Eddard found a chair at random and sank into it, pouring himself a glass of Dornish wine. The deep red liquid glistened in the sunlight, its aroma faintly sweet, yet tinged with the familiar sharp bite of Dornish grapes. He took a small sip, savoring the taste as he tried to loosen the tension in his shoulders.
Dita Kalander, standing nearby, tugged at the corners of her mouth with a helpless expression. "Young Master, you instructed us to keep an eye on Theon Greyjoy, but that Ironborn stays here every day unless he's with the King. Abel and I cannot simply sit idle in the hall all day."
Eddard raised a brow. "And so…"
Dita didn't need to finish her sentence. The meaning was clear: to observe Theon properly, she and Abel had to blend in somewhere the Ironborn might visit, somewhere none would suspect them.
"This is a tavern," she said, her voice calm. "A brothel. A place of leisure and entertainment for men of all kinds. Sitting there idly would only draw attention. Acting as ordinary patrons allows us to maintain cover."
Eddard's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered her words. Abel's presence had been simple, dutiful as always, but Dita's mind was sharp and resourceful. It had been her plan all along. As for Karas Snow, his appearance here had been a lucky accident—though predictable enough given his nature.
"Very well," Eddard said, nodding. "What have you observed about their movements?"
"They've been tracking merchant caravans heading to Seagard," Dita explained. "Recently, it seems they've found something of interest."
"Yes, Young Master," Abel added earnestly. "This afternoon, they plan to discuss the specifics here. They requested that you come and witness the matter yourself."
Eddard nodded, finishing the Dornish wine in a single gulp. The liquid was harsh on his throat, leaving a lingering tingle that reminded him of the tension in the Riverlands—bitter, acrid, and difficult to swallow.
Abel refilled his cup. Dita Kalander quietly cracked the wooden door open, just enough to allow Eddard to view the street outside. From this angle, he could watch the surroundings without attracting attention.
Time passed slowly, and Eddard used the rare quiet to think. He weighed his position carefully, reflecting on the precarious situation of House Stark and House Karstark. Only one word could sum up the necessity of his vigilance: survival. As a distant relative of the Starks and a direct descendant of House Karstark, he had to ensure that the North remained secure.
Any misstep could jeopardize everything: territory, prestige, gold, even life itself. Leaving all to chase personal desires, like sailing to Essos for wealth or adventure, was unthinkable—not for a noble like him. The risk was too great, the humiliation unbearable.
"Young Master!" Dita's soft voice pulled him from his thoughts.
He straightened and glimpsed Theon Greyjoy moving along the street outside. The Ironborn was accompanied by a portly, well-dressed man whose cheerful demeanor contrasted sharply with his companion's lean, sharp features. Several attendants followed, trailing behind.
Dita's signal was subtle, a nod of her head. Eddard caught it immediately. Abel splashed wine on himself, opened the door, and followed Theon and the merchants upstairs, feigning drunkenness. Tracking and eavesdropping were delicate tasks, and Eddard's direct involvement could have caused embarrassment or complications. It was wiser to let his subordinates handle the observation.
Half an hour later, Dita returned from the second floor. The drunken guise vanished, replaced by a professional composure. "Young Master, it went smoothly. The Ironborn showed no attempt to avoid others."
Eddard nodded thoughtfully. Theon, by nature, was brash and unguarded, and the King of the North's permission likely facilitated the encounter. Riverrun was, after all, a place where the foster brother of the King could move with relative freedom.
"Sit," Eddard commanded. Dita obeyed. "Tell me everything. The merchant's identity, their discussion, everything."
"The merchant is the owner of the Seven-Star Eel caravan," Dita reported. "They sell salted fish in the residential areas, and their products are widely popular locally. The Ironborn seems to have received orders to follow the army to Seagard. He identified a few caravans eager to travel there and intends to collect protection fees from them."
Eddard processed this quietly, nodding. He had to ensure Theon's actions did not endanger Karhold or other Northern territories. Watching the Ironborn closely was a preventative measure, a way to control events before they spiraled out of control.
"Dita, Abel, maintain a close watch on Theon Greyjoy. Should he plan to leave, notify me immediately," Eddard instructed.
He then reached into his pouch and produced a shimmering gold coin. "For your expenses during this mission." Though not wealthy enough to fund a private army, the spoils of recent battles allowed Eddard to provide some comfort and incentive to his loyal subordinates.
"Understood, Young Master," they both replied, bows and nods accompanying their words. Dita pocketed the gold with a smile only men could interpret. "Young Master, the private room has already been reserved. Would you like to… relieve some stress with the local services?"
Eddard blinked at her, then stretched his shoulders. "Alright. Send someone in. I'll make a selection."
After a few minutes, seven girls, delicate and dressed in gauzy garments, entered. Eddard regarded them with a critical eye. Westeros, with its rudimentary aesthetics, often left much to be desired. Even so, these girls were attractive enough to be useful in maintaining appearances. He waved them away, dissatisfied, and downed another glass of wine.
Eddard then led his subordinates out through the tavern's back door, retrieved their horses, and returned to the main street. They were about to seek a meal when Daisy Mormont approached, her face serious.
"Eddard Karstark, come with me. His Majesty wishes to see you."
"Of course," Eddard replied, following her without hesitation. Abel and Dita exchanged glances and trailed closely behind.
They moved through Riverrun's streets, ignoring the bustling crowds, entering the castle's shadow and passing through its gates. Stairs carried them to a room guarded by two sentries. Jon Mormont, standing nearby, nodded in acknowledgment.
"You may enter," he said. Daisy gestured to Eddard while keeping his subordinates at bay.
Inside, the young King of the North, Robb Stark, stood before a hand-drawn map of the Riverlands. His crown was simple—bronze and iron, adorned with First Men runes, with nine long spikes rising like swords. Standing beside him was Ser Brynden "Blackfish," face travel-worn and eyes wary.
"Karstark," Robb greeted, a nod of acknowledgment. "I have called you here for counsel regarding the upcoming war."
Eddard stepped forward, kneeling briefly out of respect. The relationship with Robb had always been amicable, but the boy was now King. Formality was necessary.
Robb waved him up. "Rise. We are family, and you have grown with us. Speak freely."
Eddard smiled faintly, examining the map. It depicted the Riverlands and surrounding territories in meticulous detail. He noted the position of Lannister forces and the scattered Riverland lords.
"Your Majesty is preparing for the next military action," Eddard said cautiously. "You intend to move against the Westerlands, to force Lord Tywin from Harrenhal?"
Robb's lips curved in a small smile. The Blackfish's eyes widened. Eddard's assessment was incisive; he grasped the tactical situation immediately.
"Correct," Robb confirmed. "After our defeat of the Kingslayer, Tywin retreated to Harrenhal, sending raiding parties to burn and pillage. He aims to entangle us in a siege or split our forces."
Eddard nodded. "The Brackens, Darrys, and Blackwoods have left with their levies to reclaim lost lands. It is… commendable, though perhaps reckless. The Mountain, even weakened, remains a formidable threat. Sending unprepared men into small-scale skirmishes against him invites disaster."
Robb's eyes gleamed with understanding. The youth, crowned King, was aware of both the risks and opportunities. With a tactician like Eddard advising, the North's chances improved significantly.
Eddard took a deep breath, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing upon him. Each decision, each action could shift the balance of power in the Riverlands, in the North, and perhaps throughout Westeros itself. His loyalty to House Stark, to House Karstark, demanded vigilance, cunning, and unwavering dedication.
"The Ironborn," he said quietly, "remain a threat to our northern holdings. Every movement must be monitored, every decision weighed. Karhold cannot be left vulnerable."
Robb nodded, eyes hard. "Your counsel is appreciated. We will act accordingly."
As they pored over the map, Eddard realized that the days ahead would demand skill, patience, and courage beyond anything he had faced before. Yet, for the North, for his family, he would endure. And so, the quiet determination in his heart hardened like steel: he would track every threat, anticipate every betrayal, and secure his place—and the North's future—through both strategy and loyalty.
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