Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon
At the heart of the Fairmarket, inside a building that had once clearly been a bakery, the remaining soldiers of House Karstark had built a fire for their lord. The wooden boards they used as fuel had been pried from nearby houses, scavenged bit by bit.
After that night of chaos and bloodshed — a night so harrowing that none of them wished to remember it — their company had become separated from the forces of His Grace, Robb Stark. Left with no other choice, they fled northward under the cover of darkness, shielding the gravely wounded and unconscious Lord Rickard Karstark as they went.
They didn't dare take the main roads. Any open movement could have easily drawn the attention of Vale cavalry, and with so few of them left, even a small patrol could be fatal. This unit, which had numbered more than two hundred when they first set out, had been whittled down to just over seventy by the time they stumbled into the Fairmarket—many lost to infected wounds, surprise ambushes, or worse. And those who remained were barely better off. Nearly everyone was injured in some way.
They had no guide, and they crept northward with utmost caution, weaving through forests and abandoned fields, trying to stay invisible. Somewhere along the way, Lord Rickard Karstark had regained consciousness for a brief moment. In a weak, fevered voice, he'd told them to make for the Twins.
Then, as they passed through the Fairmarket, his fever spiked again, but by some miracle, he woke once more. So they halted their march, choosing to rest in the deserted town for a while. The plan was simple: wait for Lord Karstark to recover enough strength before continuing their escape north.
The campfire roared steadily, and the dry wood snapped and crackled as it burned, the sharp bursts echoing around the quiet room where Lord Rickard Karstark now sat. The sounds stirred his ears, but his mind was elsewhere — his thoughts far away, caught in the haze of memory and pain.
"My lord… Ewen still hasn't come back. It's been a long time now. We already sent men to look for him, but there's no sign of the boy. No idea where he might've gone."
A voice cut through his drifting thoughts. One of his personal guards stepped forward, face tight with worry.
Rickard Karstark lifted his heavy brows, frowning slightly as he tried to recall who Ewen was. The name tugged at something in the back of his mind, and then he remembered. A young lad from Castle Cerwyn. His father, if memory served, was the town's cobbler.
"What happened? This place isn't that big. Where exactly did you post him?"
"Uh… he was down at the southern edge of the town. There's a patch of low shrubs over that way… we had him watching that side, keeping an eye out for anything coming from the south. We checked the spot, but… he was gone. No signs of a struggle."
Rickard Karstark's thick, dust-caked eyebrows furrowed deeply. Something about this didn't sit right. The boy disappearing without a trace… it set off alarms in his head. And yet, the lack of any evidence — no drag marks, no blood, no sign of a fight — held him back from jumping to conclusions.
"Check again. And remember — be careful. That boy couldn't have just vanished into thin air. He's out there somewhere, so go find him."
"Yes, my lord."
The guard gave a sharp nod and turned to leave. But just as he reached the doorway, a soldier's panicked screams rang out from outside the building.
"Cavalry! Cavalry incoming! A whole damned column of them!"
"Quick, someone go alert the lord!"
"Seven hells — where's my armor?! Hurry, get it on, we need to get ready for battle!"
————————————————————
Amidst the growing chaos, Lord Rickard Karstark heard the thunder of hooves in the distance. That sound — deep, rhythmic, and relentless — was one he knew all too well. After all, it had been the death knell of the Northern host not long ago.
Leaning on his longsword for support, Rickard forced himself upright. So, the mongrels from the Vale had finally caught up with them. No doubt they were here for his head. Bastards!
His guards burst into the ruined bakery and rushed to his side. Without hesitation, they grabbed hold of him and began guiding him toward the exit, shouting all the while:
"Quickly! My lord, this way! We'll head north… we're not far from the Twins now! Lord Wyman Manderly is stationed there!"
And that, at least, wasn't a lie. The old man was indeed there. Once the Lord of White Harbor, Wyman Manderly had grown more and more unreliable of late, drifting further from the ideals of a true Northerner.
But this was something the nobility of both the North and the Riverlands had long chosen to ignore. After all, the Manderly family's strength had swelled to a frightening degree, and in these war-torn days, no one was foolish enough to provoke them.
Rickard cursed under his breath but didn't struggle much. It wasn't because he lacked the courage… but he simply knew he couldn't afford to be taken alive by those Vale bastards. A highborn lord like him, once captured, would require an enormous ransom for release, and that price would be steep indeed.
He had no way of knowing how many Northern lords had been captured during the battle north of Harrenhal. No one did. In the wake of such a crushing defeat, he would rather see those lords dead than dragged off in chains by the Lannisters or the men of the Vale.
Stumbling and swaying with every step, they made their way toward a bridge northeast of the town. Just beyond it, tied and waiting, were their last three warhorses. If they could just mount up and cross the bridge, there might still be a chance to escape this nightmare.
But the moment they stepped outside the village, Rickard Karstark came to an abrupt halt.
From both flanks, the enemy cavalry was already closing in, swiftly and efficiently boxing them in.
"My lord… that banner… I think… I think it's the golden trident-merman from the Twins… Could it be Lord Wyman's men?"
Rickard had been steeling himself to die, already thinking of how best to end his own life with dignity. But when he heard those words, his head snapped up and his eyes locked onto the banner fluttering behind the lead rider. Sure enough… it was a symbol he knew well.
The golden merman, wielding a trident!
That meant…
These men were theirs.
————————————————————
Twenty minutes later, back inside the same bakery, Lord Rickard Karstark was leaning against a straw mat, his breath still heavy, his body still aching… but in his heart, a storm of emotions raged.
Across from him, Clay Manderly sat near the fire, warming his hands as flames danced before them.
That sense of relief — of utter disbelief, of being snatched back from the jaws of death — was almost too much to put into words.
This crushing defeat had been a brutal blow to him — a nobleman who had once ridden to war under Lord Eddard Stark and had later followed King Robb south to fight for the North's freedom.
When House Karstark marched to war, they committed everything. Nearly every fighting man had been summoned, and those troops, the very backbone of House Karstark's strength, had been slaughtered in the brutal bloodshed at Harrenhal. The loss was catastrophic, leaving the house deeply wounded in both strength and standing.
And now, at last, here stood Clay Manderly, a rising young commander in the Northern army, right in front of him. Lord Rickard Karstark finally let out a long breath.
Truth be told, Rickard had never supported Robb Stark's reckless charge south toward Harrenhal. From the very start, he had warned against such blind aggression. In his words, it was like letting the hunter grab hold of the wolf's tail… a sure way to die.
But Robb Stark was king now. And as his bannerman, Rickard could no longer openly defy him. All he could do was grit his teeth and follow orders, marching south with the rest.
Before the ambush, there had even been reports from scouts that a large force was moving near the Bloody Gate. Many of the Northern lords had urged Robb to raise the guard and prepare for trouble.
But Robb had refused. He was certain the Vale would never turn on him — not his Aunt Lysa Tully, not her men. His confidence had been so firm, so blinding, that no one dared speak out too loudly. The meeting had ended in frustration and silence. And just days later, the ambush struck like a storm.
So yes, if one were to be honest, Rickard Karstark held deep resentment toward Robb Stark.
That was the truth!
Under this lordly system, a king or a warden did not wield the same unshakable authority as a true autocratic monarch. A single lost battle could be enough to unravel everything. One defeat, and the cracks began to show.
By contrast, a monarch ruling a centralized empire could endure losses a king or lord could never afford.
Clay Manderly tossed a handful of firewood into the flames and turned to glance at the silent, dazed figure beside him… Rickard Karstark, still seated by the fire like a ghost of himself.
Then, in a calm voice, he asked, "Tell me… how did it get this bad? Two full legions, twenty thousand men, butchered like pigs. The high and mighty King in the North is now surrounded by Lannisters at Harrenhal, and you, a proud Northern lord, are hiding in a narrow, damp little bakery, clinging to life?"
Rickard blinked, slowly coming back to himself. He shut his eyes for a moment, not wanting to revisit those memories, not even for a second. But Clay Manderly had asked, and that meant he had to answer.
He let out a heavy sigh and replied, "Our army was camped about fifty miles north of Harrenhal that night. It was already late… there was no way we could reach the castle before nightfall. So His Grace gave the order to make camp right there."
"We followed it. Everyone thought the same thing… by dawn, we'd be at Harrenhal's gates. And once we got inside those walls, no one could touch us. We had twenty thousand men, after all."
Clay didn't even try to soften the blow. He shot back with quiet scorn, "The darkness just before dawn is always the deepest. Dropping your guard then? That was a fool's mistake."
"It was. A damned foolish one," Rickard admitted with a bitter smile, nodding in defeat.
"After the army set up camp, word came that the Lannisters had been driven out of King's Landing. Everyone was thrilled. We thought the end was near… we could taste it."
"We believed that if we just kept going south and bit down hard on the dying lion, we'd finally have justice for Lord Eddard Stark."
"But then…"
Rickard Karstark fell silent, his eyes closing once more as a wave of dread swept through him.
"That night… the Vale of Arryn's cavalry came."
He clenched his jaw, but the memories clawed their way back all the same. He couldn't keep them out.
His voice trembled slightly as he went on, the words falling slowly from his lips like stones.
"Horses. Thousands of them. The ground itself was shaking. And then… their charge began."
**
**
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst
Extra Content Already Available