Chapter 16 – War Camp and Soldiers
The war council met in a small command tent. Only five sat within: Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn, Brynden Tully, Eddard Stark, and Artos Stark.
The air reeked of tallow and sweat, heavy with the weight of death yet to come.
Artos spoke first, voice flat and cold:
"The Northern cavalry lost fewer than eight hundred. We still have strength enough."
Brynden Tully followed:
"The Riverlands were little blooded this time. We lost perhaps five hundred."
Eddard's tone was grimmer.
"My main force bore the weight of it. The North lost seven hundred dead, the Vale… fifteen hundred."
Jon Arryn inclined his head at the tally.
"Costly, yes, but the enemy suffered tenfold. The war bleeds them dry faster than us. Still, new levies are being raised in the Crownlands. A great host gathers even now. The Vale has eight thousand men left fit for battle."
Robert leaned forward, sour ale on his breath, his voice a growl:
"So the Targaryens finally dare fight like men, not hide behind their bloody banners. I have three thousand here. My strength in the Stormlands remains cut off, pinned by Randyll Tarly."
Artos gave his measure coldly:
"The North marches with twenty thousand still. Count those with Ned's host."
"The Riverlords field fourteen thousand," said Brynden. "Minus the Freys, who find reasons to delay. I'd not hold my sword waiting on them."
Totals settled. Eddard gave the grim count:
"Forty-five thousand. Strong—but the King's army will be greater still, even before the Lannisters commit."
Robert's eyes burned. His hand tightened on the great hammer at his side.
"Numbers? Hah! Let him bring fifty thousand, let him bring a hundred! I'll split their skulls open just the same."
Jon Arryn's calm voice followed.
"Robert is right in one regard—wars are won not only by numbers, but by momentum. And momentum is ours. We have won every battle save Ashford. And even there, the Reach is tied and bleeding."
Eddard's frown deepened.
"Even victories come at a cost, Jon. Too much blood spills at each turn."
"Perhaps," Brynden agreed, folding his arms. "But blood is war's only coin. If we shrink from the price, we lose."
The tent fell into a grim stillness. War never sounded as gallant in tally as it did in song.
Artos broke that silence, his jaw hard.
"This is the part I cannot stomach. Numbers. Stores. Roads. All this talk. I have no place here."
The tent stirred. Even Robert looked up from his cup.
"My brother commands the North," Artos continued. "Let him see to it. From this day, I leave such matters to Ned. I'll be with the men. Fighting, where I belong."
Ned frowned. "You can stay, Artos. You've won battles before. Your counsel matters."
"My counsel is a sword arm," Artos answered. "What good am I when you need men of patience to count bales of grain and plan marches months ahead? That is not me. I'll serve with the soldiers, and when the fighting starts, I'll lead them. Leave the thinking to you."
For the first time, Ned laughed in the council, the sound startling in the heavy air.
"Aye. That's the brother I remember. The bullhead who never cared for books or maps. Go then. Enjoy the camp. Rest for once."
Artos nodded and rose.
Jon Arryn asked, cautious: "Is it wise to let him leave? His victories might yet shape our plans."
Ned's smile was faint.
"He only sat here out of duty to me. He hates these walls, these talks of stores and rations. He's a soldier, not a chess-player of war. Brandon raised him wild, heart-first. That cannot be unlearned."
Brynden gave a gruff nod. "He's no commander of men from tables or parchments. But out there, in the mud, with a blade in hand—aye, he's well suited. Let him be."
Robert laughed, red-faced and booming.
"By the gods, I like the lad. He's a true warrior. Not one of these ink-fingered lords, but a man of blood and iron."
Jon ignored Robert's grin and turned the maps again. "Let us return to planning, then. He will play his part. Now we must play ours."
In the Soldier's Camp
By the time Artos left the council, nightfires dotted the camp like fallen stars. Men from every land sat together — Northerners sharpening blades beside Vale archers, Riverlords sharing bread with Stormlanders. The air was heavy with smoke, laughter, weeping, and the endless retelling of war-stories.
They spoke of Robert's hammer at Gulltown, of his escape from Tarly's trap.
But one tale eclipsed all others: the Battle of Demons.
The victory of the North against the Reach had grown in the telling. Twice their number, yet still cut down. The cavalry like wraiths, the corpses in heaps, the fields soaked dark. Soldiers swore the Northerners were not men at all, but monsters clothed in steel. And above all stood Artos Stark — the Demon of the North. Some called him the Demonwolf. His name slipped through the campfires of half a dozen kingdoms, and even men who had never seen him swore they dreamed of him riding, bloody and relentless.
Artos walked the camp with three of his sworn companions: Bert and Hal, the grizzled twins of his guard, and Stig with his sister, Yor. When they came to a great circle of Northern soldiers, he stepped forward.
The men rose hastily. One stammered:
"Milord—do you bring us orders?"
"No," Artos said flatly. "Only myself."
The men looked uncertain. "But… you are commander…"
"Not anymore." Artos cut him off with a half-smile. "Ned,my brother commands the North. I am just a soldier, as you are. So give me some space by the fire."
The mood lightened; laughter stirred. They shifted aside eagerly, and Artos sat hard on the ground, pulling Yor into his lap without hesitation. She leaned against him easily, used now to his fierce nearness.
"Well then," Artos said, taking a cup of mead and swallowing. "Tell me what's spoken in the camps. Stories. Slaughter. Who killed more than who."
The men obliged, voices loosening with drink. Stories of spears that took three men in one thrust, of knights split clean by axes. Soon enough, one spoke in awe:
"The truth is, milord, the tale most told… is of you."
Artos nearly choked on his drink. "Me?"
"Aye," the soldier grinned. "Everywhere. Even Stormlanders and Riverlords mutter your name. They call you the Demon of the North. Say you ride with a host of demons. And…" he lowered his voice, "some say they've made a song of it."
Artos snorted, eyes narrowing.
"A song?"
"About you, milord," another answered. "Demonwolf."
The circle grew silent, except for the crackling fire. At last, one man lifted his voice, low and rough, and sang as others hushed to hear — not a courtly melody, but the raw, haunting chant of soldiers carrying both fear and pride:
Demon Of the North
He rides in the dark when the horn calls for war,
The ground shakes with thunder, the dead rise once more.
No mercy, no quarter, no prayers to be told—
The Demon of the North comes to reap your soul.
His blade drinks deep, his spear bites fast,
The howl of his horse is the sound of the past.
From head to heel, blood makes him whole,
The Demon of the North comes to reap your soul.
Where torches burn red and the rivers run black,
He rides with his demons, and none come back.
They say even the gods avert their control—
The Demon of the North comes to reap your soul.
So tremble in darkness, and curse what you fear,
A wolf in the saddle, the end drawing near.
For Legion is with him, and damnation his goal—
The Demon of the North comes to reap your soul.
When the song ended, silence lingered. Faces glowed with firelight, a mixture of awe, dread, and pride. Artos only sat still, stone-eyed, Yor's weight heavy against him.
He drank again, but in his heart there was no laughter. Only the knowledge that he had become a tale. A song. A demon in men's mouths.
Whether he willed it or not, the name would never leave him.
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