Eddard nodded, his face pale under the torchlight. "Speak freely, Freya."
The bearded captain leaned against a stone pillar, his hands still stained with the dark residue of the night's work. "Now that we've taken control of the Twins, the men are asking... when do we start the plunder? It's the custom, My Lord. We took the castle, we took the bridge. The spoils should be ours by right."
He spoke with the calm, matter-of-fact tone of a man discussing the weather. To a Northern soldier, plundering wasn't a crime; it was the paycheck they had survived the war to collect.
Eddard blinked, looking at the hardened veteran. He began to ponder the reality of his situation. These warriors weren't professional, salaried guards like the Golden Cloaks of King's Landing. They were masons, shepherds, and fishermen who had left their families in Karhold to follow their liege into the meat grinder of the South. They brought their own gear, their own bread, and their own lives as the ultimate stake in a high-stakes gamble.
A "victory" without plunder was, to them, a failure. Some hoped for land and a title, but for the average spearman, a pouch of silver was the difference between his family starving in the coming winter or thriving.
As a man who had died in a modern world, sacrificing himself for a child only to be snuffed out by a heavy truck, Eddard felt a lingering, instinctive disgust for the idea of pillaging. But he wasn't in a 21st-century suburb anymore. He was in a world where "compassion" was often mistaken for a lack of spine. If he stopped his men from making their fortune, he wouldn't just lose their respect; he might lose their loyalty. And in the Twins, surrounded by enemies, a disloyal garrison was a death sentence.
I have to be the Lord they expect, not the man I used to be, Eddard thought.
"Freya," Eddard said, his voice dropping into a deep, commanding register. "Go tell the men this: The commoners of the Twins are my subjects now. We do not rob our own people. I need those villagers to mill our grain, mend our armor, and watch the roads. If we burn their homes today, we starve tomorrow."
Freya's expression began to sour, but Eddard held up a hand.
"However, I will not have it said that House Karstark is stingy. Tomorrow morning, at the doors of this hall, I will personally distribute a reward of five gold dragons to every man in the garrison. Ten gold dragons for the wounded and those who breached the gates first. And for the families of the five we lost tonight? Fifteen gold dragons as a pension, paid in full before the sun sets."
Freya's jaw nearly hit the floor. Five gold dragons was a small fortune, enough to buy a modest farmhouse or a dozen head of cattle in the North. It was more than most of these men would see in five years of honest labor.
"Double for the wounded?" Freya whispered, his greed replaced by a sudden, intense respect.
"Double," Eddard confirmed. "Tell them it's better than dragging heavy furniture through the streets or fighting over a silver fork. I want them fed, rested, and focused. We have a ten-thousand-man problem heading our way, and I won't have my soldiers distracted by looting."
Eddard leaned in, his eyes narrowing. "And Freya... tell them privately that we are staying here for a long time. Fear keeps a man in line for a day, but a well-fed peasant works for a lifetime. We are building a base, not just passing through."
Freya nodded vigorously, his earlier skepticism vanished. "I understand, My Lord. I'll tell them exactly that. Five dragons... the men will be ready to march into the Seven Heavens for you at that price."
"Go on then." Eddard waved him away.
As Freya disappeared into the gloom of the hall, Eddard looked at the gore-stained floor. He knew his "compassion" was just a different form of calculation. If he paid them from the Frey treasury, he bought their souls.
"Abel, Paine," Eddard called out.
The two men stepped forward. Abel, still smelling of the Dorne salt, and Paine, whose honest face belied the blood on his axe.
"Investigate the prisoners," Eddard ordered. "Find the men who aren't related to the Freys by blood, the sellswords, the household guards, the levies from the nearby villages. Separate them. I want to know whose families live within sight of these walls."
Abel frowned. "You're looking to recruit them, My Lord?"
"I'm looking for men who have something to lose," Eddard replied. "If the Freys are finished, these men need a new master. If I offer them gold and the safety of their families, some will flip. The System will tell me which ones are lying. Be quick; I want a list by tomorrow afternoon."
They hurried off, leaving Eddard with the Maester and the heavy silence of the Great Hall.
Scholar Bennett was watching Eddard with a mix of awe and terror. He had seen the lightning, and now he was seeing the cold, administrative heart of a conqueror. To a man of the Citadel, Eddard was an anomaly, a magical Lord who thought in terms of logistics and tactical pensions.
"Scholar," Eddard said, his voice softening. "You've served well tonight. Don't worry about the rags you're wearing or the bird droppings on your sleeves. Serve me faithfully, and you'll have a laboratory and a library that would make the Citadel jealous."
Bennett bowed low, his chain clinking. "I seek only to serve the realm, Lord Eddard. And... perhaps to understand the power you wield."
"Magic has a price, Bennett. But I'll teach you what I can, in time."
Eddard gestured for the Maester to lead him to the treasury. He needed to see the "gold mine" that would fund his survival. They walked through the arched bridges of the River Tower, past the Lord's solar, to a heavy set of steel-reinforced doors.
With a heavy swing of his axe, Eddard shattered the iron locks. The doors groaned open to reveal a sight that made even Eddard's modern heart skip a beat.
Shelves of gold. Chests overflowing with gold dragons. Ornaments of agate, chalcedony, and blue crystal, all set in heavy, glittering yellow metal. The Freys had been the toll-keepers of the Trident for six hundred years, and every merchant who crossed had paid a piece of this mountain.
"How much?" Eddard whispered.
Bennett peered into the gloom, calculating with the practiced eye of a man who handled the castle's ledgers. "Roughly... over a hundred thousand gold dragons, My Lord. Perhaps more in raw bullion and plate."
A hundred thousand. It was enough to fund the Crown's debts for a year, or to hold a dozen tourneys.
"Start moving it," Eddard commanded. "I want ten chests, a thousand dragons each moved to my solar immediately. And Scholar? Keep this room between us. If the men see this much gold at once, five dragons won't seem like enough anymore."
Bennett nodded, understanding the delicate balance of power. "Of course, My Lord."
As the Maester began to organize the transport, Eddard felt the first real spark of hope. He had the bridge. He had the gold. He had the magic. Now, he just needed to survive the ten thousand men coming to take it all back.
"Dita," Eddard said to the knight standing guard. "Call Karas and Lando. Tell them I have two hundred dragons with their names on them. We have a lot of work to do before the Leech arrives."