In front of the Stark family tent, two young warriors faced each other, their swords drawn, tension hanging thick in the air. The night was quiet except for the distant rustle of leaves and the soft neighing of warhorses. Soon, a figure stepped forward to intervene—it was Lady Catelyn Stark, her brow furrowed with worry. Her eldest son, not yet sixteen, stood at the brink of a dangerous clash, and her heart could not bear it.
"Two young warriors," she said, her voice a mixture of authority and pleading, "with a great battle looming, can you not unleash your anger upon our true enemies—the Lannisters—instead of wielding steel against your own people?"
Daisy Mormont, standing tall and alert, obeyed her mother's command and stepped aside. Eddard, hearing Catelyn's words, lowered his axe, nodded respectfully, and left with Abel, his most trusted companion. Though young, Eddard understood the weight of responsibility and the cost of senseless conflict.
Even now, he felt sympathy for a poor woman whose husband faced execution for crimes he had not committed. Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell—innocent yet powerless—was soon to be struck down by the infamous "Wise King" Joffrey, without so much as the chance to take the black. Perhaps he was already dead. Soon, messenger birds would arrive in the Riverlands, carrying word of his fate. And yet, the war would continue, indifferent to individual lives.
Inside the Karstark tent, Count Rickard's face was etched with grief, a pale shadow of a man broken by loss. Before him lay his eldest son, Toren Karstark, lifeless, his right hand severed and his neck pierced by a longsword. Eddard approached quietly, not speaking. There was little he could do; the memories of the previous life showed only fragments of this tragic scene.
"Eddard," Count Rickard said, his voice cold and full of anguish, "go tell Robb that I accept this task. But I need five hundred mounted archers. No—let Morrison go. You stay here and keep Toren company until we depart. We will leave him behind, for now."
Eddard nodded solemnly. "Yes, Father. We will make them pay."
Even in the shadow of death, Count Rickard's fury burned not at the North, not at Robb, but squarely at the Lannisters. His pain was a frozen wind blowing from Beyond the Wall, chilling yet resolute.
"Yes, Father," Eddard replied, his voice deep, carrying the weight of his new identity. Though he had never known Toren personally, he had witnessed his death as his own eyes opened in this world. His emotions were tempered by his past life's detachment, yet he understood the necessity of appearing steadfast. To fail in this would be to betray both his father's trust and the honor of House Karstark.
The tent fell silent once more, a stark contrast to the bustling activity of the Northern army camp outside. The previous night's victory had invigorated every Northern warrior, their morale soaring as if Lannister soldiers were mere game to be hunted. Victory, especially continuous victory, was the lifeblood of morale.
The sound of hoofbeats and clanging armor filled the camp as banners were raised. The grey wolf of House Stark flew proudly above all, followed by the bear banner of House Mormont, the silver eagle of House Arryn, and many others. The cavalry, clad in polished armor and armed with sharp weapons, rode with disciplined fervor. They swept past Fairmarket, crossed rivers, navigated forests, and eliminated enemy scouts, finally arriving near the forest north of Riverrun before the sun had fully set.
Here, they would rest briefly before launching their surprise attack on the Lannisters besieging the castle. Unaware of the approaching Northern army, the Lannisters remained complacent, confident in their siege and victory over the Riverlands. Their scouts had not yet reported the defeat of the Kingslayer, and they had no inkling that the North was already in their midst.
Night descended fully, and the sound of hoofbeats thumped rhythmically across the ground. Eddard, alert and calculating, drew a javelin from his quiver and hurled it at a Westerlands scout in gold and red armor. The weapon struck with a thud in the scout's back, and he fell from his horse, screaming briefly before silence claimed him. Lando quickly secured the scout's panicked warhorse, while Karas Snow, spear in hand, swiftly thrust into another enemy, cutting him down with precision.
Dita Kalander, mounted on her horse, skillfully loosed three arrows at another scout's horse. The animal bolted in agony, throwing its rider into the nearby bushes. A Westerlands man who had fallen scrambled to his feet, attempting to flee, only to be intercepted and beheaded by Mam, who charged fiercely, axe swinging.
"Young Master Eddard," Abel reported in a low voice, "they're all killed. This is already the third scout team."
Abel's combat skills were modest compared to others, but his eyes were sharp, his night vision excellent, and his horsemanship remarkable. As the lookout, he created opportunities for his comrades to strike. Mam's axe cleared the remaining enemies, and he proudly hung their heads on his horse, a grim trophy of both military merit and the Young Wolf's bounty. Lando and Karas Snow gathered the warhorses, laughing quietly as they discussed the spoils. Dita searched the bodies for coins or jewelry, the rewards of victory tucked away under the moonlight.
Eddard looked upon the bodies with a measured detachment. There was no fear, only a faint nausea at the scene. Perhaps he had a killer's mind, or perhaps the brutal memory of Westeros had reshaped him. Here, death was constant and ordinary, unworthy of prolonged grief. He had a mission: to clear the path of enemy scouts for the Northern cavalry and the five hundred archers promised by Count Rickard.
Robb Stark had ordered House Karstark to intercept Ser Foeller Prester's forces on the west side of Riverrun. To accomplish this, Eddard needed to move nearly a thousand troops through narrow passes and fords, balancing speed with stealth. It was dangerous, yes, but the potential reward was complete annihilation of the enemy camp—if executed perfectly.
Under the moonlight, Eddard led his five men east of the enemy's camp, silently preparing for the ambush. The plain south of Riverrun was dotted with thatched houses, farmland irrigated by the Red Fork, and small forests—farmlands that now lay abandoned, their residents fled or hidden. Eddard's plan utilized the forest to create a deadly illusion: ropes pulled through trees and bushes to mimic hidden troops, concealing the approaching Northern archers.
The success of the plan depended on Ser Foeller's caution. A reckless commander might charge blindly, but the experienced Ser Foeller would pause, hesitate, and be lured into the trap. Archers would strike from the forest, disrupting enemy formations, while cavalry struck from the flanks. The first wave needed only to create disarray; the remaining forces would exploit it.
Eddard's strategy amazed even his father. It combined psychology, terrain, and timing—a lesson in calculated warfare. The five men had already set the ropes, and the 100 archers had dismounted and hidden in their designated positions, shadows among shadows, ready to strike.
Soon, all would depend on Ser Foeller's choices. One wrong move could spell disaster, yet success promised a decisive victory. The night was tense, the air thick with expectation. Every soldier held his breath, aware that the coming hours would determine not only the battle but the fate of many lives.
Eddard glanced at his men, noting the quiet determination in their eyes. Their loyalty, strengthened by small victories and shared experience, had grown to a formidable level. Each man knew his role, and together, they formed a lethal unit, the silent harbingers of the Northern army's vengeance.
Above, the moon cast a pale light on the forest, shadows dancing among the trees. Somewhere in the distance, the flicker of Lannister campfires shimmered, unaware of the storm approaching from the East. Eddard's lips curved in a faint, grim smile.
Tonight, the five lives of the Lannisters would be paid in full. And the North, relentless and unforgiving, would continue to march onward, one calculated strike at a time.
The quiet before the storm was a deadly kind of anticipation, each heartbeat echoing with the promise of retribution. And when dawn came, the fields outside Riverrun would run with consequences—a testament to loyalty, strategy, and the unyielding will of the North.
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