Chapter 5 – Skagos
Artos had reached the northern shores where ships waited to ferry him to Skagos.
He now commanded nearly 3,500 warriors, all ready to fight and die for House Stark. With him stood Mors Umber, sent by Lord Rogar Umber to accompany the campaign. Mors had brought two to three hundred men of his own.
The ships that awaited them were no great longships or sleek galleys—just sturdy boats, seaworthy enough to carry them across the strait to the Isle of Skagos.
Artos and 2,500 of his warriors boarded the boats and began the short but grim journey. The remaining men stayed behind on the shore, forming a reserve force and guarding their rear, as there wasn't space enough for all aboard.
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As they disembarked on the rugged, rocky coast of Skagos, the air turned colder, heavier. The land was eerie, quiet, and wild. Few ever came to Skagos—and fewer returned.
Artos and his men pressed forward into the island's interior. Before long, a group of armed warriors approached them, weapons drawn and expressions grim.
"Who are you, and why have you set foot on this isle?" the leader demanded, voice sharp and full of warning. His men looked ready to attack, the only thing holding them back was Artos's numbers.
"I am Artos Stark. I come to speak with the clan chieftain of the Skagosi," he replied calmly but firmly.
"A Stark?" the man scoffed. "Leave now, or we'll sacrifice you to the Old Gods ourselves."
The speaker was young, brash, and proud, his tone defiant and threatening.
But Artos, too, was young—and proud, his temper rising. He stepped forward and said coldly, "I will speak to your chieftain—one way or another." With that, he drew his sword, and his men followed suit.
The Skagosi warriors responded in kind, and the tension crackled like lightning in the cold air.
Just as both sides seemed ready to clash, another party arrived—a middle-aged man at their head.
"Enough of this foolishness!" he barked.
The younger man turned, surprised. "Uncle, what's going on?"
"The old man has agreed to meet him," the newcomer said gruffly.
Artos raised an eyebrow. "So, will I meet your chief or not?"
"Aye," the man nodded. "He summons you. Come, follow."
Without sheathing his sword, Artos gestured to his men and followed.
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They were led through dense forests and narrow mountain paths, until they reached a clearing where Skagosi warriors stood in a semi-circle. At the center, sitting on a wooden throne-like chair behind a crude stone table, was an old man, gray-bearded and weathered. His presence radiated the weight of years and authority.
Artos stepped forward. "So, you're the Chief of Skagos? I am Artos of House Stark."
"I am Varr of the Magnars, Chieftain of Skagos," the old man replied. "And you, young wolf... what business brings a Stark pup to our isle? It's been decades since we last saw your kind."
Artos met his gaze without flinching. "I have called the banners of war. I come to ask for your men—for your swords—for the battles to come."
The old man threw back his head and laughed, echoed by his men.
"Go back, young wolf," Varr said. "Not even your father nor grandfather dared ask such a thing. We don't fight your wars."
Artos's patience snapped. He stepped forward, drew his axe, and slammed it deep into the old table, the sound echoing through the clearing.
"You call yourselves First Men, yet ignore the oaths sworn beneath the Heart Tree!" Artos roared.
"The Old Gods would be ashamed of you—ashamed that their sworn sons turn their backs on sacred vows!"
A murmur of anger spread through the Skagosi. Invoking the Old Gods—and accusing oath-breaking—was no light matter among the First Men.
"Mind your tongue, pup!" Varr snapped. "Before I carve you up and send the pieces back to your father!"
"Did I lie?" Artos shouted back. "Try it then! I have 2,500 men here, warriors who have pledged to die for me. We keep our oaths, even when it costs us blood. That is the pride of the First Men. Can you say the same?"
A thunderous banging of weapons on shields came from behind Artos. His warriors stood tall, backing their commander.
Varr's expression shifted—not just rage, but something else—respect.
"You've got a fang, young wolf," the old chieftain said. "And you speak of the First Men like a true son of the old blood. We have not attacked your lands—that is how we've honored the oaths. We keep to ourselves. We have more First Men blood in us than any in the South."
Artos narrowed his eyes. "And yet it was your ancestors who swore loyalty to the Starks, and we who let your line remain in power—even after your rebellion. You speak of not raiding our lands like it's a favor. We are the Pride of the First Men! While your people hid on this isle, we bled to halt the Andals and their gods."
The clearing fell silent.
Then the old man gave a low chuckle. "Artos... a strong name. Named after Artos the Implacable, I'd wager. It suits you. You've got the wolf's blood in you, no doubt."
He stood slowly. "You speak of the old ways. Let us then settle this in the Old Tradition—a fight in a shield circle. My grandson, Durn, will face you. He's not my heir, but one of our strongest warriors. If he wins, we continue our customs—no men for your war, only gifts and tribute. But if you win, we'll renew our oaths beneath the Heart Tree and ride under the Stark banner once again."
Artos didn't hesitate. "Old way it is."
Mors Umber and the Greatjon grunted their disapproval but said nothing. Their trust in Artos ran deep.
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A shield circle was formed, and both champions stripped down to their smallclothes.
The weapon: the axe—fitting for warriors of the old blood.
"I am Artos, Champion of House Stark."
"I am Durn, Champion of the Magnars of Skagos."
They circled.
The fight began, ferocious and fast. Durn was broader and older, but Artos matched him in height and surpassed him in speed and precision. His axe moved like a blur, dodging powerful swings with fluid grace.
Artos studied Durn's movements—then he saw an opening.
He struck.
A flash of steel, and Durn's head fell, blood spraying across the snow-covered earth.
Silence.
Artos approached the body, dipped his fingers in the blood, and smeared it across his chest.
Then he turned toward the Weirwood tree and spoke in the old tongue:
> "Ik Artos Starka, wulfkynnar sunu, sloh þīnan healdaz in dōm dēra Aldgudōn. Nu stigh fram, knēwa, und swera trūwa afresh."
"I, Artos Stark, son of wolf-blood, struck down your champion in the judgment of the Old Gods. Now step forth, kneel, and swear your oath anew."
He let Durn's blood fall upon the roots of the Weirwood, sealing the ritual.
Varr, the old chieftain, stepped forward slowly. Then, in front of all gathered:
He knelt.
And swore his oaths anew to House Stark—under the eyes of the Old Gods, in the old way.
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