"What happened?"
Ethan strode over, brow furrowed at the chaotic scene.
Basque—who had been laughing and joking with him moments earlier—now lay sprawled on the floor in a spreading pool of blood.
Eddie knelt beside him frantically pressing both hands over the wounds on Basque's chest and abdomen, voice tight with panic:
"Captain—can he be saved?"
Ethan quickly tore open Basque's tunic to inspect the damage.
Two deep knife wounds pierced the abdomen clearly into the intestines; another thrust lay dangerously close to the heart.
Critical.
At that moment a lean wiry man with dry curly yellow hair was pinned face-down on the floor.
A blood-smeared dagger lay inches from his hand.
Even restrained like an animal he kept shouting:
"Let me go you bastards!
How dare you treat me like this?
Lord Roose Bolton won't let you get away with it!"
A short stocky man hearing the name kicked the blond man hard in the ribs and snarled back:
"Whether Lord Bolton lets me live or not I don't know—but you just stabbed Basque to death.
Lord Manderly certainly won't let *you* walk away."
In this emergency Ethan had no time to untangle who was right or wrong.
He turned and barked at the nearest men:
"Strong spirits—now!"
The Manderly warriors reacted instantly.
Someone thrust a large cup of raw aqua vitae into Ethan's hand.
Without hesitation Ethan poured the liquor directly over Basque's wounds trying to flush away the worst of the blood and filth.
Fresh crimson still welled up immediately showing how grave the injuries truly were.
Ethan clamped both palms hard over the chest wound nearest the heart and prayed in a deep urgent voice:
"O Sun—Your glorious light reaches every corner of the earth like a beacon of hope guiding us through darkness.
Your warmth spreads across the land driving away cold and kindling life.
All things flourish beneath Your rays blooming with unmatched splendor.
You are the source of light—Your presence fills the world with vitality.
Your power inspires us to press forward fearless of hardship or death!
Awaken warrior Basque!"
As Ethan prayed a faint golden radiance flickered in his palms.
The searing pain that followed made Basque—who had already gone glassy-eyed—convulse violently like a fish flung onto a butcher's block.
Seeing the reaction Ethan grew even more anxious.
He snapped at Eddie:
"My power alone cannot fully summon the Sun God's grace!
Quick—call your friends!
Have them pray with me!"
"O Sun—Your glorious light…"
Ethan began the prayer again—this time his voice firmer stronger.
The Manderly men hesitated at first hearing an unfamiliar god's name.
But when they looked down at Basque—their comrade bleeding out—their doubts vanished.
If a stranger was willing to pray so fervently how could they stand idle?
With Eddie and Lennar leading the Manderly warriors joined in.
Their voices merged into a powerful chorus.
The solemn resonant prayer soon touched the other soldiers who had been standing by watching.
Moved by the atmosphere they too began to recite—first a few then dozens—until the entire tavern echoed with the unified chant.
After the prayer had rolled through three solemn repetitions Ethan gathered every shred of strength left in him and roared:
"Awaken Basque!
Rise in the radiance of the guardian Sun!"
This time he unleashed a full Holy Light spell.
Dazzling radiance brighter than noon flooded the room blinding everyone present.
When the glare faded and vision returned Basque lay gasping on the floor writhing in pain—but alive.
Ethan staggered upright exhausted yet still managed to order:
"Eddie—find clothes for Basque right now.
I just snatched him back from Death's jaws—I won't let him die of a chill."
"Understood Captain!"
Eddie nodded and hurried off.
Then Ethan added loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear:
"Basque is your friend but he is not a member of the Silver Hand.
By our rules non-members pay ten gold dragons for emergency healing.
When you return make sure the quartermaster receives the fee."
Eddie froze for a second—there had never been such a rule before and wasn't *he* the quartermaster?—but he quickly understood Ethan's intent.
He answered solemnly:
"I understand Captain.
I'll deliver the coin to the quartermaster when we return—and everything will be done by the book."
Ethan nodded satisfied pushed gently through the stunned Manderly men who still blocked his path and—supported by Lennar—slowly walked out of the tavern.
Once they reached a quiet alley Ethan straightened up and dropped the exhausted act.
Lennar—who had seen through the performance from the beginning—was not surprised.
Instead he frowned slightly and asked:
"Ten gold dragons—isn't that a bit steep?
That's serious money.
Most people can't afford it."
Ethan shook his head.
"If it were only saving a life one gold dragon would suffice.
But full recovery?
Ten is the minimum.
For those who truly cannot pay it can be free—but they must offer something I consider fair exchange.
Healing is never without cost.
Eddie's sudden action today caught me off guard.
But I've long expected a moment like this—so I'm using it to set a clear price and avoid endless arguments later."
Lennar nodded.
"Good thinking.
People rarely value what comes too cheaply."
The two left Eddie—who was still stuck dealing with the aftermath in the Tobacco Tavern—and returned to camp together.
Not long after they arrived a rider bearing Robb Stark's password galloped into the encampment.
He found Ethan—who was rolling up his sleeves personally forging spearheads for the lower ranks—and delivered the message with respect:
"Captain Ethan—Lord Robb invites you to a banquet in the Great Keep tomorrow."
Ethan immediately set down his hammer took a silver stag from his purse and pressed it into the man's palm.
"Am I invited alone?
Who else will be there?"
After accepting the coin the messenger explained:
"Lord Robb has summoned the commanders of House Stark's direct forces—mainly the garrison officers who hold the various holds and a small number of trusted mercenary leaders.
You'd best bring a squire.
I hear Lord Robb has ordered the kitchens to prepare a great deal of wine."
Ethan considered his available men.
Marvin the messenger was a free man—not suitable to bring into a hall filled with northern nobility.
Jon Snow's face practically shouted "I am a Stark"—also unsuitable among garrison officers who might feel awkward.
In the end Ethan decided Kevin would accompany him.
The next afternoon Ethan and Kevin changed into their best clothes belted on swords mounted up and rode toward Winterfell.
Passing through the Hunter's Gate they were guided by servants into the bustling Great Hall.
Inside voices rose and fell—some rough some high—men crowded around tables groaning with food raising cups and shouting.
The atmosphere was so boisterous it seemed the vaulted ceiling might lift.
A servant led them to a table near the back where several hard-looking men already sat: a bald old man with a snow-white beard a young man with wild red hair and a tall thin middle-aged man whose gaze was cold and sharp.
Ethan nodded politely found an empty place on the left and sat.
After a short wait Robb descended the steps of the dais flanked by two servants and took the high seat.
Bran was carried to a chair on his right by another servant.
Robb rose surveyed the hall with quiet authority.
Behind him lay a massive grey direwolf.
Gradually the clamor subsided.
"Loyal Stark garrison commanders!"
Robb raised his goblet crimson wine swirling inside.
"Eleven days ago a black raven brought shattering news from King's Landing—my father your lord the rightful Warden of the North has been imprisoned on false charges of treason by that witless boy who squats the Iron Throne!
Joffrey Baratheon has ignored the ancient friendship between our houses and my father's lifelong service to the realm.
He forced a false confession and holds my sisters Sansa and Arya captive!
This is naked betrayal—a mortal insult to the honor of the North!
We cannot—will not—tolerate such injustice anywhere in Westeros!
You my lords are the truest strongest swords of House Stark.
Are you willing to raise the banner of vengeance with me and demand justice from the false king on the Iron Throne?"
The hall exploded.
Officers surged to their feet raising cups roaring:
"Yes!"
"An eye for an eye!"
"The North remembers!"
"Another wolf's night—let the Lannisters and Baratheons learn we northerners are not to be trifled with!"
The northerners burned with the need for vengeance—their direwolves howling for blood.
These fifty-odd officers and the troops they had brought formed the true core of House Stark's power—the iron foundation of northern supremacy.
As the saying went: "A man dies for his lord's honor."
When the Warden of the North suffered the same fate his father had sixteen years earlier all they could do was what they had done then—take up arms march on King's Landing and cast down the tyrant.
In the fevered atmosphere Robb officially declared the feast begun.
The garrison commanders were veterans who had campaigned together under the Stark banner for years.
They knew one another well.
This rare gathering under the wolf banner—to fight together once more—set old scores aside.
The men drank and reveled.
This was Ethan's first banquet inside the Great Hall of Winterfell hosted by the acting lord himself.
As a mercenary captain personally summoned by Robb he felt somewhat out of place among the garrison officers.
Kevin sat at a separate table in the outer hall with the other captains' squires and escorts—so Ethan was left drinking alone in a corner nursing Greentree Island red and nibbling roasted pork leg.
After a while of solitary drinking a familiar voice cut through the din:
"Captain Ethan—you're here too?"
Ethan looked up—Nikolas Jenkins from Wisteria Village.
"Mr. Nikolas—you as well?" Ethan asked.
Nikolas holding a brimming cup sat beside him.
"Yes.
You know my father-in-law's health—he can't ride to war—so he sent me in his place."
Then curiously:
"What are *you* doing here?
Did Lord Robb name you a garrison commander?"
Ethan shook his head.
"No—not at all.
I came to Winterfell on business some time ago.
Lord Robb asked whether I was willing to join the war—and I said yes."
Nikolas asked:
"How many men do you have now?"
"About forty.
Why?"
Nikolas explained:
"The garrison commanders here hold different places—some villages have two or three some only one some guard busier market towns.
So the forces they brought vary—some over a hundred some twenty or thirty.
Forty-odd men puts you on par with a mid-tier garrison commander."
Ethan understood.
Though mercenaries the Silver Hand had been formally accepted as Robb's direct troops—and thus received treatment equal to the household officers.
Jon Snow's influence had surely played a large part.
"Why are you drinking alone over here?
Come—I'll introduce you to your future comrades!"
Nikolas pulled Ethan enthusiastically toward his own table.
"Officers—this is the brave captain I told you about—Ethan Cole commander of the Silver Hand!
He led a dozen men and wiped out more than sixty wildlings!"
The moment Nikolas finished one officer slapped his forehead in recognition:
"So you're the one who slew an ice spider in Rabbitclaw Village!
Haha—the North welcomes you!"
Another added:
"I've heard of you!
You fought the Kingslayer to a standstill right in front of the king!"
At last Ethan's carefully built reputation was bearing fruit in this hall.
Nikolas had only spoken his name—yet several officers recited his deeds from memory—leaving Ethan quietly flattered.
At that moment a short stout garrison officer approached with a brimming cup grinning:
"What good martial skill lacks good drinking capacity?
Come Captain Ethan—down this cup and show us your mettle!"
Ethan had disliked drinking since childhood—he hated the taste and the loss of control that followed.
Yet in this moment he hesitated only briefly before taking the cup raising it high and shouting:
"Long live House Stark!
Long live the North!"
He drained the cup in one long swallow.
The garrison officers roared approval:
"Good!"
"Strong stomach!"
"A true man!"
At that moment Robb—who had already descended from the dais and moved among the crowd—raised his own small goblet in answer:
"House Stark will forever remember your loyalty!"
"Long live!"
"Long live the North!"
"Long live the sons of the First Men!"
In an instant the hall reached fever pitch.
Fueled by the charged atmosphere the men's drinking grew wilder.
No longer focused solely on Ethan they seized the chance to settle old scores with rivals—turning the feast into glorious chaos.
The moment Ethan set his empty cup down the servant responsible for pouring refilled it to the brim without pause.
Under the wine's influence Ethan grew animated.
One hand clutching a pork leg the other a cup he roamed the hall challenging every officer he passed or met to drinking contests.
When his bladder threatened to burst he joined the others in a corner "watering" the flagstones before returning to the fray.
When servants finally cleared the tables only young Bran—who had not drunk—and Ethan—who had outlasted everyone else—remained upright.
Everyone else regardless of rank or age lay sprawled unconscious across benches and floor.
Even Robb—who had drunk only from a small goblet—now slumped over a table eyes glassy.
Seeing the feast concluded a pleasantly drunk Ethan bid farewell to the unconscious Robb.
Supported by servants' astonished yet admiring stares he walked out of the hall reeking of wine vomit and corner piss.
He found Kevin—who had been dealing with leftover chops in the outer hall—and with Kevin's help rode back through the cold night wind.
Two days later at first light every garrison commander had recovered from his hangover and mustered his troops in the open ground outside the Hunter's Gate.
Mercenaries intending to join the campaign had also gathered ready to attach themselves to whichever force they preferred.
Fifty-eight banners stood in loose groups each representing its village or hold.
Rabbit Paw Village flew a bleeding rabbit paw; Wisteria Village showed a hanged fox.
When Ethan led his forty-odd men into that sea of steel and color it felt like a single drop merging into a vast river.
"Gods—I've never seen so many men in one place" Vitaly breathed staring at the densely packed troops.
"Who has?" Ethan murmured gazing at the thousands of armed men—scattered yet unmistakably warlike—and sighed inwardly.
He wondered how many would fall on southern battlefields in the coming war—and how many would return in glory.
Finally when the sun stood high the young lord's guards delivered the command:
"March!"
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