The green banner of the Striding Hunter fluttered in the damp morning air, drawing closer with every beat of Eddard's quickening heart.
Eddard sat low in his saddle, his hand gripping the shaft of his battle-axe until his knuckles turned white. For some reason, despite the cold efficiency he had displayed at the Twins, he felt a rare spark of nervousness. This wasn't Walder Frey, a weasel in a silk robe this was Randyll Tarly. A man whose name was carved into the history of Westeros with blood and discipline.
He glanced back at his forty elite Karstark riders. Their faces were obscured by steel visors, but their eyes were bright with the manic fervor of men who had just been paid fifty gold dragons to court death. They were the "Ice Warriors," and they were ready to bite.
Beric Dondarrion sat a few yards away with the reserve force of the Brotherhood. He gave Eddard a sharp, singular nod. The plan was a daring gamble: Eddard would lead the tip of the spear in a lightning strike to decapitate the enemy command, while Beric would act as the safety net, a rearguard to prevent them from being swallowed by the seven thousand infantry currently straggling behind the vanguard.
"Warriors of House Karstark!" Eddard's voice broke the silence of the woods like a thunderclap. "FOLLOW ME!"
He spurred his black warhorse out of the tree line, his cloak snapping like a whip.
Roose Bolton's pale, milky eyes caught the motion first. He saw forty riders burst from the forest in a cloud of dust and steel, and his blood turned to ice. He recognized the black plate armor. He recognized the white sunburst. Most of all, he recognized the man at the front, the man who had killed Gregor Clegane.
Roose Bolton was a creature of absolute logic. He didn't care about "First in Battle" or knightly honor. He knew that the man charging toward him had ended the life of the most dangerous warrior in the Seven Kingdoms.
Without a word of warning to Randyll Tarly, without a single command to his own men, Roose Bolton yanked his reins. He spurred his mount in the opposite direction, fleeing with the frantic, silent grace of a rat abandoning a sinking ship. In his mind, he was already imagining Eddard Karstark tied to a flaying rack, but for now, the reality was simple: run or die.
Randyll Tarly, however, did not run.
"AMBUSH!" Tarly roared, his voice cutting through the sudden chaos. He didn't look at the fleeing Bolton; his gaze was fixed on the Northern cavalry. His reaction was terrifyingly swift. "SHIELDS! COUNTER-CHARGE!"
With a fluid, practiced motion, Randyll Tarly reached behind him and drew the ancestral pride of House Tarly: Heartbreaker.
The Valyrian steel greatsword, over five feet of dark, smoke-patterned metal, seemed to drink the morning light. It was a weapon of legend, light enough to be wielded with one hand by a man of Tarly's strength, yet heavy enough to cleave a man and his horse in two.
"STOP THEM!" Tarly commanded his personal guards.
The Tarly personal guard, elite riders in fine mail, didn't hesitate. They fanned out, their horses' hooves churning the verdant earth into a muddy mess as they rode to intercept the Karstark wedge.
Eddard watched the gap close. Twenty meters. Ten. He could see the glint of the guards' eyes through their visors. They were aiming their lances at his chest, looking to take the "Wizard of the North" down in a single pass.
Eddard didn't raise his axe. He reached into the [System].
[Active Skill: Magic Arrow (4/4) triggered.]
Four ethereal, elemental bolts of energy, shimmering with the color of a bruised sky manifested in the air above Eddard's head. With a flick of his mind, he sent them screaming forward.
The Tarly guards didn't even have time to raise their shields. The bolts moved with perfect, guided accuracy, punching through steel visors and throat-guards. Four riders were blown backward out of their saddles as if hit by a battering ram, their bodies hitting the dirt with a sickening thud.
Eddard guided his horse through the gap, the thundering hooves of the riderless mounts passing him like ghosts.
"ARROGANT BRAT!" Ser Aenys Farwynd, the captain of the Tarly guard, bellowed. He snatched a three-meter-long banner-spear from the terrified Dickon Tarly and lowered it toward Eddard's heart.
Eddard's vision blurred. The mental cost of the magic was beginning to sap his energy, a dull ache throbbing in his temples. But he wasn't finished.
[Intermediate Magic: Weakness cast.]
Ser Aenys suddenly felt as if the air had turned to lead. The three-meter spear became a mountain of iron in his hand. He slumped forward, his muscles refusing to obey, the spear tumbling into the mud as he slid helplessly to the side of his saddle.
Randyll Tarly's eyes widened. He had watched five of his best men fall in seconds to invisible blows. He raised Heartbreaker, the Valyrian steel humming with a low, predatory vibration. He prepared to meet the Karstark lord in a pincer move with his remaining guards.
[Intermediate Magic: Weakness cast.]
Tarly felt it then, the invisible hand of a god pressing down on his shoulders. The world turned grey. Heartbreaker, the sword that had been in his family for five hundred years, suddenly weighed ten thousand pounds. It slipped from his numbed fingers, falling with a heavy thump into the soft earth, burying half its blade in the soil.
Randyll Tarly, the man who had never known defeat, felt his breath catch in his throat as he realized he couldn't even lift his arm to defend his face.
Eddard didn't slow down. He rode alongside Tarly, his right hand darting out like a strike from a viper. He grabbed the Earl of Horn Hill by the collar of his surcoat and, with a massive heave of his enhanced strength, dragged the paralyzed lord across his own saddle pommel.
Then, leaning low, Eddard reached down and gripped the hilt of Heartbreaker. With a grunt of effort, he yanked the Valyrian steel from the mud.
The blade was cold, so cold it felt like it was burning his glove.
"RETREAT!" Eddard roared, his voice booming over the battlefield.
He didn't stick around to gloat. He had the prize. He had the man.
The Tarly infantry was closing in, a forest of pikes and the hum of longbows beginning to rise from the rear of the column. Arrows began to rain down, clattering off the Karstark plate armor.
Eddard wheeled his horse, Randyll Tarly draped across the front like a sack of grain, and Heartbreaker held high in his right hand. He saw the "Ice Warriors" finishing their own grim work, cutting down the confused Bolton survivors before turning their horses toward the safety of the woods.
[System Notification: High-Value Target Captured: Randyll Tarly.]
[Item Acquired: Valyrian Steel Sword 'Heartbreaker'.]
[Soul Power Gained: 500 SP.]
"MOVE!" Eddard shouted to his men. "Back to the bridge!"
As they plunged back into the forest, Eddard looked down at the paralyzed face of Randyll Tarly. The Earl's eyes were filled with a mix of shock and a hatred so pure it could have set the trees on fire.
Eddard just grinned, despite the pounding headache behind his eyes. He had just stolen the heart of the Reach army, and he had a feeling the "Old Lion" was going to find the news very hard to swallow.