Money in the Seven Kingdoms was a mess, but a robust kind of mess. You had your copper pennies, stars, silver stags, and the big-ticket gold dragons. Back home, I'd be thinking in dollars and cents, but here, one gold dragon was worth 210 silver stags. If you really wanted to get into the weeds, that one gold coin was basically worth over 23,000 copper pennies.
Purchasing power was all over the place depending on where you were and how many people were currently dying nearby. Right now, in King's Landing, a sweetcake with jam would set you back three coppers. But war changes everything. Soon, things were going to get ugly. I remembered reading that once the war really kicked off, a single gold dragon enough to buy a decent horse would barely get you a side of beef or six scrawny piglets. People were going to starve, and they were going to do it soon.
I had five small leather pouches in my hands. Each one held fifty silver stags. For a knight's salary, it wasn't a fortune, but as a "nice to meet you" bonus? It was a hell of a lot of cash.
I wanted to see if I could literally buy loyalty. If the system was as game-like as it seemed, a little financial incentive should show up on the UI. Plus, I needed to know if these guys were loyal to the "Karstark" name or to me specifically.
"Alright, listen up," I said, handing the bags out one by one. I kept my voice casual, like I did this every Tuesday. "From here on out, you're riding with me. Think of this as a little sign of appreciation for signing up. Don't spend it all in one place."
I didn't actually know these guys, and honestly, the original Eddard probably didn't either. The system didn't show any "childhood friend" tags, so we were basically strangers.
Northern guys are usually pretty straightforward. Some people call them "honest," but let's be real they can be a bit thick-headed. Lando, Marm, and Karas didn't overthink it. They saw the silver, their eyes lit up, and they grinned like they'd just won the lottery. Who wouldn't be happy with a sudden pile of cash?
Dita, the Southerner, was the only one who seemed to see through it. She knew I was trying to buy her, but she wasn't an idiot. Free money is free money. She gave me a respectful bow, tucked the pouch into her tunic without looking at it, and kept her face neutral. She was a pro.
Then there was Abel. He looked at his bag like it was a holy relic. "Young Master? For me too?"
I smiled at him. "That's for having my back out there while I was catching flies in the mud. You earned it."
I watched the blue screens flicker in my peripheral vision. The experiment was a total success.
The four new guys jumped straight to [Good] loyalty.
Abel? He hit [Excellent] instantly.
A new reason popped up on all their profiles: [Received a monetary reward].
Note to self: Cash is king, even in Westeros.
As soon as their loyalty spiked, I felt a physical change. A warm rush of energy flowed through my arms and legs. My "Lord-Vassal Unity" buff was kicking in. I felt stronger, faster, like I'd just had a double espresso and a hit of adrenaline.
"Alright, it's getting late," I told them, dismissing the group. "Get some sleep. We're probably going to be busy tomorrow."
I wanted to spar with them to test my new strength, but they looked exhausted. They'd just survived a battle; the last thing they needed was their boss asking for a midnight workout.
"Night, sir," Karas muttered, still clutching his silver.
Once they were gone, I turned to Abel. "You too, man. Get some rest. We might be hitting Riverrun by tomorrow or the day after."
I ducked back into my tent, picked up my axe, and gave it a few test swings. It felt like a toy. It was so light I had to be careful not to overswing and bury it in the tent pole. I moved through a few forms, the blade whistling through the air with terrifying precision. I was starting to feel less like a footnote and more like a threat.
Eventually, I stripped off my armor and collapsed onto the fur-lined sleeping bag. My brain was a buzzing hive of thoughts Robb's next move, the upcoming camp raid, the fact that I might actually have to kill someone tomorrow.
Then, the dreams started.
It wasn't a normal dream. It was a data dump. My vision was blurry, like looking through a frosted window, but then it snapped into focus. I saw a courtyard. High stone walls. I was a kid again, maybe ten years old, holding a wooden sword. Opposite me was another boy Toren. He was grinning, lunging at me.
Standing over us was a younger, less-haggard Rickard Karstark, shouting instructions. I felt the sting of the wooden blade on my knuckles. I felt the cold Northern wind.
The scene shifted. A feast. Laughter, the smell of roasted meat, and way too much ale. I saw a girl with messy brown hair and blue-grey eyes my sister, Arya Karstark. I felt a surge of protective annoyance.
Then, the mood plummeted. A dim room. The smell of sickness. My mother was in the bed, her face pale, her breathing shallow. She looked at me with so much worry it hurt. I watched her hand go limp on the furs.
The last thing I saw before I woke up was Toren's face from the battlefield that look of confusion and relief right before the light left his eyes.
"Young Master! Eddard!"
Abel's voice broke the spell. I sat up, my head pounding like a drum. I grabbed a waterskin of ale and chugged half of it just to kill the sting of the memories.
"What's the word?" I asked, wiping my mouth.
I stepped out of the tent. The sun was just starting to burn through the morning fog.
"Captain Morrison was here," Abel said, looking confused. "Earl Rickard wants you to represent the house at the war council in the main tent. He's... staying in his quarters."
I got it immediately. My "cheap" father was playing the grief card. By sending me instead of going himself, he was sending a message to Robb Stark: My son is dead because of your war. I'm too broken to lead, so deal with my kid instead. It was a classic Northern guilt trip.
"Help me with the armor," I told Abel. "I'm probably going to have to trade insults with a bunch of angry old men today."
The Stark command tent was massive but plain. No gold trim or fancy silks here just thick grey canvas and heavy oak tables. It smelled like wet leather, stale sweat, and dog.
When I walked in, I realized I wasn't the only one who had skipped breakfast to get dressed. Every lord in the room was draped in chainmail or brigandine. Nobody was wearing full plate too expensive, too heavy for a quick meeting.
Most of the lords barely glanced at me. I was a second son with no land; in their eyes, I was basically a glorified messenger. But then I did something that made the whole room go quiet.
I walked straight past the minor lords and sat down at the head table. I sat right next to Greatjon Umber and slammed my battle-axe onto the wood with a heavy CLANG.
The whispers stopped instantly. The expressions around the table turned sour. This table was for the heavy hitters - Maege Mormont, the Blackfish, and eventually Robb and Catelyn.
The Greatjon leaned over, his massive frame casting a shadow across me. He smelled like sour ale and old meat.
"Is your old man so wrecked he can't even show up?" the Greatjon growled, his voice like a landslide. "What's he thinking, sending a wet-behind-the-ears brat like you to sit with men?"