Chapter 151 — Have You Had Enough?
The King's Road.
A heavy fog clung to the hooves of three hundred Crownlands knights, curling around their legs like pale, restless ghosts.
At the front of the column rode Eddard Stark, newly appointed Lord of Winterfell.
A fresh wolfskin cloak—bestowed by royal decree—hung across his shoulders. It should have been warm… yet it felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds, crushing down on his still-slender frame.
On his chest, the direwolf sigil, polished bright, gleamed like a blade.
A blade stabbed straight through his heart.
Eddard's lips were pressed tightly together. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the hilt of the longsword at his waist—the very sword his father had gifted him when he was sent to the Vale as a foster-son.
Now…
It had become his only remaining connection to Winterfell.
"Hey, His Noble Stark Lordship!"
To his side, Jaime Lannister, clad in gleaming crimson armor, tugged irritably at the ornate scarf choking his neck. He kicked his horse forward, drawing closer, his voice deliberately raised and razor-sharp.
"Try smiling for once. You're the Lord of Winterfell now, aren't you?"
"The whole North belongs to you. What—does the direwolf pelt freeze your tongue the moment you put it on?"
Eddard turned his head.
Jaime was astride a tall, magnificent warhorse, its coat almost unnaturally golden. His armor was drenched in reds and golds, screaming Lannister wealth and pride from every inch of polished steel.
Yet his handsome face wore the same familiar expression—mocking, taunting—like Eddard owed him ten thousand gold dragons.
And truth be told…
It wasn't entirely Jaime's fault.
If Eddard truly had owed him ten thousand gold dragons, as the eldest son of House Lannister Jaime could've simply laughed it off.
But only days earlier, in exchange for forcing Lord Tywin to plead for clemency—so that Eddard Stark could be spared execution and instead be shipped off to the Wall to gnaw frozen potatoes…
Jaime had been forced to accept that cursed betrothal to Riverrun.
Lysa Tully—Hoster Tully's younger daughter.
Jaime had seen her more than once during his stay at Riverrun. Her looks weren't terrible… and yes, her chest was impressive, but her expression always carried the unmistakable emptiness of a woman so foolish it bordered on insult.
Seven hells.
To make the future great Ser Jaime Lannister marry a woman who looked like she'd smile and drool at the same time the moment she saw him—
Gods only knew what kind of determination Jaime had needed to muster…
All to save this damned Stark.
And now?
Jaime's effort hadn't just been wasted—Eddard had flipped from condemned prisoner to Lord of Winterfell, and still had the nerve to ride around looking like the world owed him an apology.
Jaime's anger burned hotter with every mile.
"Move."
Eddard's grey eyes swept over Jaime, dull and exhausted.
"Stop pestering me. Ride your own road, Lannister."
His mood had been foul long before Jaime started barking. And honestly? He had no patience left.
Eddard had felt grateful at first. They were strangers, after all—yet Jaime had convinced his father to speak for him before the king.
That alone was a debt beyond measure.
But ever since the journey began, Eddard had discovered something irritatingly clear:
Jaime Lannister was a child in a knight's armor.
Always looking for trouble, always provoking him—constantly.
And Eddard was sick of it.
That indifferent dismissal made Jaime flush bright red.
Not only did he refuse to back off—he urged his horse forward, riding alongside Eddard shoulder to shoulder.
"My road?"
Jaime let out a cold laugh, green eyes glaring into Eddard's face as he spat out his accusation.
"My road went wrong because of you, Stark!"
"Seven gods above—I don't even know what the fuck I was thinking back then. I must've had flea-nest sewage shit for brains!"
"Now I've got to ride to Riverrun and marry that Lysa Tully—that brainless cow who does nothing but grin at me like a halfwit and drool!"
"Seven hells, Eddard Stark!"
"If anyone should be riding with a funeral face, it's me! It's ME!"
"And you—look at you!"
"You ride around like a coward, sulking like a beaten dog, too scared to do anything besides feel sorry for yourself!"
"And I paid that price to save you!"
Eddard's grey eyes flickered.
Pain, tightly suppressed, moved beneath them like a deep current.
"I owe you."
His voice was hoarse. He inhaled—and didn't argue.
He simply answered with a low, heavy sincerity:
"I'll repay it someday."
Jaime clicked his tongue with disgust.
So boring.
His gaze dropped to Eddard's right hand.
The Stark's fingers were white-knuckled around his sword hilt…
Yet he showed not the slightest intent to draw it.
Jaime's expression sank in disappointment.
Because Jaime Lannister wasn't the type who saved someone just to demand repayment later.
He didn't want gratitude.
He just wanted—
To provoke Eddard into drawing steel and fighting him.
But Eddard refused to bite.
"Tch. You're the dullest man alive, Eddard Stark."
Jaime snorted, yanked his reins hard, and spat over his shoulder:
"I swear even Septon Baelor had ten thousand times your sense of humor!"
"No woman will ever like a man as lifeless as you!"
"Oh—right!"
As if remembering something, he slapped his forehead dramatically, and his mouth twisted into an ugly grin.
"You know, we could've been brothers-in-law."
"But your traitor father already sent your little brother to marry Catelyn Tully!"
"Hahahahaha—!"
With a cruel final laugh, Jaime urged his golden horse away, riding off alone.
But anyone with eyes could see—
Jaime Lannister's mood was rotten enough to poison the entire road.
"Heh… the Lannister brat has energy."
A dozen paces ahead, the tall Kingsguard Commander glanced back with amusement.
Truthfully, money really did make life easy.
Less than half a month after returning to King's Landing, Tywin Lannister had already found him another horse—
One that didn't lose to the one Lance had "borrowed" previously.
The steed was snow-white without a single blemish, its coat shimmering silver under sunlight. Its muscles were smooth and powerful, long legs strong and elegant, neck held high with the natural bearing of royalty.
A horse like this could never be bought for less than a hundred gold dragons.
And Lord Tywin?
Tywin gave him whatever he wanted.
Not only had he provided the horse—the saddle was even more extravagant than before, reflecting that unmistakable golden "rich man" glow.
Lance stroked the stallion's mane, lips curling upward.
He truly hadn't expected that Jaime—who in the original story would kill and bleed against Eddard—would end up begging Tywin to spare the Stark…
And even accepting such brutal conditions in exchange.
Since Lord Tywin treated him so well…
As Kingsguard Commander, he couldn't exactly be ungrateful.
Jaime Lannister's marriage to Lysa Tully…
Will be protected by me, Lance Lot.
"Ser—!"
"SER Lance!!"
A sharp, piercing shout rang out through the fog.
A blur of golden hair came racing down the road—Ser Balman Byrch, freshly healed from his injuries.
"Ser Lance!"
He was riding so hard he looked like he might cough his lungs out.
"Easy, Ser Balman. Breathe first. Then speak."
Lance frowned slightly as he watched the man nearly collapse over his saddle.
Truth be told, the Kingsguard ranks were still undermanned. Lance had once considered recommending the boy for a white cloak. In Dorne, Balman had already proven his loyalty—his commitment to honor was no less than any true Kingsguard knight.
But after thinking it over…
Manly had only one daughter. Balman's marriage was solid, too.
Lance couldn't exactly tell a man to divorce his wife just to become Kingsguard.
"We found something ahead… we found…"
Balman swallowed hard—yet the words refused to come.
After a long pause, fear flickered in his eyes. Something close to horror.
"You… you should see it yourself."
Then he spun his horse around and charged north, as if lingering a second longer would poison him.
Lance raised his hand and signaled the column forward at once.
Three hundred knights surged after Balman, turning sharply into a branching road.
---
The closer they rode, the more the air changed.
A thick, cloying stench—sweet enough to be sickening—slammed into them like a fist.
Burnt flesh.
Blood.
The fog was torn apart by the smell alone.
Even Lance' warhorse grew restless, hooves stamping, breath snorting in agitation.
Lance patted its neck calmly and pushed forward.
The first thing they saw was at the village's edge—
A massive white ash tree, its branches hung with crimson "banners."
At first glance, they almost looked like torn flags.
Then the men saw what they truly were.
Not banners.
Three flayed skins.
Human hides—ruined, shredded, nailed crudely to the trunk like rain-soaked cLot.
The blood had long since finished dripping.
In the cold morning wind, those ghastly "flags" swayed gently, releasing a soft shhh… shhh…—the dry friction of leather.
Gulp.
Swallowing echoed through the riders like a chain reaction.
But it only got worse.
They rode deeper.
Along the narrow path into the village, sharpened wooden stakes had been driven into the ground every few steps.
And atop each stake—
Skinless limbs, nothing left but dark-red muscle and white tendon.
Arms.
Thighs.
And some…
Some were small.
Too small to belong to adults.
The huts and barns had been burned into black skeletons. Embers snapped quietly inside the ruins, mixed with the gagging stench of charred meat.
Several corpses lay at doorways—burnt to charcoal, curled like children—frozen mid-crawl, as if they'd tried to drag themselves away at the last second and failed.
The village square—once a place for gatherings and laughter—
Was now a mountain of bodies.
Many were flayed halfway.
The ground wasn't mud anymore.
It was blood-soaked sludge, thick and black-red, churned into a sticky mire by boots and death.
At the center stood a massive double-bladed battleaxe—
A design unmistakably Northern.
It was buried deep into a stone millwheel like a verdict.
And wrapped around its handle was a strip of skin—serrated at the edges, still stained red.
A flaying strap.
The only structure still intact was a small Seven-pointed shrine, made of stone.
A white-haired old woman had been positioned as though in prayer.
Kneeling.
Except her back—
Her back had been peeled open like a butcher opening an animal.
Her skin was spread across the altar like a cloak.
And branded into that hide, perfectly clear—
Was the direwolf sigil of House Stark.
---
"BL—URGH!"
A violent retch exploded behind Lance.
He turned his head.
Jaime Lannister.
The heir of Casterly Rock—raised in safety, fed on glorious knightly tales—was doubled over his horse's neck, vomiting uncontrollably.
His beautiful golden hair hung down in a pathetic mess.
His face was white as paper.
And honestly?
No one could blame him.
This scene was too much.
Even Lance' handpicked knights had trouble holding it in—men clapped hands over their mouths, forcing bile down through sheer stubbornness.
---
"This… this can't be real…"
A broken, half-screamed whisper rose like a dying prayer.
Eddard Stark slid off his horse and fell to his knees with a wet SPLASH—
Both knees sinking into that sticky, rotting blood-mud.
He crawled toward the square like a man possessed.
His trembling fingers touched the Northern battleaxe buried in the stone.
Then he lifted his head—
And stared at the shrine.
At the flayed skin bearing the direwolf.
Something inside him cracked.
The honor he had clung to.
The faith in law.
The belief that the North could still be righteous—
All of it shattered in the face of this slaughterhouse.
---
And then—
"YOU FUCKING STARK!"
Jaime finally stopped vomiting.
He wiped sour spit off his mouth with the back of his hand.
For the first time, his face held no arrogance, no youthfully smug grin.
Only pure, burning rage.
He charged straight at Eddard and punched him hard, then kicked him repeatedly with armored boots, voice ripping through the fog like a blade.
"LOOK!"
"OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES!"
"This is what your traitor father did!"
"They're bleeding the Riverlands dry—women, children, no one spared!"
"And you're still hesitating?"
"Still dreaming that Rickard Stark—that cruel bastard with no honor—will 'come back to his senses'?!"
"DON'T YOU DARE INSULT MY FATHER!"
Eddard had taken the beating without resistance…
Until that sentence.
His head snapped up.
His grey eyes were bloodshot.
Years of discipline—and the last thread of restraint—finally tore apart.
He kicked upward from the ground, boot slamming into Jaime and forcing him back.
Then Eddard roared as he surged to his feet—
And drew the iron longsword his father had once placed into his hands.
"I don't believe it!"
"This can't be my father's doing!"
"Your father was right," Jaime snarled, eyes blazing.
"The wolf's cruelty and filth surpass the lion a thousand times over!"
Jaime drew his jeweled sword in a flash.
The steel sang.
"Don't think being a lord means I won't teach you a lesson, Stark!"
"This isn't your private Northern business anymore!"
"This is blasphemy against the Seven—an insult to honor itself!"
"I'll put you on the ground—then I'll hunt down those skin-wearing devils and slaughter them!"
"I swear it on the name of Lannister!"
Eddard—only fifteen, shaking with fury—lifted his blade and charged.
"I SAID…"
"This wasn't my father!!!"
The air snapped tight.
Knights around them tensed, hands clamping onto sword hilts, eyes darting—
Not toward the boys.
Toward the one man who still hadn't spoken.
The silent white-cloaked figure.
Their blades were about to meet—
When a milk-white flash cut between them like divine judgment.
CLANG!
Two sharp, clean sounds rang out almost simultaneously.
Jaime's sword spun into the air.
Eddard's sword followed.
Both blades flew away as if they had been swatted aside by a god.
The massive pale greatsword plunged into the mud between them.
It stood there like a border marker.
A line neither lion nor wolf was permitted to cross.
Then—
Leather-gloved hands moved.
One seized Jaime's wrist with surgical precision.
The other closed around Eddard's throat like an iron clamp—
And lifted him clean off the ground.
Eddard's boots kicked uselessly in empty air.
Fog coiled around his feet.
And in the sudden silence, Lance' voice cut through the world—cold as an ice spike.
"Have you had enough?"