the carpet. "Young Master… please… spare my family!"
Eddard's gaze fixed on him, dark and unwavering. "Whether they live or die depends on one thing: can you seize the opportunity I provide?"
The weight of the moment hung heavy in the tent, a mixture of fear, discipline, and the grim Northern way of justice. Doren understood that life and death were often decided not by loyalty, but by the choices one dared to make in the shadow of power.
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