Chapter 33: Younger Brothers of Rebels
The morning mist clung to the fields outside Storm's End like the ghosts of dead men, and Artos could taste salt on the wind as he rode toward the agreed meeting place. Behind him, the Northern host stretched across the rolling hills of the Stormlands, their banners hanging limp in the still air. The great castle itself squatted on its rocky promontory like some ancient beast of stone, its massive walls black against the grey sky.
The siege lines that had surrounded Storm's End for months were already being dismantled. Tents were coming down, supply wagons were being loaded, and the Reach army was preparing to march home to their green fields and golden roses. The war was over, but the cleanup would take weeks.
Lord Randyll Tarly waited in the neutral ground between the armies, a small party of knights at his back. Even at a distance, Artos could see the man's rigid posture, the way he sat his destrier like he'd been carved from the same stone as Storm's End's walls. This was the Reach's finest military mind, the only commander on the Targaryen side who had managed to win a significant battle during the rebellion.
As they drew closer, Artos studied the legendary lord. Tarly was a lean, hard man with black hair and cold eyes that missed nothing. His armor was practical rather than ornate, battle-tested steel that had seen real use. A great two-handed sword hung across his back—Heartsbane, the Valyrian steel blade of House Tarly.
The two parties met in a field of autumn grass, their horses stamping and snorting in the morning chill. For a moment, neither man spoke, each taking the measure of the other.
"I am Randyll of House Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill and Commander of the Reach forces," Tarly announced, his voice as rigid as his bearing.
Artos couldn't help but smile at the formal introduction. "Artos of House Stark, youngest brother of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Acting Commander of the Northern Army, and..." He waved a hand dismissively. "Whatever other titles my men have started calling me since this war began. Demon of the North, I believe, is the popular one."
Tarly's jaw tightened slightly, but his composure remained intact. The man had clearly heard the stories—probably from his own soldiers who had faced Northern steel and lived to tell about it.
"Indeed. The Demon of the North," Tarly said, his tone neutral. "My men speak of you often."
"I'm sure they do. Just as they speak of you—the finest military commander the Reach has produced in a generation. The only man on your side who managed to give Robert's forces a proper fight." Artos leaned forward slightly in his saddle. "That victory at Ashford was well won."
A ghost of acknowledgment flickered across Tarly's stern features. Professional respect between warriors, regardless of which side they'd fought on.
"Your reputation precedes you as well," Tarly replied. "Though I confess I expected someone... older."
"Sometimes they go hand in hand, sometimes they don't." Artos straightened. "But we're not here to trade compliments. I believe you have questions about your liege lord?"
"I do. Lord Mace is with your forces, I'm told."
Artos gestured, and his men brought forward the Lord of Highgarden. Mace Tyrell looked considerably less impressive than when Artos had first encountered him—his fine clothes were travel-stained, his face drawn with exhaustion and worry. But he was alive and unharmed, which was more than many prisoners of war could claim.
"As you can see, Lord Mace is in good health," Artos said. "I trust you received Lord Eddard's letter? And followed its instructions?"
Tarly nodded curtly. "We've provided food and supplies to Lord Stannis and his garrison. Though I was surprised the orders came from Lord Stark rather than his brother the king."
Artos studied Tarly's face. "Your lord paramount has already bent the knee to King Robert. The war is over, Lord Tarly. Time to put away the swords and see about healing the realm."
"Indeed." Tarly's voice carried no emotion, but Artos could see the man's mind working behind those cold eyes. "King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Let's assess the situation, shall we?" Artos suggested. "I assume your forces are already pulling back?"
"We've lifted the siege and begun withdrawing our army toward the Reach," Tarly confirmed. "The roads should be clear within the day."
"Good." Artos turned to his commanders. "Lord Mormont, Lord Umber, you'll remain here with the main force. I'm going to Storm's End to speak with Lord Stannis personally."
Jeor Mormont nodded. "Aye, Commander."
"As you command," Rogar Umber rumbled, though Artos caught the knowing look in the giant's eyes. The Lord of Last Hearth understood well enough that his young commander was avoiding the tedious political discussions that would follow.
Storm's End had withstood siege for the better part of a year, and it showed. The great curtain walls were scorched and pitted from countless assaults, though they remained unbreached. Bodies had been cleared from the approaches, but dark stains on the stones told their own story of the battles fought here.
Artos rode through the gates with a small party—Bert, Stig, and the GreatJon, men he trusted at his back in any situation. The courtyard beyond was crowded with Baratheon soldiers, lean and hollow-eyed from months of siege rations, but still standing. They watched the Northmen with curious eyes, these men who had held one of the strongest castles in Westeros against overwhelming odds.Lord Stannis Baratheon waited at the keep's entrance, and Artos felt a moment of recognition as he studied Robert's younger brother. Where the king was all boisterous laughter and easy charm, Stannis was carved from harder stone. He was a man who did his duty without complaint, who held his ground no matter the cost.
The two men approached each other across the courtyard, and Artos was struck by the parallel—two younger brothers, both bearing the weight of their elder siblings' choices, both shaped by war and responsibility.
"I am Artos Stark, younger brother of Lord Eddard Stark," Artos said simply.
"Stannis Baratheon, younger brother of King Robert," came the equally direct reply.
They stood there for a moment, taking each other's measure. There was no need for flowery words or courtly gestures between them. They understood each other instinctively—men who served, who did what was required, who bore burdens that others could not or would not carry.
"You've held this castle well," Artos said finally. "You've stood strong against overwhelming odds and kept the Stormlands loyal to your brother. It was bravely done."
"I did my duty to Robert," Stannis replied, his voice betraying no emotion. But Artos could see the satisfaction in the man's eyes—not pride, but the quiet contentment that came from a task completed.
"Still, I must thank you and your brother for the letter," Stannis continued. "It saved us all. We had no food left by the end. We were eating cats, dogs, even rats from the cellars. Another week and..." He didn't finish, but he didn't need to.
"It was nothing more than duty," Artos said, though his tone was warmer now. "We're allies in this war, brothers-in-arms. We look after our own."
Stannis nodded slowly, and Artos thought he saw something like approval in those hard eyes. Here was a man who understood duty, who knew the cost of loyalty and paid it without complaint.
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