In Westeros—specifically, the Seven Kingdoms—the monetary system was quite well-established.
Copper pennies, copper half-pennies, copper stars, silver stags, and gold dragons were the most common currencies.
One gold dragon was equivalent to 210 silver stags, 1,740 copper stars, 11,760 copper half-pennies, or 23,520 copper pennies.
Purchasing power, of course, varied by region, local specialties, and the broader political situation.
According to Eddard, Arya was currently hiding in King's Landing, where a sweet cake with jam on the street cost three copper pennies.
Of course, that price wasn't fixed.
Due to the war, prices would soon skyrocket. Before long, even the so-called Little Devil—Tyrion Lannister, soon to be Hand of the King—might complain.
In King's Landing, six copper pennies could buy a pumpkin, a silver stag could trade for a pile of corn, and one gold dragon could get you a side of beef or six scrawny piglets.
If things kept deteriorating, it would only be a matter of time before the poor began to starve.
Each of the money bags in Eddard's hand contained fifty silver stags.
For soldiers' wages, it wasn't much, but as a greeting gift—or rather, a spontaneous reward—it was a generous amount.
He wanted to see if monetary incentives could buy loyalty, and if so, how effective and lasting they might be.
This first meeting was the perfect test.
"Gentlemen, from now on, you'll be fighting beside me. I've prepared a small gift for you. Please accept it."
Eddard handed out the money bags one by one. He didn't actually know these people personally—and whether the body's original owner did was irrelevant. His tone was formal, free of flaws.
According to the system prompt, even if he had known them, they hadn't been particularly close. Otherwise, reasons like "He grew up with you" or "He is familiar with you" would've appeared.
Most Northmen were direct and generous in both word and deed. Less politely: a little slow-witted.
Seeing Eddard speak so earnestly, Lando, Mam, and Karas Snow accepted the money bags with big smiles. Upon opening them, their smiles widened further.
Who wouldn't be pleased with unexpected wealth?
Only Dita Karas, who hailed from the South, saw it for what it was—an attempt to win hearts. But she had no reason to refuse free coin.
Regardless, she acted respectfully: bowing first, offering thanks, and then accepting the gift with both hands. She didn't open it, merely tucking it into her bosom. Even without looking, she could estimate the amount by the weight: definitely silver stags, not silver moons or copper stars.
Abel, on the other hand, looked at his money bag in surprise. He was already a sworn retainer of Eddard Karstark—why was he receiving a gift too?
Noticing the confusion, Eddard smiled. "That's your reward for supporting me on the battlefield."
It was, of course, part of the experiment.
"Ah…" Abel hesitated, then gratefully accepted it. "Thank you, young master."
After the incident, he had lived in fear. He hadn't expected to receive any reward. The joy that welled up in his heart far exceeded that of the others.
Seeing the five beaming faces before him, Eddard was pleased.
The experiment had yielded results—and successful ones. The loyalty of the four newcomers instantly rose to Good, while Abel's jumped to Excellent.
Each one had gained a new loyalty trait: Received a monetary reward.
Clearly, rewarding soldiers with money was highly effective.
Feeling a warm surge in his body, Eddard decided to pick up his weapon and train a bit to get used to his newly enhanced strength.
As for the others, Eddard dismissed them.
"Gentlemen, it's late. If there's nothing more, please return to your tents and rest. Tomorrow will be busy."
Originally, he had wanted to spar lightly with a few of them to test his increased strength. But considering the late hour and everyone's fatigue from battle, it didn't seem appropriate.
Besides, the test had already served its purpose.
"Good night, young master."
"See you tomorrow, Lord Eddard."
Being summoned late at night, handed a bag of silver stags, and then dismissed—this would strike anyone as unusual, even in the North.
Shouldn't there have been a speech to raise morale? Perhaps some task assignments?
But no one complained.
Fifty silver stags just for showing up? If this happened every night, they'd go to bed grinning.
Watching the others walk off, Eddard turned to Abel. "Go to bed early. Tomorrow or the day after, we might see battle again near Riverrun."
He ducked into the tent, picked up his battle axe, and swung it.
The weight had changed—lighter now. His movements were more precise. Even in the cramped tent, wearing armor, he moved without flaw.
The axe spun; his figure shifted. Yet nothing in the tent was disturbed.
After working up a sweat, Eddard removed his armor and lay down on a sleeping mat made of animal hide. He tried to fall asleep quickly.
But thoughts filled his mind. Ideas and memories surged.
After the Battle of the Whispering Wood, Robb Stark would likely push on to Riverrun without delay, seeking to rescue his grandfather and uncle, along with many Riverlands bannermen.
This would be Robb's second battle—the Battle of the Camps.
In truth, Robb would still need to allow the army some rest. Even elite cavalry needed time to recover. The horses, more precious than men, certainly did.
There would also be time for reconnaissance, strategizing, and gathering the lords.
He couldn't just charge into the Lannister camp blindly.
Robb Stark might be young and brash—some might even say slow-witted—but on the battlefield, he was a natural. His war instincts were incredibly sharp.
From the Whispering Wood to Riverrun was a day or two on horseback. At a forced march, just a few hours.
By dawn—or no later than the following day—they'd likely be on the move.
Eddard thought he'd probably be killing again soon. He hoped he wouldn't throw up in his helm from the nerves. That would be awkward, fighting with vomit in your armor.
Eventually, drowsiness took over. Eddard drifted into a deep sleep.
And then, he began to dream.
His vision was hazy, like seeing through a veil. Slowly, the scene cleared.
He stood in a courtyard facing a boy about ten years old in a black linen shirt, holding a wooden sword.
He himself was a boy, dressed similarly, also holding a wooden sword.
Beside them, a tall, half-gray-haired man barked instructions.
It was Eddard Karstark and his brother Toren training under the eye of their father, Earl Rickard.
More scenes followed: feasts, laughter, a mischievous brown-haired girl with blue-gray eyes—his younger sister, Arya Karstark.
Then, a sorrowful one: their mother, sick in bed, coughing violently, her skin pale, eyes losing light.
And then Toren again—his final look, filled with confusion, fear, and maybe… peace.
"YOUNG MASTER! LORD EDDARD!!"
Abel's voice roused him.
A splitting headache hit as he awoke. He grabbed a waterskin and drank deep gulps of ale until the pain subsided.
"What is it?"
He straightened his rumpled tunic and stepped outside.
The sun had just begun to pierce the mist, casting golden light.
"Captain Morrison came. The Earl wants you to represent him at the war council in the main tent."
Abel sounded puzzled—why send a second son instead of going himself?
Eddard, however, understood.
His father, Rickard, was sending a message: he was too grief-stricken to attend after losing one son, so he was sending the other.
It was a tactic, albeit a simple one, to sway Robb Stark into quick action against the Lannisters.
It wasn't a particularly clever play—but for a northern lord, it was reasonable.
At least it wasn't some underhanded scheme, like planting rumors or having Jaime Lannister assassinated.
Sending his son was the most honorable option.
If even Eddard died, Rickard would likely lock himself away in grief.
"Help me into my armor," Eddard said. "I might be arguing with some rough and straightforward men. Might even get into a fight."
Abel helped him into his mail, then wiped down the axe.
Eddard took it with a nod.
In the morning light, the Stark war tent loomed ahead—heavy canvas, simple, yet spacious.
Inside were tables, benches, and many already-seated lords.
By the time Eddard entered, fully armed, others were already there—each in different armor, though none wore plate.
Most barely noticed him—just the second son of a grieving lord. Not even the heir.
But when Eddard calmly walked up and sat beside Greatjon Umber, placing his axe on the table with a clank, heads turned.
The gesture drew murmurs. Several earls looked displeased.
These were powerful northern lords: Umber, Maege Mormont, Brynden Tully—soon joined by Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn.
By taking a seat at that table, Eddard was making a statement.
One lord sneered: "Is your father too weak to attend a meeting? Sending a green boy instead? What does he want, sympathy?"