Eddard Karstark pushed Sir Lyman forward, keeping a warm, deceptive smile on his face. "Lord Marquis," he began, his tone deceptively light, "there's one question I've never truly understood: why are you so eager to kill me?"
Walder Frey's eyes, momentarily clouded by surprise, hardened as he regarded Eddard. At first, he had been startled, but decades of cunning had taught him when to drop pretense. "You… don't understand?" he asked, his voice sharp, filled with barely restrained ferocity.
Young Master Aed—Eddard Karstark's formal title—had kidnapped Frey's heir. Now, armored, armed, and accompanied by soldiers, he had shown up at Walder's own banquet, walking in as though demanding answers rather than groveling for mercy.
"I want to know," Eddard continued, "why so quickly?"
Walder Frey, whose schemes were laid bare, felt a mixture of frustration and disbelief. He had intended this carefully. He had faithfully executed the King's orders—supplying House Karstark as promised, never obstructing them, even hiring them at high wages to suppress bandits. In his mind, he had been a good employer, ensuring that the soldiers received their pay and nothing went awry.
Yet tonight, everything had unraveled. His original plan had been simple: use the pretext of bandit suppression to eliminate Eddard Karstark. This would clear him of suspicion while leaving the four hundred remaining soldiers leaderless and easier to manipulate—through bribery, intimidation, or assassination.
But Eddard had returned unharmed. Not only that, he had figured out Walder Frey's intentions, circumventing every trap.
Confusion and desperation gnawed at the septuagenarian lord. The assassins, the Faceless Men, even the bandits—they had all failed to identify the employer, yet Eddard had deduced it immediately. How? How could he have arrived at the truth so fast?
Eddard's eyes gleamed with amusement as he stared at the toothless old man. A flaw? There were flaws everywhere. If it were anyone else, hesitation or panic would have set in. Evidence might have been gathered slowly—or death might already have claimed them. But Eddard? He had seen through the plot. He knew that Roose Bolton and Tywin Lannister would seek House Frey to manipulate Stark-aligned vassals.
Yet he did not care to explain how. He only shook his head, stepping closer to Walder. "How I found out isn't important," he said, voice ringing through the hall. "What matters is that I am already here."
He gestured, controlling Sir Lyman by his side. "Lord Marquis, I already know this matter is likely tied to House Lannister. The only thing I cannot comprehend is why you chose the Lion."
"House Karstark has four hundred soldiers stationed here. Any open conflict will be bloody. Should anyone escape to Riverrun, the Frey soldiers would notice immediately. Are you not worried about the consequences?"
He let his gaze sweep across the high platform where Walder Frey sat. "Even without these soldiers, Robb Stark commands at least twenty thousand troops. Did you truly consider what might happen?"
"Consequences?!" Old Frey slammed the table, rattling the goblets and plates. From behind him, twenty or thirty soldiers in heavy armor surged forward, axes at the ready, their eyes sharp and unwelcoming. The musicians on the platform had retreated, replaced by six crossbowmen straining to aim at Eddard and his party.
Believing himself in control, Walder leaned forward. "A King who has already lost half his crown—what do I have to fear?"
Eddard blinked, realization dawning. "So, the Commander of the fleet is heading north?"
"Clever," Walder admitted, though his tone dripped with condescension. "Yet still naive, too confident, and too hasty. Young Master Aed, release my son and surrender. I have precise reports: the fleet has set sail for the North. Once Winterfell sends word, King Robb will have no choice but to respond immediately."
Walder leaned closer, eyes gleaming. "Once he departs, the fence-sitters of the Riverlands will stand down. The crown will lose its hold. House Tyrell has chosen the Lion, fifty thousand troops strong. Randyll Tarly has crossed the Ruby Ford with ten thousand men along the King's Road. Did you wonder why they crossed unimpeded? The Lord of the Dreadfort guards the ford—but he has secretly pledged to the Iron Throne."
"Without me, without these allies, how many soldiers will Robb still command? Five thousand? Eight thousand? Certainly not ten thousand." He pushed his body onto the table, head forward, sneering. "Master Aed, stand with us, and Golden Tooth could be yours. Loyalty to the Lion is safer than supporting a wolf cub."
Walder Frey's plan was simple: entice Eddard to his side. If the news of the Iron Islands' invasion of the North reached Robb Stark, he would detour through Twin River City, allowing Frey, Bolton, and Tarly to crush the Northern army. The wedding, the engagement—all meaningless if the North's forces fell in an instant. Walder's face gleamed with the satisfaction of someone believing he had outsmarted centuries of misfortune and even Tywin Lannister himself.
But then, a roar tore through the banquet hall from outside. The sound grew from faint to deafening: weapons clashing, soldiers screaming, officers shouting commands, the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground.
"Old man," Eddard said, his voice carrying over the chaos, "it seems I don't need to answer your questions after all."
He thought of past lessons: Robb Stark's death had not been due solely to misfortune but a cascade of compounding setbacks: Tyrell siding with the Lion, Roose Bolton's treachery, the loss of key vassals like Rickard Karstark, the Commander's invasion of the North, and the broken engagement with House Frey.
Eddard had manipulated two critical points to preserve Northern and Riverlands strength. Tywin's promises to Walder Frey were unknown, but it no longer mattered. Once he captured Walder, the old man's secrets would spill easily enough.
Eddard's grip on Sir Lyman tightened. "Since Lord Marquis has so kindly prepared a banquet," he said, "I could hardly arrive empty-handed. After returning to Twin River City, I immediately began preparing a war—a war to seize this city. And it has probably already begun. How do you like it, Lord Marquis?"
Old Frey trembled, realizing the audacity of the young man before him. He had hoped to capture Eddard at the banquet, yet the boy had deduced everything and preemptively struck.
"Capture Eddard Karstark alive! Kill the rest!" Walder's command was sharp, a last-ditch attempt to regain control. The archers on the platform loosed bolts with deadly precision. Crossbows clattered as bolts streaked toward Eddard and his party.
Abel and the others reacted instantly, raising shields to protect themselves, overturning a long table for cover. Paine and McKen peered through the chaos, scanning for targets, when a sudden, unnatural blue light caught their eyes.
Eddard raised his right hand, streaks of lightning forming out of nowhere, coalescing into a twenty-centimeter ball of blinding energy. "Whoosh!"
The second group of archers was struck by [Thunderbolt Lightning]. Screams pierced the hall as bodies fell, hair singed, muscles convulsing from the shock. The first group of crossbowmen, seeing their comrades fall, hesitated, blocked by the fallen.
"Witchcraft! Kill him!" shouted the remaining Freys, panic spreading like wildfire.
For nearly a century, Walder Frey had lived with tales of magic—but seeing it before him, wielded by a mortal, shattered his confidence. He no longer sought to capture Eddard alive. All he desired now was to eliminate the anomaly threatening his life and his house.
Eddard, controlling both the situation and Sir Lyman, prepared for the next wave. The war had truly begun—and the young Northern lord had already seized the upper hand.
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