In Westeros, or more precisely, the Seven Kingdoms, the monetary system was surprisingly well-developed. Copper pennies, copper half-pennies, copper stars, silver stags, and gold dragons were the most common currencies in circulation.
One gold dragon could be exchanged for 210 silver stags, 1,740 copper stars, 11,760 copper half-pennies, or 23,520 copper pennies. Of course, purchasing power varied depending on the region, local production, and the current state of affairs. The war, for instance, had already begun to distort prices across the land.
According to Eddard, his sister Arya was currently hiding somewhere in King's Landing, where a sweetcake sprinkled with jam cost three copper pennies on the street. Though a simple treat, its price was a small reminder of the hardship ordinary citizens faced. War would only escalate these difficulties. In a matter of weeks, even basic supplies might become luxury items beyond the reach of common folk.
In King's Landing, six copper pennies could buy a pumpkin; a silver stag could secure a pile of corn; and a single gold dragon might fetch a side of beef or six scrawny piglets. Eddard frowned at the thought. If this trend continued unchecked, the poor would starve long before the conflicts between nobles were settled.
In his hand, Eddard carried several money bags, each containing fifty silver stags. This was not a fortune in the strictest sense, but as a greeting gift—or rather, an impromptu reward—it was substantial. His plan was simple: he would test the loyalty of those who served him through monetary rewards. Could money influence them? How long would its effect last? These questions were essential for a young lord navigating the complexities of battle and politics.
"Gentlemen," Eddard said, his tone formal yet measured, "from this moment forward, you will fight under my command. I have prepared a small gift for you. Please, accept it."
He handed the bags over one by one, careful to maintain composure and authority. Eddard did not personally know these men, nor did he need to. The system guiding him had suggested their loyalty was not deeply entrenched, which made this experiment necessary.
Northern men, in Eddard's experience, were straightforward, often blunt to the point of being slow-witted. But in honesty, they valued sincerity and action over rhetoric. Lando, Mam, and Karas Snow did not hesitate. With smiles on their faces, they accepted the bags eagerly, their relief and joy evident.
Dita, hailing from the South, understood the underlying intentions behind the gesture. This was an attempt to buy loyalty. But she had never been one to refuse free silver. Respectfully, she bowed, expressed her thanks, and tucked the bag into her embrace without opening it. The weight told her all she needed to know—it was indeed silver stags, not lesser currency.
Abel, Eddard's attendant, was initially taken aback. He had served the young lord for some time but had never expected such a gift. Eddard, noticing his surprise, smiled. "This is your reward for supporting me on the battlefield," he explained.
The joy in Abel's eyes surpassed that of the others. His loyalty, once merely habitual, now deepened genuinely, marked by the tangible acknowledgment of his service.
Eddard felt a quiet satisfaction. The experiment had worked. The newcomers' loyalty had improved immediately: four reached a "Good" level, while Abel achieved "Excellent." Each of them now had an additional reason to remain loyal: they had received a monetary reward.
Indeed, money proved to be a simple, effective tool for fostering loyalty. Eddard's mind brimmed with possibilities. If small gestures like this could secure devotion, what could larger, more strategic rewards accomplish?
Feeling a surge of warmth and confidence, Eddard decided to practice with his weapon. His body had strengthened unexpectedly, and he wanted to test his newfound prowess. He dismissed the men politely.
"Gentlemen, it's getting late. Return to your tents if you have nothing else to do. Tomorrow holds much work and, perhaps, another battle."
The timing was considerate. They had just emerged from conflict, and pushing them further might have been inappropriate. Morale could be nurtured in quieter moments; fatigue would undermine any experiment.
"Good night, young master." "See you tomorrow, young master Eddard," the men chorused as they departed.
Being sent away after receiving a gift late at night might have seemed odd elsewhere, but in the North, it was not unusual. Fifty silver stags for simply showing up to meet him? That was enough to inspire loyalty for days.
Once the men disappeared into the distance, Eddard turned to Abel. "Go to bed early. Tomorrow—or the day after—we might face another battle at Riverrun."
Eddard returned to his tent, picked up his axe, and swung it a few times. The weight felt different—lighter, easier, precise. Even in the cramped confines of the tent, wearing armor, his movements were fluid. Once he worked up a light sweat, he removed the armor and lay down on his animal-hide sleeping bag, hoping for rest.
Sleep, however, did not come easily. Thoughts swirled: strategies, the positions of lords and soldiers, the repercussions of the previous battle. Riverrun would be their next target. Robb Stark, despite his youth, had shown remarkable skill as a commander. The Young Wolf's instincts on the battlefield were sharp, if occasionally tempered by inexperience.
As Eddard drifted into slumber, dreams overtook him. His vision blurred, as if covered by gauze, then gradually cleared. He found himself in a courtyard with towering city walls and arrow towers bristling with defense. Two boys faced each other, wooden swords in hand. One was himself; the other, a younger Toren Karstark.
A tall, half-white-haired man scolded them—Earl Rickard, their father, instructing with both discipline and care. The scene shifted again: a festive gathering filled with laughter, curses, and the clinking of tankards. Eddard's mind cataloged the people around him, including a mischievous girl with brown hair and striking blue-grey eyes—his sister, Arya Karstark.
Then came a darker scene: a haggard woman lying under layers of blankets, her coughs ragged and cruel. Her skin paled further with each breath. Eddard felt his chest tighten; this was his mother, now long gone. Beside her, eyes filled with concern watched over him, gradually dimming. The pain of loss was immediate and unbearable.
Scenes shifted rapidly, finally settling on Toren's eyes just before death—relief and fear entwined in a single, haunting glance.
"Young master!" Abel's voice broke through the haze. "Young master Eddard!!"
Pain shot through Eddard's head. He shook it off, grasped the waterskin beside him, and drank deeply. The sharp throbbing ebbed.
"What is it?" he called, gathering his bearings.
The morning mist parted, revealing the sun rising in pale gold over the horizon. Abel, hesitant yet dutiful, relayed the message: "Captain Morrison came by. Earl Rickard wants you to represent him at the main army tent for the war council."
It was unusual. Eddard, second son of House Karstark with no claim to inheritance, was being sent in place of his father. Yet the meaning was clear. Earl Rickard, stricken by grief for Toren, could not function fully in battle. He entrusted the task to his son, signaling both trust and necessity.
Eddard quickly donned his armor with Abel's meticulous assistance. The battle-axe, oiled and sharpened, rested comfortably in his hands. Fully armed, he stepped out into the crisp morning, the Stark lord's tent large yet unadorned, with thick canvas walls, sturdy tables, and long benches.
Many Northern lords were already present, wearing chainmail, brigandine, or gleaming scale armor. Plate armor was notably absent. Eddard, despite his lack of formal claim or title, drew attention immediately as he approached Greatjon Umber. With a thunderous "clang," he slammed his battle-axe onto the table.
Whispers ran through the tent. Powerful Northern lords, vassals trusted to lead troops independently, observed him closely: Earl Jon Umber, Lady Maege Mormont, "Blackfish" Brynden Tully, and soon Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn herself.
Eddard's statement was clear. He represented his father—and, by extension, House Karstark's honor.
"Is your father so weak he cannot attend a meeting? What does he intend by sending a wet-behind-the-ears boy like you?" someone murmured, voice edged with skepticism.
Eddard ignored the whispers. He knew his purpose, and he knew the eyes of the North were always watching.
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