He only hoped he wouldn't fall into the cliché—vomiting mid-fight, helmet wide open, axe swinging with one hand while retching with the other.
His armor soaked in blood and half-digested rations… Ugh..
Not exactly the image of a heroic Northern warrior.
A bit embarrassing, really.
As his thoughts drifted, an irresistible wave of drowsiness finally swept over him, and Eddard slipped into a deep sleep.
And then—he began to dream.
At first, everything was hazy, as though he were looking through gauze. Shapes blurred, colors ran together.
Slowly, the dream sharpened into focus.
He saw high stone walls, towering ramparts with narrow arrow slits, and a broad courtyard lined with packed earth. Before him stood a boy, no older than ten, dressed in a black linen shirt and holding a wooden sword—its tip pointed directly at him.
Eddard looked down and realized he, too, was a boy again. Dressed nearly the same, holding a matching wooden blade.
To the side stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with streaks of white in his beard and hair. He shouted instructions in a stern voice, chastising both boys with no trace of softness.
The man's face felt strangely familiar.
Of course—it was Lord Rickard Karstark.
He was watching a sparring session between two brothers: Eddard Karstark and Torhen Karstark, under the stern tutelage of their father.
Understanding bloomed in an instant. He knew who he was. He knew what he was seeing.
The scene shifted.
Now it was a great feast.
The hall was loud with laughter, curses, and the clink of mugs. Long tables overflowed with bread, roasted meats, and pitchers of mead.
Eddard stood at the edge, watching the revelry unfold.
As the dream carried him through the room, faces came to him unbidden—names and details surfacing from somewhere deep in the mind he now inhabited.
Among them was a mischievous young girl with brown hair and blue-gray eyes, smirking as she slipped an apple into someone's mug.
Aryia Karstark.
His younger sister.
The dream shifted again.
Now he stood in a dark room.
A woman lay in a bed, pale and fragile, buried beneath layers of blankets that could no longer keep her warm.
She coughed—a deep, wet, rattling sound that echoed in the stillness—and Eddard could only stand there, helpless.
Her face was gaunt, her lips nearly colorless. Her breaths were shallow and slowing.
And her eyes… those eyes watched him with so much love—until the light in them began to fade.
Her frail, emaciated arm slipped from the bed and hung limply at her side.
That was Eddard's mother—lost to illness long ago.
...
...
Scene after scene flickered before him like fleeting fragments of memory—brief as dreams, sharp as daggers.
Then, everything stilled.
He saw a pair of eyes.
Torhen's eyes.
The moment before he died—filled with confusion, fear… and strangely, a flicker of peace.A hint of relief.
"My Lord!"
"Lord Eddard!"
Abel's voice called out from outside the tent, dragging Eddard abruptly back to reality.
He awoke with a sharp, splitting headache, as if someone had driven a spike through his temples. Grunting, he reached for the waterskin beside his bedroll and drank deeply—several gulps of lukewarm ale washing the ache down to a dull throb.
Only then did the pain ease.
"What is it?" he muttered, still adjusting to the light.
He straightened his rumpled tunic, tugging at the fabric until it sat right, then pulled aside the tent flap and stepped out into the dawn.
The sun was just beginning to pierce the morning mist, rising slowly in the east, casting golden light across the dew-covered camp.
Abel stood waiting, slightly out of breath.
"Captain Morrison stopped by," he said. "Said the Lord wants you to represent him at the main war council in the command tent."
Abel's tone held a touch of confusion.
And Eddard understood why.
What kind of lord skips his own war council and sends his second son in his place—especially one who's not even the heir?
It was the kind of move that looked less like strategy… and more like spite.
Like a child throwing a tantrum.
But Eddard understood what his grim old father was trying to say—especially after the dream he'd had the night before.
The bond between father and sons in House Karstark ran deep.
By sending Eddard to the war council in his stead, Lord Rickard wasn't shirking his duties—he was sending a message. A pointed one.
I've lost a son. I am grieving. I cannot function as I should. So I send my other son to fulfill my obligations.
And beneath that message was another, quieter one meant for Robb Stark:
If you want me back—if you want my full support—you'll have to make a Lannister pay for this loss. Quickly.
Truth be told, it wasn't the most sophisticated political maneuver. More like a public display of grief wrapped in a quiet protest.
But for a Northern lord—especially an aging one—it was a fairly refined form of pressure.
What else could Lord Rickard have done?
Start a whisper campaign in the camp, accusing Robb Stark of caring only for his own kin while ignoring the rightful grievances of his bannermen?
Or worse—send a man to assassinate Jaime Lannister in the night, then toss the body to Grey Wind and claim ignorance the next day?
No. Such underhanded methods were too dishonorable for most Northmen to even consider.
Sending his second son in his place?
That was still within reason.
If this son died too, Lord Rickard likely wouldn't even bother with councils anymore. He'd sit silently in his tent, eyes hollow, staring at the weight of two coffins.
Two sons lost to the war.
Eddard shook off the thought, exhaled, and pointed at the armor laid out nearby.
"Help me suit up," he told Abel. "I might have to argue with a few blunt old warriors today—maybe even trade a few blows."
Abel picked up the chainmail from the ground and helped Eddard put it on with practiced care, tightening the straps and checking the fit.
When he finished, he took a piece of oiled linen and carefully wiped down Eddard's battle axe, ensuring the blade gleamed.
Eddard accepted the weapon and rested it casually on his shoulder.
In the early morning light, the Stark command tent stood stark and utilitarian—stitched together from heavy canvas, without a single banner or embellishment to suggest rank or power.
But inside, the space was vast. Several long tables had been arranged throughout, each surrounded by plain benches.
By the time Eddard arrived, many of the other lords had already gathered, seated in loose clusters and speaking among themselves in low tones.
From the moment Lord Rickard had received the summons, sent Morrison to deliver the message, and Eddard had armed himself and made the walk—it was natural that he arrived later than the rest.
Still fully armored, Eddard stepped into the tent and immediately noticed he wasn't the only one dressed for war.
Nearly every lord in the tent wore armor—Blackened chainmail, gray-dyed lamellar, silver-etched scale, and polished breastplates that glinted in the sunlight filtering through the canvas seams.
But not a single suit of full plate could be seen.
As he entered, a few heads turned. Eyes briefly settled on him, assessing, calculating.
Then, just as quickly, those gazes shifted away, and the room returned to its quiet murmur of conversation.
To most of them, he was just the son of an earl with no claim to inheritance—not someone worth paying much attention to.
But that changed quickly.
Eddard strode forward without hesitation and came to a stop beside Greatjon Umber. With a clank of steel and leather, he sat down heavily, setting his battle axe on the table with deliberate weight.
The sound rang out like a statement.
The murmur of conversation faltered, whispers rising in its place.
Several lords turned to glance his way again—and this time, their expressions weren't neutral.
They were watching him now, and not with kindness.
Most of the men seated at that particular table were powerful lords—key bannermen of House Stark. These were not minor retainers. They were the backbone of the Northern host, men and women trusted by Robb to command troops and shape battle plans.
Jon Umber, the Greatjon, sat at the table.
So did Lady Maege Mormont, matriarch of Bear Island.
Even Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, Robb's great-uncle, had taken a seat.
Soon, Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn would arrive as well.
And now—Eddard Karstark had seated himself among them.
That meant something.
The silence was broken by a gruff voice from further down the table.
"So, your father's too broken to attend a council now?" the speaker drawled. "And he sends you in his place? A boy still wet behind the ears?"
A scoff followed.
"What's he want, then? Sympathy? Or is this some sort of message?"