Chapter 34: Storm's End
The morning sun cast long shadows across Storm's End's ancient battlements as Artos wandered the castle's corridors, running his hand along walls that had stood for eight thousand years. The stonework was extraordinary—seamless blocks fitted together so perfectly that not even a blade could slip between them. His father had once told him that Brandon the Builder had raised this fortress in a single night, though Artos suspected the truth was less magical and more about incredible craftsmanship.
Still, there was something almost otherworldly about the place. The way the stones curved and flowed, the massive proportions of the curtain walls, the drum tower that dominated the structure—all of it spoke of an age when men built things to last forever. He could see similarities to Winterfell in the construction, that same ancient style that marked Brandon's work throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
Eight thousand years, Artos thought, his fingers tracing the cool stone. These walls have stood through the Age of Heroes, the Long Night, the coming of the Andals, the Targaryen Conquest. And they'll stand long after I'm dust.
Of course, the Wall was even more impressive—that frozen monument to human ambition that stretched across the entire northern border. Cold, harsh, and in places crumbling, but still magnificent in its terrible grandeur. Artos had stood atop it once, staring out at the haunted forest beyond, and felt something close to awe.
"My lord."
Artos turned to find Stannis Baratheon approaching, his boots echoing on the stone floor. The man looked slightly better than when they'd first met—a hot meal and the end of the siege had put some color back in his gaunt face.
"Ah Stannis, call me Artos will yah," he replied with a smile. "I'm no lord, as everyone keeps reminding me. Just a Younger Stark. Besides, we share the same fate, don't we, Stannis? Younger brothers, both of us."
Stannis's expression remained stoic, but Artos thought he detected the faintest softening around the eyes. "That we do. Younger brothers."
"Aye, though it seems you've gotten an upgrade after all this," Artos continued, gesturing to the castle around them. "With Robert claiming the throne, the Stormlands are yours to hold now."
"I did my duty and held this castle during the war," Stannis replied, his voice carrying that familiar rigid certainty. "With Robert's decision, I will hold the Stormlands after the war as well. It is my duty."
Artos shook his head, studying the younger Baratheon with something approaching sympathy. "Stannis, a bit of advice, if you'll hear it. Don't be so hard on yourself."
Stannis's eyes narrowed slightly, but he remained silent, listening."I know your views on doing the right thing, on duty above all else," Artos continued. "Who knows better than a Stark about duty? We've been doing ours for eight thousand years. Even now, Ned is doing his duty in Dorne, Benjen is doing his at Winterfell, and I'm here doing mine. But even a man like Ned knows how to jest and relax around family. You don't need to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders every moment."
Stannis remained motionless, his jaw working as he considered the words.
"I know about duty," Artos said more gently. "My brother is just like you in many ways—rigid about honor, about doing what's right. But he still allows himself to be vulnerable around family, to show he cares." He paused, then added carefully, "I've seen you with your little brother. You love him, but you're so hard on yourself—and on him—that he might never know it. I was raised by my siblings, Stannis. I know what it means to have brothers who care. You can do better by young Renly."
With that, Artos smiled and moved past the stunned lord, making his way toward where six-year-old Renly Baratheon sat in a shaft of sunlight, playing with wooden soldiers.The boy was fair-haired and handsome even at his young age, though the siege had left him thinner than he should be. His eyes lit up when Artos approached, hungry for attention and kindness after months of privation and fear.
"You must be Lord Renly," Artos said, crouching down to the boy's level. "I'm Artos Stark. Mind if I join your battle?"
The child's face broke into a genuine smile—perhaps the first in many months. "You can be the rebels! I'll be brother Robert's army!"
Artos spent the better part of an hour playing with the boy, showing him how Northern soldiers fought, telling sanitized stories of the war that made it sound like a grand adventure rather than the bloody horror it had been. When he finally rose to leave, Renly was laughing, and even Stannis—watching from a doorway—seemed less rigid than before.
Night fell over Storm's End like a black cloak, and the Northern lords gathered in one of the castle's great halls for their evening council. Torches flickered on ancient walls, and wine flowed freely—real wine, not the watered vinegar they'd been drinking on the march.
"Lord Tarly was quite shocked when he learned about your pact with Lord Mace," Lord Crewyn said with a grin. "I thought the man might swallow his tongue."
Artos laughed at the memory. Tarly had gone absolutely rigid when informed that his lord paramount had agreed to provide grain at half-price and promised a potential marriage alliance with the North. The man had clearly wanted to object, but there was little he could do with Mace standing right there nodding agreement.
"So, Commander," Lord Rogar rumbled, leaning back in his chair with a smile playing on his massive face, "you've shown your diplomatic skills well enough. Now do we march for the Riverlands to collect your good-sister and nephew?"
Artos was quiet for a moment, swirling wine in his cup. "No, Lord Rogar. We'll be returning to King's Landing first."
Jeor Mormont's grey eyebrows shot up. "King's Landing? But weren't we meant to escort the new Lady of Winterfell and your nephew north? Lord Eddard was quite clear in his orders."
"Aye, I know," Artos replied. "I'm eager to meet my nephew too—the boy will have to wait a bit longer to meet his favorite uncle. But we're going to King's Landing first."
The lords exchanged glances, and Artos could see the questions forming on their faces.
"But why?" Lord Rogar asked carefully. "This wasn't in the plan, and it certainly wasn't in Lord Eddard's orders."
Artos met his gaze evenly. "Plans change all the time, my lord. My brother changed his plans to go to Dorne. I can do the same, can't I?"
The lords nodded slowly, recognizing the dangerous edge in their commander's voice. When Artos used that tone, argument was futile.
Here I was thinking his anger had finally cooled, Lord Rogar thought. But it seems he's just been waiting, planning. What a vindictive man. Poor Lord Eddard—he'll have to deal with whatever storm his brother is about to unleash
Still, someone had to ask. For the sake of the other lords, for the sake of knowing what they were marching into, Rogar bit the bullet. "Is there... any particular reason we're taking this detour, Commander?"
Artos's smile was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. "Oh, just need to collect the North's due from the south. A debt that needs settling."
The words hung in the air like a threat, a mystery remained what will happen.
Whatever Artos had planned for King's Landing, it wasn't going to be diplomatic. The Demon Wolf was going to collect his dues, and the gods help anyone who stood in his way.
Lord Rogar sighed and reached for the wine. It was going to be a long march south, and an even longer stay in the capital. But he'd follow his commander anyway—because that's what Northmen did. They followed their lords into battle, into glory, and sometimes into madness.
And right now, Artos Stark looked like he was walking that fine line between the latter two.
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