"How could my father attack the North?!"
"Theon Greyjoy! Do you know what you're saying?! I went to the Iron Islands myself to find allies for Robb. You'd better release me immediately, or Robb will chop you into pieces and feed you to Grey Wind!"
Theon shouted loudly, trying to use his identity and mission to bluff his way to survival.
But as he looked into Eddard's increasingly cold eyes, his heart began to race. Terror crept into his gaze, and he trembled, opening his mouth to beg for mercy:
"No, you can't kill me. I'm a Stark's adopted son—Robb's brother. You can't—"
"Ha, do you still think you're a Stark?"
Eddard mercilessly interrupted him and laughed as he looked at the bound Greyjoy.
He had once been blinded by the rules and logic of this world.
He had actually considered sparing an idiot's life just to claim the Iron Islands?
Theon was unlikely to pledge allegiance to him, and even if he did, his loyalty would be negligible. He was a Greyjoy through and through—fickle to the bone. Raising him to usefulness would take far too long and cost too much.
Bringing him in would only create future problems.
Once his own power grew and his armies advanced, Eddard would find a suitable person to manage the region. Even the Iron Throne had been taken by the Targaryens with dragons.
Why couldn't he do the same?
"Theon Greyjoy, look at yourself. You don't have the resilience of the Running Wolf Banner. Your actions are devoid of honor. Forget being a Stark—you're not even a Northman."
Theon's pleas ceased.
His lips trembled. Despair filled his eyes, like the cold winds beyond the Wall.
He knew he would die here.
Eddard stood and drew a notched longsword from his waist. The blade was from the Westerlands, with ox horns engraved on the hilt—the mark of House Prester.
It was war loot, an ordinary sword taken from retreating Westerland soldiers.
"And you're not a true Ironborn either. You claim to be heir to the Iron Islands—but where is your resolve? Your defiance? You're not even as worthy as a Snow. At least they can't choose their birth."
"You, Theon, have lived like a bastard."
"No! It's not like that, it's not!!" Theon screamed.
"Yes, it is."
"Theon, now, in my name, I send you to the sea god you claim to worship."
Eddard swung his longsword.
The notched blade slashed across Theon's throat. Amidst fading whimpers, his eyes—filled with horror and bitter sorrow—lost all light.
As the body slumped to the ground, Eddard raised his hand. A ball of orange-red flame ignited from his palm, scorching the Ironborn's corpse.
In five seconds, Theon was reduced to a charred husk.
Abel Qashtak, standing nearby, widened his eyes. He opened his mouth but said nothing.
Just then, Eddard received a system notification:
> Loyalty reason added for Abel Qashtak: [Fears your mysterious and powerful strength.]
A pleasant surprise?
"Keep this to yourself, understand?"
Eddard had no intention of hiding his power from trusted subordinates. Complete secrecy was impossible unless he acted entirely alone.
But to the wider world, his power needed to remain hidden.
"Understood, young master."
Eddard nodded and walked out. He said to Dita Kalander, "Cut the woman's ropes. She'll run away when she wakes up. We leave now."
Dita, unaware of what had happened, saw only the red glow inside and obeyed.
The three mounted up and rode quickly out of Fairmarket.
---
Hours later, night had fallen.
The charred body still lay in the dark room.
Holding a torch, the Earl of Seagard stood silently. He was tall and lean, clean-shaven, with gray-blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a worn expression.
Scenes like this were rare in the Riverlands but not unknown in Westeros. Whether caused by Wildfire or maester-made combustibles, the result could be the same.
He didn't know why Theon Greyjoy had come to Seagard. He had never liked the Ironborn youth, who caroused constantly with his son.
But now, the King's foster brother had died mysteriously under his roof.
If a culprit wasn't found, he could be blamed.
Already disliked by the Ironborn, he had to tread carefully.
"Patrick, have you interrogated the woman? What accent did the murderers have?"
"I asked, Father," Patrick Mallister replied. His eyes lingered sadly on the corpse.
He had gotten along well with Theon. They shared tastes in women, wine, falconry—and had even been served by the same girl.
After a moment of thought, Patrick said, "The woman said one had a Southern accent, deep voice, like a middle-aged man. The leader only said one sentence. The third knocked her out without speaking."
"Southern?" Jason stroked his chin. "And their clothing?"
"No clear markings," Patrick said. "Black cloaks, faces hidden, worn leather armor. Could've passed for hedge knights. Boots were dusty, like they'd traveled far. But they paid in gold dragons, so likely disguised."
He paused, then added, "One detail—their swords. The hilts had ox horns carved into them. Sounded familiar."
"Nonsense. Those are Prester swords," Jason scoffed. "After Earl Rickard's victory over Ser Foeller, they sold many of those. Anyone near Riverrun might have one."
He looked at Patrick's tired face and said, "Go rest. And watch that woman. Don't let her die—I need something to tell His Majesty."
"Yes, Father."
Patrick left the courtyard, shouting, "Saddle the horses!" He was heading back to question the girl again.
Jason left the room and ordered a letter sent by raven, informing the King of Theon's death. To his men, he said the body was just a merchant and had it buried discreetly.
Never once did he suspect House Karstark.
If someone had accused Eddard Karstark, Jason would have laughed and defended him.
Killing Theon Greyjoy? Absurd!
---
Meanwhile, Eddard galloped north of the Tumblestone River.
On the return from Fairmarket, they rode fast, resting little. Farmers had resumed working the land, and merchants flocked to the area.
Eddard, Dita, and Abel changed into hunting clothes and entered a nearby village, quickly locating Kalas Snow.
"Young master, what did you hunt?" Kalas asked.
"A wild boar that looked like a squid," Eddard said. "It jumped into a fire pit and burned itself."
Kalas was baffled, but nodded. Whatever the young master said, he accepted.
"Find us a place to rest. You can return to your fun afterward."
Kalas grinned, tossing a handful of coppers to the girl in his lap before leading them to an inn.
As they entered, Eddard spotted Edmure Tully slipping out. The heir to Riverrun had clearly been enjoying himself—and didn't want to be seen.
Now was not the time to greet him.
---
The next evening, the camps around Riverrun buzzed with life.
Soldiers polished weapons. Longswords gleamed on whetstones. Horses were fed rich grains and eggs to build strength for the campaign ahead.
As Eddard approached the camp, Konn greeted him.
"Young master, you're back. Lord Earl has been looking for you."
"I know. I'll go now."
A few days earlier, Eddard had added five men into his [Troop] after leaving Riverrun. Their loyalty was high, bolstered by their service to House Karstark and belief in his leadership.
It paid to have a strong family name.
On the road, Eddard encountered McKen, the oldest member, still spry despite his gray hair.
"Young master," McKen said, "I heard you returned. Lord Earl has ordered all to prepare for battle. Your warhorse, weapons, and armor are ready."
"Thank you, McKen," Eddard replied with a nod.