Chapter 17 – Gathering
The host marched , their banners rippling beneath a grey sky. They gathered all the remaining of the armies of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale which were left behind, drawn into a single host of steel and blood.
It had been more than nine moons since Artos Stark heard about the news of his father and brother death.. and Lyanna taken. Ever since, he had drowned his grief onto war. He fought without mercy and Killing had become his respite, his hunger—his only solace for the grief.
The men are calling him a demon now. Enemies spat the word in fear. His own soldiers sang of him in the night, a cruel story of the "Demon of the North" who reap souls by the sword. Artos paid it no mind. The songs meant nothing. Fear, however, meant everything. Fear made men kill quicker, march further, and obey without question. It is a advantage that he would cherish. Some ideas already flourishing in his mind .
"Bert," Artos called, reining in his horse. One of the twins, among his fiercest and most loyal men, rode forward.
"My lord," Bert answered.
"What do you make of it? The songs. The name they give me."
Bert spoke with the bluntness he knew Artos appreciated "The men believe victory certain so long as the Demon of the North leads them. They fight without hesitation, kill without fear. With the greybeards and the mountain clans fighting at frontlines behind you , men burn with more wildness . But it validates the rumours to what the southerners think of us."
Artos snorted. "Let them think whatever they want to . Let them choke on their own tales. Our foes will learn soon enough what it means when their lies become truth. Their fear and rumours will be best use to make them fear us more. It's not they are gonna change thier opinion of us anyways. It's not like we give a fuck."
Bert only shook his head, a ghost of a smile curling his lips. "Aye."
Hal, the other twin, rode up from the rear. "My lord. The men make camp here for the night. Lord Eddard bids you to the war tent tonight. There's to be talk of importance matters."
Artos sighed, running a hand across his face. "Seven hells. I'd thought, with Ned here, I might be spared such meetings."
The twins smirked at their lord's sourness.
Bert began, "If Lord Eddard himself asks it—" He fell silent at the cold flash of Artos's eyes.
"Tell Ned I will come. I'll will come ." Artos will not refuse Ned when this is a time Family need to stick together.
Hal spurred off to relay the words, while Bert lingered, silent at his lord's side as the campfires flared in the dusk.
The War Tent
The tent was thick with smoke and the weight of men's tempers. Jon Arryn stood grave, voice measured.
"Word comes that Rhaegar has returned. He will command the royal host himself."
The words cracked like a whip across the table.
Artos's breath stilled, his jaw clenching, rage rising dark in his eyes as if something old and buried had clawed to the surface again. He said nothing… but the silence around him grew heavier for it.
Eddard Stark's face hardened in quiet fury, his anger colder but no less sharp.
Brynden Tully only folded his arms, calm in the way of an old soldier who had seen too many such councils to waste his spirit on rage. He has enough experience to not mix his emotions with war talks and he has no big emotional baggage in this to falter.
But Robert Baratheon thundered, slamming a fist against the oaken table. "At last the craven comes out to face me! I'll smash him with my hammer and the Seven Kingdoms will see the Fury of a Baratheon. Rhaegar stole what was mine—I'll see him pay for it in blood!"
Artos nearly scoffed, bitter and low. Robert, with all his bluster. He claimed Lyanna for love, yet spoke of her name yet dragging her honor through the mud night after night, even now. That was love? No. It was hunger. Possession.
Artos told himself one truth, again and again: Lyanna was his sister. His blood. She had raised him as one mother would. Her honor, her life, would not be Robert's to sully—not while Artos drew breath. If the dragons fell, if gods were just, he would take her north again… and woe to Baratheon or any man who set hand or eye upon her.
For now, though, there was only war.
"Where will this battle be fought?" Artos asked, his voice low and cold.
Jon Arryn answered, "Most likely at the Trident. We march upon King's Landing; Rhaegar will come north to guard it."
Artos nodded once. "Then the North will be ready to slaughter the dragons."
Jon hesitated, weary eyes falling to him. "Artos… you will not command the main host."
"I care not for commands," Artos replied. "So long as I kill the one who dared steal my sister."
Jon pressed on. "You are to lead the side flank, half the northern host. Your presence there will give us—"
The crack of wood silenced him. Artos's fist had smashed through the war table, splinters scattering to the rushes.
"I will not march to the side whilst some other man takes the head of the dragon. Lyanna was my sister. I will kill him with my own hands."
Robert grinned, too eager by half. "Fear not, wolf. I'll slay him for you—and for her. Rhaegar will feel the weight of my wrath first."
Artos turned, voice like ice. "I don't need you to kill for me. This is my sister he wronged. My sister honor he defiled."
The air grew taut, fire in Artos's gaze. For a heartbeat Robert almost answered, but Eddard spoke instead, voice steady as winter stone.
"Artos. This is no duel, but war. Your place is with your men, on the flank. The army needs you there. The greybeards, the clans, the northerners—they will fight the fiercer with you beside them. This is Father and Brandon we avenge, and Lyanna we seek. Your duty is clear. Do not dishonor them with reckless pride and stubborness."
Artos's knuckles whitened. Again his hand struck the oak, smashing a deeper gouge in the wood before he turned and strode from the tent like a storm breaking loose.
None moved to halt him. None dared.
Only when silence returned did Eddard speak, voice quiet but weary. "I will speak to him. Jon, go on with the plans."
Jon Arryn gave a slow nod, while Robert scowled into the dark, and Brynden Tully only shook his head, the calmest man among them as the weight of war loomed on the Trident's waters.
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