As the banner of the Striding Hunter fluttered closer through the morning mist, Eddard Karstark's eyes narrowed, burning with anticipation. The thrill of battle coursed through him, mingled with a rare flicker of nervousness. Just days ago, at Old Frey's banquet, he had felt calm, confident, even detached. But now, staring down the open plain and the cavalry arrayed before him, a shiver of tension traced his spine.
Raising his right hand, he signaled the soldiers behind him to prepare for combat. With a fluid motion, he swung himself onto his black warhorse, securing his shield and gripping his battle-axe firmly. Around him, his men mirrored his readiness, tightening their hold on spears, javelins, and battle-axes. Their shields were strapped firmly to their left arms, faces set with determination and hunger for the clash to come.
Eddard gave a sharp nod to Berry Dondelion, who returned it in silent agreement. They had a plan. Over a hundred cavalrymen were at their disposal, but Eddard had no intention of sending them into a disorganized charge. He would lead the elite, the most loyal and capable, into the fray, while Berry would command the reserve force.
If Eddard succeeded, Berry's men would provide cover, attacking enemies in pursuit and retreating in disciplined rearguard maneuvers. If he failed, they would surge forward to create chaos and buy the rest of the army a chance to withdraw. Battle was not mere chaos; it required strategy, even in the North.
"Warriors of House Karstark, follow me!" Eddard shouted, urging his mount forward. The forest gave way beneath the pounding hooves of his cavalry as they surged into the open field, voices raised in a chorus of defiance and war cries.
From the opposite side, Roose Bolton's pale eyes widened in recognition. Forty to fifty cavalrymen emerged from the treeline, well-equipped, imposing, and led by a figure clad in black plate armor, a visored greathelm gleaming, and a white sunburst emblazoned across his chest. Less than two hundred meters separated them, and their speed was increasing with every heartbeat.
"Karstark? Eddard Karstark!" Old Flayer spat, fury and fear mixing in his voice. The name struck him like a blade. This was the man who had tormented him during the war council in Red Pink City, the one responsible for the setbacks Robb Stark had inflicted upon his schemes.
The memories that haunted him were vivid. In his darkest nightmares, he had seen Eddard Karstark tied upside down in a shadowy basement, a small knife cutting painfully close as Flayer imagined peeling him alive. Yet reality had been worse—Eddard had faced Gregor Clegane, "the Mountain," and emerged victorious.
Now, that same man was charging directly at him. Panic crept up Flayer's spine; his mount bolted before his thoughts could catch up, leaving Randyll Tarly and the others to respond.
Randyll's icy eyes narrowed at the sudden threat. He did not know who he faced, but he could read the danger in the approaching formation. Roaring a command, he drew "Heartbreaker," his family's ancestral sword. The Valyrian steel gleamed, catching the light, its long, two-handed frame surprisingly agile in his grip. Behind him, his personal guard followed suit, ready to shield their lord.
The cavalry of House Karstark and House Tarly collided on the verdant plain, forming chaotic, yet distinct, lines of blue and gray. Hooves thundered, dust rose in clouds, and the wind whistled past, carrying the scent of tension and iron. Eddard's sharp eyes calculated the incoming threats: at least four chainmail-clad cavalrymen with visored helmets, spears pointed, charging to intercept him. In this era, striking down the leader first was the natural instinct.
Eddard remained calm. With a fluid motion, he summoned four magical arrows from thin air, hovering above him. A thought later, they streaked forward as arcs of lightning, racing toward the unsuspecting enemies. In a blur, the four Tarly guards were struck, collapsing from their saddles as the magic drained their strength. Horses and riders tumbled in a confused heap.
Seizing the moment, Eddard urged his mount forward, launching his battle-axe with precision at a cavalryman bearing the Flayed Man sigil. The axe spun through the air, slicing through shield and bone alike. The horse screamed in pain before collapsing, its rider pinned beneath it, blood flowing freely.
Now, only three men remained directly before him. Their expressions were frozen in disbelief. Within seconds, an enemy had felled five of their cavalrymen, and yet, Eddard surged onward, unstoppable.
"Let me handle him!" Ser Yohn Gullen, captain of Randyll Tarly's personal guard, cried. He seized the banner spear from Deacon Tarly, spurring his mount toward the melee with disciplined fury. Deacon, younger and eager, reached for his longsword but was held back by his father.
"Our family values valor, but it is not yet time for an unaged child to duel with the enemy. Let me do it," Randyll said firmly. He stepped forward, sword in hand, ready to flank Eddard with the personal guard.
But before he could reach the Karstark commander, the effects of Eddard's magic struck again. The banner spear fell with a clatter, and the guards slumped, their strength drained, paralyzed in their saddles. Randyll himself felt the sudden weight of magic, armor heavy as stone, his grip on "Heartbreaker" failing as it slipped from his hands into the muddy earth.
Eddard's assault was relentless. Mental energy burned as he cast spell after spell, his body tensing under the exertion, yet the results were devastating. Seizing Randyll by his armor, he pulled the stunned lord onto his own mount and snatched the ancestral sword from the mud.
With both the man and the weapon in his control, Eddard turned toward the enemies still engaged with his soldiers. He swung "Heartbreaker" with terrifying precision, decapitating several men in a single fluid motion.
"Retreat!" he bellowed, commanding not only his cavalry but sending a ripple of fear through the enemy lines. Tarly infantry began forming around the chaos, large shields and spears raised, while archers readied longbows, creating a tightening web of danger for all.
Eddard's mind raced, yet his actions remained swift and precise. Every strike, every movement, calculated. The battlefield was a storm, a maelstrom of hooves, steel, and lightning. And in the eye of it all rode Eddard Karstark, a single figure of unyielding force, who had claimed both the man and his sword.
The northern banners fluttered proudly in the wind, and the warriors under Karstark's command pressed the advantage. Retreat was not submission; it was strategy, a test of speed and discipline, designed to protect the larger army while punishing the enemy for every misstep.
As the sun climbed higher, the field became a blur of blue and gray, clashing steel and shattered shields. Eddard's stamina was waning, but his resolve was absolute. Every spell, every swing of the axe, had a purpose. He had drawn first blood, captured the enemy leader's sword, and sent a clear message: the North feared no man, and no sword could hold its command.
Even as he guided Randyll and "Heartbreaker" to safety, the sounds of battle continued around him. The Tarly infantry, now aware of the chaos, attempted to encircle the retreating forces, but the Karstark cavalry, disciplined and fierce, fought with precision. Arrows rained down, steel clashed, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the shouts of command.
Eddard's eyes scanned constantly, aware that the battle was far from over. Each movement, each command, was executed with deliberate intent. The northern army might have been smaller in number, but under his leadership, it was a force as disciplined as it was deadly.
By midday, the clash had turned. The Tarly forces, disoriented and leaderless, began to fall back under the relentless pressure of the Karstark charge. Eddard, riding at the forefront, a storm of black armor and gleaming steel, had accomplished what few thought possible: he had seized both a man and his sword, and in doing so, had shown that strategy, courage, and a sharp mind could turn the tide of battle.
The field was littered with the echoes of combat, the fallen, and the banners of both houses flapping wildly in the wind. Yet through it all, Eddard remained a figure of unshakable resolve. The North, he thought, would always fight with honor, with strength, and with the cunning to seize victory when the moment demanded it.
And today, that moment had arrived.
Füll bōøk àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)