The survival of the Hill Family and the abrupt demise of the The Smalls Family created a stark contrast that spread like wildfire. Within days, the tale became a hot topic in the streets and alleys of River Crossing, stirring whispers, speculation, and quiet fear among the common folk and nobility alike.
Families detained in Twin River City, realizing the precariousness of their position, quickly sent their heirs, bearing gifts and presenting their family situations with meticulous care. Many even invited Eddard to send agents to verify the details. Every lord knew that a single misstep could determine the fate of their house.
Once all the families had arrived, Eddard convened a meeting one morning in the Banquet Hall. The hall was dim, the early light struggling through the narrow windows, but torches along the walls burned brightly, casting long, flickering shadows that danced across the faces of the gathered nobles.
The heirs of various houses sat upright along the wooden tables, each with a loyalty contract neatly placed in front of them. The parchment was thick and of high quality, the elegant handwriting precise and deliberate. Worton Brown of Grassfield, a seasoned warrior, stared at the dense script with a frown.
Riding a horse and wielding a spear to fight enemies had never intimidated him, but these curling letters that seemed to twist like tadpoles made his mind go blank. His eyes glazed over as he reached out and gently nudged Ryan Hill beside him. "What… does this mean?" he asked quietly.
Ryan, a companion he had fought alongside in the Westerlands—plundering, burning, and shedding blood together—looked over and explained softly, "It means that from now on, at least thirty percent of the harvest from your lands must go to the Marquis. All other income—hunting, fishing, trade, taxes—must also be accounted for."
Worton Brown's eyebrows shot up. "Thirty percent? Didn't we used to pay just a fixed amount? If we hand over that much, how are we supposed to feed our soldiers—or fight wars?"
Ryan sighed, trying to suppress a small smirk. "Stop complaining. The Marquis has abolished the head tax. That means we can increase the population, cultivate more land, and over time, our output—and therefore income—will naturally increase."
"But it's autumn now! The rain has flooded the fields; no grain can be planted. And who knows how harsh the coming winter will be?"
Ryan pointed to the contract. "Read carefully. It starts from next spring, not now."
"Oh… oh, I see," Worton muttered, blinking as he tried to absorb the implications. He then leaned closer, whispering, "And the second clause? Legislative power belongs to Eddard Karstark from the signing of the contract, and his vassals only have the power of judgment… punishments involving human lives must go through the liege? What does that even mean?"
Ryan rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache forming. Around him, murmurs rose as other heirs discussed among themselves. The young Marquis, seated on his ebony chair atop the high platform, remained expressionless, his sharp eyes scanning the hall like a hawk observing prey.
"It's simple," Ryan said, trying to ease the tension. "All laws in River Crossing are decided by the Marquis. We cannot act arbitrarily. Everything must go through him."
Some of the heirs protested softly. "Hasn't it always been like this? Under Frey, didn't Marquis Walder make the rules?"
Ryan's eyes hardened. "It's different now. For example, the Marquis no longer collects the head tax. You cannot enforce it secretly on the people, nor can you claim the so-called right of the first night to extort gifts from wealthy farmers. Anyone caught doing such things will be considered a rebel. Remember The Smalls Family."
A hush fell over the hall. Worton Brown stared at the contract, weighing the severity of this new order. The third clause concerned mandatory obedience to summons and liege orders. While the first two clauses were logical and largely acceptable, this one hinted at severe consequences for disobedience.
Ryan Hill did not fully understand it himself, but he signed quickly, placing his family seal beside his name. Compliance, he knew, was the wisest choice.
Eddard observed the room calmly. He knew that privately, some vassals would grumble or resist, but the hardest part—establishing a formal system and gaining nominal power of judgment—was complete. Once these first heirs accepted, future arrivals would follow suit or be replaced. Over time, this structure would solidify as custom. Strength guaranteed obedience.
Scholar Bennet, nervously clutching a thick stack of signed contracts, approached Eddard. "My lord, they're all collected. I've checked each one; there are no problems." His mind raced. He had witnessed too much bloodshed in this hall already. Perhaps he should feign illness and send word to the Citadel to have someone replace him before it was his turn to face the axe.
Eddard took the papers and nodded. Killing a few to frighten the many—the tactic had worked. But he knew the process was far from over.
"Gentlemen," he said, standing tall, "you will remain in Twin River City a while longer, as there is a play that requires an audience. You may leave after witnessing it."
Servants entered, carrying plates of roasted trout from the Green Fork, fragrant beef legs, sweet white bread thickly spread with honey, and venison pies. Golden Arbor wine glittered in the dim torchlight, poured into crystal glasses.
Eddard raised his own glass and stood, eyes sweeping across the hall. Everyone rose obediently, mirroring his movement. "Gentlemen," he said, voice firm but not unkind, "I am not as stingy as Old Frey. Enjoy yourselves. In the future, there will be many more such days." He did not need to spell out the conditions—they would understand. Obedience was expected.
Drinking his wine in one long gulp, Eddard left the hall. Outside, Kalas Snow awaited. "My lord," he whispered, "Earl Rickard has been waiting in the study. Shall we see him?"
Eddard nodded. Northern soldiers would depart tomorrow, led by his convenient old father and brother. The alliance with Robb Stark had brought them closer, smoothing over past conflicts. Winterfell's trust in House Karstark had grown immensely.
He followed Kalas to the study. Inside, Earl Rickard stood before a wall displaying a magnificent axe, gold inlaid and tipped with ruby. In the North, such craftsmanship was rare.
"Father," Eddard greeted softly.
"Ah, Eddard. Have you eaten?" Rickard's face, once haggard, now held a gentle warmth. His beard and hair, neatly trimmed, framed a commanding presence.
"I had a little," Eddard replied, pouring strong Dornish wine into two crystal glasses and handing one to his father.
Rickard nodded after a sip. "I leave tomorrow. Do you need me to leave the Karhold troops behind?"
Eddard shook his head confidently. "No. Robb needs them more in the North. I've settled affairs here. The killings, the authority, the lands—I've handled them. A single summons will now gather at least four thousand soldiers, enough to secure River Crossing."
Rickard took another sip, approving silently. "And Kalas Snow? Will he remain by your side?"
"Of course," Eddard said. "Since the Haunted Forest victory, he has been loyal in work and battle. I plan to grant him a southern fortress and knight him."
Rickard's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Plan carefully. As William Dustin's bastard, Kalas may one day claim a stake in Barrowton's troubles."
Eddard raised an eyebrow. "Really? Has Lady Barbrey been informed?"
Rickard waved a hand. "Whether she knows is irrelevant. Letters and testimonies exist. I merely warn you of potential complications."
He set down his empty glass, patted Eddard's shoulder, and smiled. "I never imagined our family would produce another lord—south of the Neck, no less. You've surpassed me. Visit Karhold when you can."
"I will, perhaps soon," Eddard replied, bowing slightly. Earl Rickard left without further words, leaving Eddard alone to contemplate the consolidation of power, the loyalty of vassals, and the challenges that still awaited him in River Crossing. Outside, heavy clouds loomed, hinting at a storm yet to come.
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