The center of the massive arched bridge of the Twins was a hive of regulated chaos. Early in the morning, the sun remained hidden behind a thick blanket of leaden clouds, and the sky hung low and heavy, as if the heavens themselves were weighing the cost of the blood recently spilled on these stones.
Despite the gloomy weather, hundreds of men stood in a line that stretched nearly the entire length of the bridge. They were here for a chance at the [Second Guards Corps]. Rumors had swept through the surrounding river-lands like a spring flood: the new Lord of River Crossing was paying in gold, feeding his men twice a day, and providing the finest steel mail the Reach had ever produced.
Eddard sat at a heavy wooden table at the entrance of the Weishui Tower. Behind him, the spiral stairs led up to his solar; in front of him sat a burly, pockmarked soldier named Randall.
"After signing this contract, you are a Karstark man," Eddard said, his voice level. "You choose now: a plot of land near the Crossing to be held in your family's name, or a monthly salary of three silver stags. Which is it?"
Eddard pushed a parchment toward the man. It contained Randall's age, village of origin, and family tally. Randall stared at the quill as if it were a poisonous viper. Like most conscripts in the Riverlands, he was illiterate.
Scholar Bennett, sitting beside Eddard, didn't wait for the man to struggle. "Land or silver, Randall? Speak up, we have five hundred more behind you."
"Silver," Randall muttered. "The land is only good if I'm alive to plow it."
Bennett nodded, marked the parchment, and pointed to a red inkpad. "Press your thumb here."
Once the print was set, the Scholar reached into a small iron box and pulled out a thin, rectangular plate of cold iron. He etched the number "536" onto the parchment and handed the plate to Randall.
"Take it. This is your identity plate," Bennett said, his voice weary from repetition. "If you lose it, you get twenty lashes and a fine of twenty silver stags for a replacement. Do not lose it."
Randall turned the metal over in his calloused hand, bewildered. "What's it for, My Lord?"
Jack, a veteran of the [First Guards Corps] who was managing the queue, stepped forward with a grin. "It's your ticket to a pension, lad. If you fall in battle, the Lord uses that number to find your kin and send them fifteen gold dragons. It means even if the crows eat your face, your family won't starve."
Randall's eyes widened. He looked at the plate again, his grip tightening. He hadn't expected a Lord to care what happened after he was dead. He tucked the plate deep into his pouch, already planning to find a leather cord to hang it around his neck.
Eddard watched the System interface.
[Unit: Randall.]
[Loyalty: Normal -> Good.]
[Reason: 1. You are his liege. 2. He respects your prestige. 3. He feels a sense of belonging through the Identity Plate system.]
Eddard nodded. The "dog tag" system was a simple modern innovation, but in a world where soldiers were often treated as disposable meat, it was a revolutionary sign of respect.
"Next," Eddard called out.
The morning blurred into a cycle of names and handprints. Eddard used the System to screen every applicant. He only accepted those with [Normal] loyalty or higher. He didn't need the strongest men, he could train for strength. He needed men who wouldn't open the gates the moment a Lannister offered a bag of gold.
At noon, Abel approached, his heavy boots echoing on the stone. He leaned in and whispered, "My Lord, the Hill family has arrived. Ryan Hill, the eldest son. He brought two carts of grain, salted pork, and three destriers. He's waiting in the hall."
"I'll see them now," Eddard said, standing up and stretching his stiff limbs. "Tell the men in line: if the rain holds, we continue in an hour."
The Great Hall was dim, the air still smelling faintly of the lye used to scrub away the Frey blood. Ryan Hill stood in the center of the room, looking up at the high ebony chair with a mixture of awe and terror.
He was a young man, perhaps a few years older than Eddard, but he lacked the "Winter Wizard's" terrifying composure. When Eddard sat and rested his hand on the hilt of Heartbreaker, Ryan's knees visibly wobbled.
"My Lord," Ryan began, his voice shaky. "Water Mill Town has a population of one thousand. We have fifteen thousand mu of arable land, an orchard, a hundred nags, and twenty-three oxen. My father has two retainers, and I have one. We can muster a hundred conscripts for your banner."
He recited the numbers like a prayer. He knew his father, Ser Bray Hill, was currently rotting in the Black Cells for drawing a sword at the banquet. Ryan was here to save his inheritance and his father's neck.
Eddard looked at Dita Calandre. "Does it match our scouts' reports?"
"Largely consistent, My Lord," Dita replied.
Eddard turned back to Ryan. "You have done well, Ryan. Your father was a loyal man to the Freys, perhaps too loyal. He forgot that the wind has changed. Since you are more... perceptive than he is, you will manage Water Mill Town in his stead. Your father will remain here as my guest."
Ryan bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the stone. "Your will is my direction, Lord Marquis."
[System Notification: Vassal 'Ryan Hill' loyalty: General.]
[Reason: You hold his father hostage. He fears your power.]
Eddard noted the "Fear" modifier. It wasn't the ideal foundation for a house, but for now, it would ensure the grain kept flowing. He dismissed the Hills and prepared for the final, uglier business of the day.
The guards brought out the prisoners: Ser Dio Smo of Hillfort and his son, Orell. They were the ones who had been most vocal in the rebellion, and unlike the others, they refused to bend.
"You cannot execute us for an oversight!" Ser Dio roared, his face red with a desperate defiance. "We bled for the North! We are knights!"
Eddard looked at Patrek Mallister, who had agreed to sit as a witness. Patrek shrugged. "Drawing a sword against a liege in his own hall is a capital crime, Eddard. Andal law is quite clear on that. If they won't repent, the axe is the only answer."
Eddard turned to the executioners, but before they could move, Orell Smo stepped forward. He was a massive man, nearly as large as the Smalljon, with a face that looked like it had been carved from a cliffside.
"I refuse your judgment!" Orell screamed. "I demand the Gods decide! I demand a Trial by Combat!"
The hall went silent. Patrek Mallister leaned forward, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Trial by combat was a rarity in the North, but in the Riverlands, it was a sacred right.
Eddard almost laughed. These men thought they could use their physical prowess to bypass his law. They thought he was a "Wizard" who relied only on tricks and lightning.
"Very well," Eddard said, standing up. "One trial. One death. If your champion wins, you both go free. If mine wins, House Smo belongs to me."
Eddard reached down, picked up Heartbreaker, and tossed the Valyrian steel greatsword to Abel.
"Abel," Eddard commanded. "Kill them. Follow the customs of the South, show them how a Winter Companion fights."
Abel caught the dark, rippling blade with a practiced ease. He was the first of Eddard's men to reach the rank of [Winter's Companion], the highest tier for a Northman. His strength and agility were now at the peak of human capability, further enhanced by the "Lord-Vassal Unity" buff.
"I will not disappoint you, My Lord," Abel said, his voice devoid of emotion.
The guards cleared the center of the hall, shoving tables aside to create a circle of cold stone. Orell Smo donned his heavy great-helm and took a massive two-handed sword from his squire. He looked like a mountain of steel.
"BEGIN!" Eddard barked.
Orell didn't wait. He let out a roar and swung his greatsword in a horizontal arc designed to cleave Abel in two. The heavy blade whistled through the air, a silver blur of momentum.
Abel didn't block. He moved like a shadow.
He stepped inside the arc, his body twisting with a fluidity that shouldn't have been possible in mail. Heartbreaker moved in a counter-stroke so fast it left a grey mist in the air.
CLANG.
The Valyrian steel sheared through Orell's steel gorget as if it were wet parchment. A fountain of hot, metallic-smelling blood erupted. Orell's whimpering cry was cut short as he fell to his knees, his hands clutching a throat that no longer worked.
"ORELL!" Ser Dio wailed, rushing forward to cradle his son.
Abel didn't hesitate. He followed the order. He drove the point of Heartbreaker through Ser Dio's back, the dark steel emerging from the center of the man's chest. Both father and son collapsed into a pile of tangled limbs and dying gasps.
Eddard stood up, his gaze sweeping the remaining knights in the hall. They were as silent as the graves they were likely imagining for themselves.
"Dita," Eddard said, his voice cold and final. "Take the heads of the Smo men. Ride to Hillfort. Show the garrison what happens to forsworn men. If they resist, leave no one alive."
He turned to Bennett. "Scholar, post the details of this trial on every gate in the city. I want every merchant, every farmer, and every soldier to know the price of drawing a sword against House Karstark."
Eddard walked out of the hall, his boots clicking rhythmically on the flagstones. He had 412 Soul Power now, and a city that was finally starting to understand that while the sun might be rising, the winter it brought was absolute.
[System Notification: High-Value Targets eliminated: House Smo.]
[Territory Acquired: Hillfort.]
[Soul Power Gained: 100 SP.]
[Garrison Morale: Steadfast.]
For Advance/Early Chapters:
patreon.com/Shadownarch_
If you're enjoying the story, consider dropping some Power Stones.