Chapter 18 - Psychological Warfare
The rage had taken Artos like wildfire, and he knew better than to let his men see it. He stalked from the war tent into the cold night air, seeking the darkness where he might vent his fury without witness. But Bert and Hal shadowed him still, keeping their distance as wise men do when wolves bare their teeth. They had served him long enough to know the signs—the way his jaw worked, the tremor in his sword hand. This was not a time for words or comfort.
Even so, they worried. They exchanged glances in the gloom, remembering other nights when their lord's wrath had turned inward, eating at him like poison. Relief washed over them when they glimpsed Lord Eddard approaching through the moonlight, his footsteps sure despite the darkness.
Artos sat hunched beneath an old oak, its gnarled branches stretching overhead like skeletal fingers. When Eddard's shadow fell across him, he did not look up.
"Arty." The name came soft, weighted with the affection of shared blood and bitter winters.
"Why do the old gods mock me so, brother?" Artos's voice cracked like a boy's, stripped of the iron that men had learned to fear. "I cannot even defend her honor. Cannot even avenge what was done to Lyanna."
Eddard settled beside him on the cold earth. "You defend her honor with every sword stroke, every battle won. Father and Brandon too. The dead cry out for justice, and we shall give it to them—but cleverly, Arty. We must be wolves, not mad dogs."
A ghost of a smile touched Artos's lips. "You sound more like Father each day. A true Lord of Winterfell."
"Don't start with your japes now," Eddard said, though warmth crept into his tone. "I can still thrash you, lord or no lord."
Artos laughed then, a sound rusty with disuse, and pulled his brother into an embrace that spoke of desperate love and shared grief.
"I'll follow your lead, brother," he murmured. "Pray the old gods you know what you're about."
"Speaking of gods," Eddard stepped back, studying his brother's frame. "They've blessed you well enough. You're tall as Brandon was, maybe taller. War has made a giant of you."
"Aye. The old gods have been... generous." Artos touched the pommel of his sword unconsciously.
Eddard's expression grew solemn as he retract Ice , the Valyrian steel catching starlight like captured winter. "I would have you carry this."
Artos recoiled as if struck. "Brother, no. Ice belongs with the Lord of Winterfell. As It has for thousands of years."
"And what use is it sheathed at my side?" Eddard's laugh was bitter. "I'm no giant. This blade is too long, too heavy for a man of my build. But you..." He held it out, and the steel seemed to hum with anticipation. "Cregan Stark wielded Ice in battle. Made himself a legend with it. Perhaps it's time the South remembered why men fear the wolves of Winterfell."
Artos took the ancient blade with reverence, feeling its perfect balance. "I'll not dishonor it."
"You couldn't if you tried. The Demon of the North needs a blade worthy of his reputation." Eddard's eyes glinted. "And yes, I've heard the songs. Half the army's singing them."
"You mock me."
"Not mock. Wonder." Eddard studied his brother's face in the pale light. "Tell me, what schemes are brewing behind those eyes? You've that look Father got when he was planning something."
Artos hesitated, then spoke slowly. "I've been thinking on... reputation. On fear as a weapon." He met his brother's gaze. "I would have new banners made. A different sigil."
"Not the grey direwolf of Stark?"
"A direwolf still, but..." Artos's voice dropped. "A demon wolf. Black as winter's heart, with eyes cold like winter. Let our enemies see what they face and despair before the battle's even joined."
Eddard was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice carried equal parts admiration and unease. "My brother talks of the minds of men and wars fought before swords are drawn. You've grown wise, Arty. Or perhaps only harder."
"The songs name me demon," Artos said simply. "Why not use what they give me?"
"Do as you will. But remember..." Eddard gripped his shoulder. "I still see the boy who cried when his first horse died. Don't lose him entirely to this war."
Artos smiled, but it was a wolf's smile, all teeth and shadow. "That boy died when Father did. What remains serves the North."
After Eddard left, Artos returned to his tent where Yor waited, naked beneath furs black as her hair. She watched him with the calculating eyes of a wildling, noting his mood.
"You seem less likely to break things now," she observed.
"Yor," he said, settling beside her. "I need banners made. New ones."
She laughed, low and throaty. "OurTradition taught me to fight and fuck, not stitch like some southern lady. Though..." Her hand traced patterns on his chest. "I might know someone who could manage it. For a price."
"And what price would that be?"
Her smile was all predator. "The same price I always demand."
The war council convened at first light, the northern lords arrayed around rough-hewn tables. Steam rose from their breath in the cold air as Eddard laid out the battle plan with practiced authority.
"My lords, we divide our strength by design, not weakness. I'll command the main host while Artos leads the flank. Each force shall serve its purpose."
Lord Glover frowned. "Is it wisdom to split our power? The dragons have numbers enough without us making their task easier."
"We are Starks," Eddard replied, steel in his voice. "For eight thousand years we have held the North. We shall not break now, not when Father's bones cry out for justice."
Artos spoke into the silence that followed. "We'll crush those who took your rightful lord and his heir from you. The dragons will learn why the North remembers."
Jorah Mormont straightened. "House Mormont stands with Stark. Command us, and we obey."
"The Greatjon goes with Artos," Eddard announced. "Along with the Umbers, mountain clans, and Skagosi. The rest ride with me."
Lord Rogar Umber's weathered face split in a grin. "About time I got back to the real fighting. These old bones still have—"
"You'll remain with my brother, my lord," Artos cut him off smoothly. "My brother has need of your wisdom in his counsels."
The old lord's face darkened. "I'm a fighter, not a—"
"You're a lord of the North," Artos said firmly. "And you'll serve where you're needed most. The young ones can handle the dying for now."
The tent erupted in chuckles, even Roose Bolton's pale lips twitching upward. The jest had landed perfectly—respectful enough to save the old lord's pride while making the command clear.
The Greatjon laughed loudest of all. "Don't worry, Father. I'll keep this one from doing anything too stupid."
"Assuming you can keep up with me, Jon," Artos shot back, earning more laughter.
When the mirth died down, Eddard's expression grew grave. "One final matter. Lord Artos will fight beneath his own banner for this campaign."
Every eye turned to Artos. The Greatjon leaned forward eagerly. "What's the sigil?"
"A direwolf."
Confused murmurs rippled through the gathered lords.
Artos let the moment stretch before continuing. "A demonic Direwolf . Black as the void."
The silence that followed was profound. Then the Greatjon began to laugh—not the hearty chuckle from before, but something wilder, hungrier. The sound spread to the mountain clan chiefs, to Stig of the Skagosi, to old Rogar himself.
"Finally!" the Greatjon roared. "Finally embracing what you are, wolf!"
"The sight of it alone will have half their army pissing themselves," Stig observed with dark satisfaction.
"Aye," rumbled one of the mountain chiefs. "The Demon of the North rides to war at last"
Even Roose Bolton nodded approvingly. "Psychological warfare. Clever. Fear can break men before they ever draw steel."
Artos looked around the circle of grinning, savage faces and felt something settle in his chest. These were his wolves, his pack. And together they would paint the South red with dragon blood.
"Then it's settled," Eddard said quietly. "May the old gods preserve us all."
But as Artos met his brother's eyes, he wondered if the gods had already chosen their favorites in the game to come.
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