An arrow's flight—at most a hundred or two hundred meters—was but an instant for a warhorse accelerating at full gallop.
Following the path already trampled by Earl Rickard's troops, the six riders charged straight into the center of the formation before most of the Westerlands soldiers could react.
Soon, they arrived before the large banner.
Abel's spear twirled, its sharp steel head piercing a Westerlands soldier's chest, stopping his attempt to block Eddard.
Lando and Mam quickly followed, swinging their swords and protecting Eddard's sides, cutting down and knocking over several enemies who tried to pounce with short swords.
Dita Kalander fired arrows in quick succession while galloping, several arrows flying toward Ser Foeller's position.
At this moment, Ser Foeller's thoughts seemed stuck in a quagmire, stagnating after repeated changes.
It was true that he was resilient and cautious, but he lacked quick wit.
Faced with sudden situations—especially the harassment from two cavalry units—his previous arrangements were no longer sufficient.
Even now, he still hadn't figured out what to do next.
However, years of training and battlefield experience allowed Ser Foeller to instinctively raise his shield when faced with an arrow attack, protecting his face, which his visor left exposed.
He wore full plate and chainmail, so ordinary arrows posed no threat to him.
At the same time, he shouted, "Stop them!!"
Five or six guards, armed with long spears and clad in fine scale armor, charged forward. They were unaffected by the earlier chaos, their spearheads gleaming coldly as they thrust.
Eddard held his military spear in his right hand and a shield in his left, parrying attacks as he charged forward.
The 50% bonus provided by [Lord-Vassal Unity] wasn't merely enhanced strength and stamina. His eyesight, reaction speed, and movement precision were all enhanced, allowing him to deflect five or six incoming spears with his shield in a matter of seconds.
"Get lost, you scum!"
Lando and Mam shouted repeatedly, urging their horses forward, knocking over the guards—only for their mounts to be stabbed by other enemies rushing in.
Amidst the horses' agonizing neighs, the two fell to the ground, quickly rolling to their feet and engaging the enemies with swords.
With their help, Eddard bypassed the obstruction. The sharp steel head of his spear gleamed faintly, brushing past a shield and piercing through Ser Foeller's silver-white abdominal armor, shredding the chainmail beneath and tearing into the man's corpse, which still clutched a shield.
Abel, close behind, stabbed the standard-bearer next to him with his lance.
The banner of House Prester fell to the ground.
"Avenge Ser Foeller!!"
Seeing their commander slain, Ser Celin, also clad in plate armor, raised his longsword in fury—only to be struck in the forehead by a spinning shield, falling dead from his horse.
Eddard, who had thrown the shield, lifted Ser Foeller's corpse and shouted, "Lay down your weapons! Those who surrender shall live!!"
His horse whinnied in protest beneath the weight.
Seeing their commander dead and the banner fallen, the Westerlands soldiers in the center formation stared at Foeller's corpse impaled on a spear, horror filling their faces. One by one, they dropped their weapons, knelt, and surrendered.
At that moment, Earl Rickard—now with fewer than three hundred cavalry—charged out of the enemy formation.
"Everyone, rally to me!"
"Prepare for the second charge!"
Then he saw the Prester banner fall, and his face changed. When he saw his son dragging a corpse while parrying with a battle axe, the horror deepened.
But he still gave the order: "Charge! Charge!!"
To the west, over a thousand Northern cavalry had been aggressive at first but now hesitated, watching House Karstark's fierce battle. Now that the tide had turned, they sent a small contingent to sweep in.
To the south, a large group of archers appeared from the hillside.
These reinforcements caused most of the Westerlands soldiers to lay down their weapons. Those who resisted were quickly shot down or trampled by cavalry.
A few desperate ones fled into the forest like stray dogs.
House Karstark soon took control of the battlefield. They began collecting weapons, organizing prisoners, treating the wounded, and burying the dead.
Eddard lowered his spear—still impaled with Foeller—and smiled at Earl Rickard, showing his uninjured body. Only then did Rickard relax and ride off.
Eddard dismounted to search for his subordinates.
Abel followed.
Lando had injured his left arm in the fall, and his thigh had been pierced by a spear. The wound was bound with bloodstained cloth. He sat silently on the ground, trying to smile at Eddard but unable to speak.
"Abel, find two men to carry Lando to Maester Reed—quickly!"
Abel ran off. Lando looked at Eddard gratefully.
Mam had also fallen but was in better shape. Aside from a bloody hole in his neck, he had no other wounds. He lay quietly, eyes open, right hand clutching a sword, left gripping a spear.
As if the pose meant something.
Dita Kalander had already dismounted and begun scavenging the corpses.
At this point, loot belonged to the finder, regardless of who struck the blow.
Karas Snow limped over to Mam, closed his eyes, lifted the body onto a horse, and gave Eddard a calm nod—though a hint of sadness remained in his eyes.
Then came an inappropriate voice.
"House Karstark, we've truly won a great victory! Though it's still short of Robb's win in the Haunted Forest, it'll spread through the army."
Theon Greyjoy rode up, a cynical smile on his face.
In the moonlight, the wolf banner showed he led the cavalry from the west bank.
Only Rickard and Robb knew Eddard's full plan. Perhaps Robb had sent Theon as insurance—if Foeller tried to link up with Lannister forces, these cavalry would intercept.
But was the North's strength really so plentiful?
"Yes," Eddard said with a forced smile. If his anger could become fire, it would've burned Theon to ashes.
His perfect plan had been disrupted.
If not for Rickard's experience and timing, Eddard might've been routed.
How dare this scoundrel come take credit?
"Karstark, you saw it! I chased them everywhere! Hah, they didn't know I had only a hundred men—the rest were horses."
Theon laughed, unaware of how irritating he was.
"Hmm, indeed."
Though Eddard loathed him, he showed no emotion. Theon was deeply trusted by Robb Stark, who didn't even listen to his mother.
To Robb, Theon was like a brother. Eddard was just a distant relative—better not waste breath.
He'd deal with him later.
Seeing Eddard's lack of interest, Theon's smile faded. He snorted and rode toward Rickard, probably to secure his share of credit.
"Young Master, it's done."
Abel returned with two riders and a makeshift stretcher. Lando was carried off.
Few from Karstark's side had been wounded; most were Lannister. Many had been killed outright, so few needed saving.
"Abel," Eddard whispered, "keep a close eye on that Ironborn. You and Dita. If he makes any odd move, report to me."
Abel nodded and went to find Dita Kalander, who was well-suited for shadowing.
Farther off, the sounds of battle quieted. Messenger birds flew across the night.
One flew to Riverrun.
The rest soared farther.
"Ha... more hearts will break tonight," Eddard muttered.
He sat down under the stars. After a while, Dita Kalander approached silently and handed over a bloodied pouch.
It held silver stags and jewelry.
Did Northerners gift spoils to their lord?
Then Dita handed over another pouch. "Young Master, this is Mam's share. Please give it to his family."
Eddard nodded.
Maybe this free rider didn't expect to return.
...
By dawn, news of Eddard Stark's execution had spread through the camps.
Noble or commoner, all wore grief.
Some were sincere—mourning out of loyalty, kinship, or respect.
Others faked it. But no one dared show otherwise.
They still lived under his son.
Many lords had already gone by boat to Riverrun, following Robb and Lady Catelyn.
They would mourn in the godswood, then discuss the future.
If nothing changed, the beloved Young Wolf would become the 15-year-old King in the North.
Eddard Karstark didn't attend.
Though his plan had caused the Westerlands an extra 4,000 casualties, credit went to the family, not to him.
Robb, in his grief, granted House Karstark rights to build a dam and settlement along the Last River.
But even that wasn't Eddard's decision—it was his father's.
Now, he was once again cornered in his tent by Daisy Mormont.
This time, there was no Lady Catelyn to stop her.
Bang!
A slender figure in black armor crashed to the ground.
"If all Bear Island women are as tenacious as you, maybe Lord Commander Mormont should never have let Jorah become earl."
Daisy sprang up again, covered in grass, and lunged.
But Eddard was faster. He dodged, tripped her, and pinned her down with one hand, placing a battle axe against her neck.
"Too many have died—my brother, Lord Stark, Daryn of Hornwood, Mavin."
"If you want to add your name to the list, go ahead."
Daisy froze.
Dying in battle was honorable. But dying here, over pride? Shameful.
More shameful than losing to Eddard.
She buried her face in the grass.
"Good. I'll take that as a yes," Eddard said, standing and handing her sword back.
"Didn't even touch me. This was a joke."
Daisy took her weapon and left without a word, whispers trailing her.
"Rude. Not even a thank you."
Eddard shook his head.
Through the battle and spar, he realized his strength. His skill was lacking, but the bonus made him strong enough to beat Daisy Mormont.
"If a dragon pledged loyalty, would I gain its power too?"
He shook the thought away.
He wasn't Targaryen. No dragon would follow him.
Maybe he could raise some bears?