Chapter 32: Stark Diplomacy
The Northern host stretched across the fields like a great grey serpent, their banners snapping in the autumn wind as they made camp within sight of Storm's End's massive walls. The ancient seat of House Baratheon squatted on its rocky promontory like some great stone beast, its towers black against the darkening sky.
Artos Stark rode at the column's head, but every man in the army could feel the fury radiating from him like heat from a forge. His jaw was set in stone, his knuckles white where they gripped his reins, and his dark eyes burned with a rage that made even hardened Northern warriors give him a wide berth.
Nobody wanted to be near their commander right now. The decision to send Lord Eddard to Dorne had left Artos in a black mood that promised trouble for anyone fool enough to cross him. Even the camp followers and servants sensed the danger, scurrying about their tasks with nervous glances toward the man they called the Demon Wolf.It was a dangerous situation. An army needed calm leadership, steady hands to guide them through the complexities of politics and negotiation. What they had instead was a commander so consumed with rage he could barely think straight, much less make the careful decisions required for delicate diplomacy.
Lord Rogar Umber and Lord Jeor Mormont exchanged meaningful looks as they watched Artos dismount near the command pavilion. Both men had known the youngest Stark since he was a boy, had watched him grow from a headstrong child into a formidable warrior and leader. They also knew his moods better than most, and right now those moods were dangerous.
"Someone needs to talk to him," Rogar muttered, his massive frame casting a long shadow in the afternoon light.
"Aye," Jeor agreed, stroking his grey beard. "Before he does something we'll all regret."
They approached the command tent where Artos was pacing like a caged wolf, his boots wearing a path in the grass.
"Artos," Lord Rogar said carefully, "I think you need to calm yourself a bit."
"Aye," Jeor added. "You're too angry to make sound decisions right now, lad."
The words hit Artos like a slap across the face. His head snapped up, and both older lords could see the hurt beneath the fury in his eyes.
"Of course," he said, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. "Even you think I'm incapable of anything worthwhile. Leading, diplomacy—no, I'm just some mad dog who's good for fighting and nothing else."
The pain in his voice was unmistakable, and Lord Rogar's expression softened. "It's not like that, Artos, and you know it. Your brother respects you, as do all the Northern lords. Nobody thinks you're incompetent."
"Aye," Jeor nodded. "Lord Stark knows your worth. He just thinks you're better suited for... direct action than courtly diplomacy. Otherwise, why would he trust you to command this entire host?"
Lord Rogar leaned forward. "Politics and diplomacy aren't your strengths, lad, and there's no shame in that. We all have our gifts."
Artos fixed the Lord of Last Hearth with a stare that could have frozen blood, but Rogar didn't flinch. He'd faced down wildlings and wolves, and one angry young Stark wasn't going to make him back down."Diplomacy," Artos repeated slowly, his voice growing quieter and somehow more dangerous. "Diplomacy..."
He straightened to his full height, every inch the commander now. "Very well. You want to see diplomacy? I'll show you Stark diplomacy." His eyes gleamed with something that might have been amusement or might have been madness. "Make camp here tonight. Bring that fat cunt Lord Tyrell to me, along with all the Northern lords."
Lord Rogar felt a chill run down his spine. "My lord," he said more formally, recognizing the shift in Artos's demeanor, "he's an important prisoner. He needs to remain alive for the negotiations."
"These are my orders as commander of this army," Artos replied coldly. "See that they're carried out.
"Both lords exchanged worried glances but nodded. They knew better than to argue with a Stark when his mind was made up, especially one as unpredictable as Artos.Evening came with a crisp wind that set the banners snapping and the campfires dancing. The Northern lords gathered in the command pavilion at Artos's summons, their faces grave with uncertainty. Word had spread quickly through the camp about their commander's black mood, and everyone was waiting to see what storm was about to break.
Artos sat in a high-backed chair, looking for all the world like a young king holding court. His dark clothes seemed to swallow the firelight, and his face was a mask of cold calculation.
Lord Mace Tyrell entered the tent flanked by two Northern guards, what remained of his dignity wrapped around him like a threadbare cloak. The war was over, Robert was king, and Mace had bent the knee along with the rest of the realm. Technically, he was no longer a prisoner, but under Artos's watchful eye, the distinction seemed academic.
"Lord Mace," Artos said with mock courtesy, his voice carrying just enough warmth to make the underlying coldness more unsettling. "I trust you're finding our hospitality adequate?"
"Better than being a prisoner in truth, my lord," Mace replied carefully, though his small eyes darted nervously around the tent.
"Indeed." Artos leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled before him. "As you know, the war is over and Robert Baratheon sits the Iron Throne. You've sworn your oaths, bent your knee, declared your loyalty to the new king."
"I have, my lord. House Tyrell serves the crown faithfully."
"Faithfully." Artos tasted the word like wine that might be poisoned. "An interesting choice of words from a man who fought against that same crown until the very end." His voice grew harder. "Tell me, Lord Mace, what should be done with our enemies ?"
The tent grew very quiet. Every Northern lord present could feel the tension crackling like lightning before a storm.
Mace swallowed hard. "My lord, I... the war is over. King Robert has accepted my submission—"
"Has he?" Artos interrupted. "Or has he simply not yet decided what to do with traitors who cost him thousands of good men?" He leaned forward slightly. "Do you know what the old traditions say, my lord? What happened to houses in the north that stood against the House Stark?"
"My lord, please—"
"Death," Artos said simply. "Death for the lord, dispossession for his house, his lands granted to more loyal men. It's an old tradition, but a useful one." He let the words hang in the air for a moment. "What do you think, my lords? Should we follow the old ways?"
Several Northern lords shifted uncomfortably, but none spoke. This was Artos's show, and they were waiting to see where it led.
Mace's face had gone pale as milk. "My lord, This isn't right. This isn't your decision to make ,I sweared a fealty to the New King —"
"Who isn't here."
"However," Artos continued as if he hadn't spoken, "there is another tradition among the Starks. An older one, perhaps wiser. When we Starks defeat our enemies, we don't always destroy them. Sometimes we bind them to us with stronger chains than iron."
He stood slowly, moving to a small table where wine had been set out. "Marriage, Lord Mace.We Starks has a old Tradition of marrying the daughters and sisters of our defeated enemies." He poured himself a cup of wine, taking a slow sip. "You have a daughter, don't you? Margaery, I believe?"
"I... yes, my lord. She's but a child—"
"She is to be betrothed with the Northern Heir ." Artos returned to his chair, wine cup in hand. "My brother Lord Eddard has a new heir from Lady Catelyn Tully. You will marry your daughter to my nephew when they are of the age."
Understanding dawned in Mace's small eyes. "You're suggesting—"
"I'm suggesting that your daughter might one day be Lady of Winterfell, mother to the next generation of Starks. A considerable honor for a house that spent most of the war being a prisoner."
Lord Mace Tyrell had other thoughts in his mind. His daughter A lady of reach Marrying a Savage Northman but he couldn't refuse right now. Especially after seeing Artos in action and rage. He knew his family are in a bad position and he isn't any condition to refuse.
Artos's smile was sharp as a blade. "Of course, such arrangements require... considerations. Goodwill gestures, you might say."
"What sort of gestures, my lord?"
"The realm has been devastated by war. Winter is Harsh and Winter is coming whether we're ready or not. The Reach, however, remains prosperous. Its granaries are full, its fields untouched by battle." Artos took another sip of wine. "It would be... neighborly... if House Tyrell were to sell grain to the North at, shall we say, favorable prices. A gesture of loyalty and goodwill to thier New allies and family."
Mace's face showed his calculations—the cost of feeding the Starks at reduced prices weighed against the benefits of a Stark marriage alliance. "How favorable, my lord?"
"Half the market price for the first year, rising to three-quarters thereafter. A small sacrifice to ensure your daughter's future and your house's continued prosperity."
"And if I agree to these... considerations?"
"Then you'll have the friendship of House Stark, a potential marriage alliance that would make your daughter one of the most powerful women in the realm, and the continued prosperity of your house." Artos's voice grew colder. "If you refuse... well, as I said, the old traditions for dealing with enemies are quite clear."
The threat hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Around the tent, Northern lords watched with interest as their young commander practiced his own brand of diplomacy—one that involved honey and iron in equal measure.
Mace Tyrell was no fool, whatever his other failings. He could see the trap closing around him, could feel the weight of all those Northern eyes watching his every move. In the end, there was really only one choice he could make."House Tyrell accepts these terms," he said quietly. "We will provide grain at the agreed prices, and... and I would be honored to discuss a potential betrothal between my daughter and any future heir of House Stark."
Artos smiled, and for the first time since leaving King's Landing, it was a genuine expression. "Excellent. Lord Rogar, please see that the agreement is put to parchment. We'll want everything properly docmented."
As the lords began to disperse and Mace was escorted back to his quarters, Jeor Mormont lingered near Artos's chair.
"That was well done," the old lord said quietly. " But would Your brother agree and his lady. Doing A marriage agreement without both of thier permission ."
Artos asked, his smile fading slightly. "Its an old Stark tradition and it's a good deal for the North. We Wouldn't be hecled for prices for grains and wheat for the next decades. I am doing things his way. 'Diplomatic Way' "
Lord Jeor nodded
Artos feeling some of the rage finally beginning to drain from his shoulders. Perhaps he wasn't cut out for the subtle games of the south, but this was diplomacy of a sort—Northern diplomacy, backed by strength and tempered with just enough mercy to make it palatable.
It might not be what Ned would have done, but it had worked. The Reach would feed the realm, a marriage alliance was in prospect, and House Tyrell remained both useful and grateful.
Sometimes, Artos reflected, the direct approach was the best diplomacy of all.
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