Chapter 28: Gratefulness and Lion's Fury
The morning sun cast long shadows through the Red Keep's corridors as Artos Stark made his way toward the city gates. His conversation with Ned the night before had lifted some of the weight from his shoulders, though the taste of that wildling goat's milk still burned in his throat. Today he would see for himself how the Northern lords were faring in their task of keeping King's Landing from tearing itself apart.
Bert fell into step beside him as they passed through the castle's main courtyard, the grizzled man-at-arms scanning the ramparts with the practiced eye of someone who had spent years watching for trouble.
"Quiet morning, my lord," Bert observed, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt.
"Aye," Artos replied. "Let's see if it stays that way."
The city streets told a different story than Artos had expected. Order had been restored faster than he'd dared hope, and the smallfolk moved about their business with something approaching normalcy. Market stalls were opening, children played in the side streets, and the smell of fresh bread was beginning to overpower the lingering stench of smoke and blood.
The key, Artos realized, was food. With the Lannisters now firmly in the rebel camp, their supply lines had opened up, bringing grain and salted meat into the city for the first time in months. Hungry people were desperate people, and desperate people did desperate things. Feed them, and half the battle for order was already won.
Still, Artos knew the real solution lay with the Reach. The Tyrells controlled the realm's breadbasket, and until they bent the knee, King's Landing would remain vulnerable to famine. His thoughts turned to Mace Tyrell, currently enjoying the hospitality of a rebel cell. The man was a fool, but he was a useful fool—his capture would force the Reach to negotiate, especially with his mother Lady Olenna pulling the strings from Highgarden.
The Queen of Thorns, Father had called her once, when he'd told Brandon stories of the great houses and their schemes. A dangerous woman who ruled through wit and cunning while her son played at being lord. She would bend the knee now that the dragons were dead, but she'd extract every concession she could in the process.
The sound of familiar voices drew Artos from his brooding. He'd reached the main market square, where several Northern lords were overseeing the day's patrols.
"Lord Artos," called Lord Crewyn, approaching with Lady Maege Mormont at his side. Both looked well-rested despite their duties, though Maege wore the expression of someone deeply bored with peacekeeping.
Artos nodded to them both. "Lord Crewyn, Maege. I see the duty of maintaining order has fallen to you."
"Aye, your brother divided the work among all the Northern lords," Crewyn replied. "We take shifts, keep the peace, make sure no one gets ideas about settling old scores."
Maege snorted. "Boring work, if you ask me. After the lions ran with their tails between their legs, there's been precious little to do but stand around looking stern."
Artos couldn't help but smile at her bluntness. "I know how tedious it must be, but it's important work. Otherwise the hyenas in lion's clothing might come back to try their false roars again."
Both lords laughed at that, and Artos felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease. The North was holding together, doing its duty as it always had.
In the narrow alleys and crowded tenements of King's Landing, the smallfolk went about their daily lives with a mixture of relief and wariness. The sacking was over, the raping had stopped, and for the first time in months, there was bread to be bought at reasonable prices.
The Northmen were a strange sight in the southern city—tall, grim-faced men with thier rugged beards and stern look in their eyes. They moved through the streets like wolves among sheep, and the common people had heard the stories. Demons, some called them.
But these demons protected women from rape and children from slaughter. They hanged looters from the city walls and left their bodies as warnings, but they paid fair prices for bread and ale. They looked frightening with their savage grins and bloodstained mail, but they obeyed their commanders and kept their swords sheathed around the innocent.
Word spread through the taverns and markets that this discipline came from the youngest Stark brother—Artos, the one they called the Demon Wolf, Commander of the Northern host. He and his brother Lord Stark were the one who'd given the orders to protect the smallfolk, who'd killed Lannister soldiers to stop the sacking, who'd faced down Tywin Lannister himself in the city square.
Without the Northmen knowing it, they were becoming heroes in King's Landing. Not the kind sung about in courtly ballads, but the kind that mattered more—the sort who stood between the weak and those who would prey upon them.
In his chambers within the Red Keep, Tywin Lannister sat before a massive oak table covered in reports and correspondence. His green eyes moved across the parchments with mechanical precision, but his mind burned with a cold fury that no amount of wine could quench.
The Starks had humiliated him. Him. They'd killed his men in the streets like common criminals, challenged his authority in front of witnesses, and threatened his son on the Iron Throne itself. The insult burned like acid in his chest, eating away at the careful control he'd maintained for decades.
But he was not a fool. The Starks commanded the largest force in Robert's coalition, and their reputation for honor made them valuable allies in the new order. He could not move against them openly, not yet. First, he needed to secure his family's position in the new regime.
Cersei would marry Robert—that much should be arranged. Once Lannister blood sat on the Iron Throne, once his daughter was queen and his grandchildren were heirs, then he would have the power to make the Starks pay for their insolence. Wolves might be fierce, but they bled like any other beast when the time came to settle accounts.
I'll remember this, he thought, folding a letter from his steward at Casterly Rock. Every slight, every insult, every drop of Lannister blood spilled in these streets. And when the time comes, I'll collect the debt with interest.
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Jon Arryn stood on a balcony overlooking the army encamped in the fields outside, watching the morning sun glint off thousands of spear points and helm peaks. He was tired—tired in his bones, tired in his soul, tired in ways that sleep could never remedy. War aged a man faster than winter, and this war had aged him a decade in the span of two years.
But it was over now. The dragons were dead, the city was taken, and soon Robert would sit the Iron Throne as king by right of conquest. Five of the seven kingdoms had declared for them, and the remaining two would follow once they saw which way the wind was blowing.
A raven had arrived that morning with news from the capital—Aerys was dead, killed by his own Kingsguard, and the Starks had the city well in hand. It was time to march, time to see Robert crowned and sworn, time to begin the long work of rebuilding a realm torn apart by civil war.
Robert had recovered from his wounds at the Trident, though Jon could see the shadow of pain that still crossed his face when he moved too quickly. The new king would need guidance in the years to come, would need steady hands to help him navigate the treacherous waters of courtly politics. Jon had served one king faithfully; now it was time to serve another.
The realm must have peace, he thought, watching the banners snap in the morning breeze. Whatever the cost, whatever compromises must be made, the realm must have peace.
He turned from the balcony and walked back toward his pavilion, where a hundred details awaited his attention. There would be time for rest when Robert wore the crown, when the lords had sworn their oaths, when the last embers of Targaryen resistance had been stamped out.
Until then, there was work to be done.
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