"My Lord, General... merciful Young Master."
Byron Lannizes, a guy whose name was just close enough to 'Lannister' to make me want to kill him was practically shaking. He looked at the courtyard full of my guys, his white hair fluttering in the breeze. "Please... you have to restrain your men. We've surrendered. No more killing. Think of the women and kids."
He looked like a man who had spent his whole life in a gated community and just realized the gates were gone. In the left corner, thirty of his guards were squatting with their hands over their heads, looking like they'd given up on life. In the right corner, the servants and family members were huddled together, the younger girls trying to hide behind the older women to avoid the "Northern barbarian" stare.
I sat on the steps of the manor, resting my axe across my knees. I kept my face like stone. "I'm a man of my word, Byron. You opened the gate, so your people live. Simple as that."
Honestly, the only reason he was still breathing was because 'Lannizes' was a distant enough branch of the family. If he'd been a straight-up Lannister, I probably would've handed him over to my dad to finish out his 'five lives' blood debt.
Byron tried to suck up a bit more, but I just waved a hand and cut him off. "That's enough. Clear out."
As soon as I gave the signal, two hundred of my guys swarmed into the house. It wasn't pretty. The sounds of doors being kicked in, things being smashed, and the occasional scream from a hidden servant echoed through the courtyard.
A few minutes later, they started dragging out the boxes. Heavy oak chests, bound in iron.
We cracked them open. The smallest one was packed with gold dragons several hundred, easy. The bigger ones were filled with tens of thousands of silver stags. It was a massive haul. Abel placed a smaller, fancy-looking box in front of me. Inside were gold and silver jewelry, some of it still stained with blood where the guys hadn't been particularly gentle taking it off the owners.
Are even the distant relatives this rich? I wondered. In the North, a single gold dragon could buy you a warhorse. Five could buy a full set of high-end plate armor. This pile of cash was enough to outfit a whole regiment of elite cavalry.
Does Ox Town have a gold mine under it? Whatever the reason, we didn't have time to dig.
Just then, my "cheap" father, Earl Rickard, rode into the courtyard. He saw the gold, saw the unharmed prisoners, and actually cracked a smile. He'd just come from a talk with Robb, and apparently, the Greatjon had been stirring the pot about us killing high-value captives. Rickard didn't care. He sat down next to me, looking more relaxed than I'd seen him since Toren died.
"You did good, son," he said, his voice actually warm. "Real good. So, how are we splitting the pot?"
I looked at him, confused. "Splitting it?"
"The Rule of Three, Eddard," he said, pointing at the chests. "One-third goes to the King. That's the tax for him leading the army. One-third goes to the men who did the work you distribute it based on who fought hardest. No cutting corners on their pay, or they'll lose heart."
"And the last third?"
"The last third belongs to House Karstark. Which means it belongs to me. And anyone who has a problem with that can answer to the cold wind."
I nodded. It was a standard medieval tax bracket. I liked the "one-third" rule; it kept everyone from killing each other over the change. My dad stood up, took Martyn Lannister's gold-hilted sword from me the one that said Hear Me Roar on one side and told me he was going to go find a quiet spot to "dedicate" the trophies to Toren.
Once he was gone, I got to work.
I paid out the guys. The scouts got a decent cut. The archers who cleared the walls got more. But the guys who handled the ram, Abel's team got the lion's share. They'd walked into the arrow fire, and they deserved the bonus.
By the time I was done, my guys had pockets so heavy with silver they were clinking when they walked. They were all grinning like idiots. Kings fight for glory, and lords fight for honor, but soldiers fight to get paid. And today, they got paid.
I was just finishing up when a familiar voice boomed from the gateway.
"What kind of treasure is so important the Hand has to deliver it personally?"
Robb Stark rode in, followed by the "big dogs" of the army - the Blackfish, Greatjon Umber, Lord Tytos Blackwood, and the rest of the council. They were looking for a place to hold a war meeting, and my new manor was the only one with enough chairs.
"Congrats on the win, Your Majesty," I said, taking off my helmet.
"It's your win too, Eddard," Robb said, ignoring the gold chests. He looked genuinely impressed. "Your plan to have Tytos intercept the runners saved us a lot of trouble later."
We all moved into the banquet hall. It was a big, high-ceilinged room that smelled like expensive wood and stale wine.
"Alright," Robb said, taking the head of the table. "Step one is done. We wiped out Stafford Lannister's recruits and took the West's front door. Now we see if Tywin is willing to leave Harrenhal to come settle the bill."
The Greatjon stood up immediately, his massive fist slamming the table. "I say we hit the gold mines! Castamere, Nun's Head, all of them. They're unguarded. We dig until we're rich and Tywin is broke!"
"Mining takes too long, Jon," the Blackfish cut in, sounding bored. "We hit the castles. Casterly Rock, Feastfires, the garrisons are empty. We take the seats of power, and Tywin will have to crawl home."
"No," Lord Tytos Blackwood said, his voice low and dangerous. He'd seen the Lannisters burn his home, and he wanted blood. "We burn it all. Every field, every house. We kill the men, take the livestock, and leave them with nothing but dirt. Let them see what a 'Lannister debt' really feels like."
The room went quiet. Nobody argued. In this world, an eye for an eye wasn't just a saying; it was a strategy.