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Chapter 35: The North Will Take Its Due
The road to King's Landing stretched before them like a grey serpent, winding through autumn fields where crows picked at the bones of the recently dead. Three thousand Northern soldiers marched behind Artos Stark, their boots beating a steady rhythm on the packed earth. These were not green boys fresh from their farms—these were the survivors of the Trident, men who had seen the Bloody Dance.
Lord Rogar Umber rode beside his young commander, his massive frame dwarfing even his destrier. The giant had been growing increasingly frustrated with each league they traveled south, and finally his patience snapped like a bowstring pulled too tight."Artos," he growled, pulling his horse closer. "What in the seven hells are we doing in King's Landing again?"
"I told you," Artos replied without looking at him, his dark eyes fixed on the road ahead. "We're collecting what's owed to the North."
Rogar's jaw clenched. "Aye, I've heard that song a hundred times since we left Storm's End. Every Northern lord in this column has heard it. Will you tell us what exactly you mean to demand, or are we to march blind into whatever madness you're planning?"
Artos turned then, and his smile was sharp as winter steel. "What we're owed, Lord Rogar. Nothing more, nothing less."
"For fuck's sake!" Rogar exploded, his voice carrying across the column and causing several men to look up nervously.
Artos spurred Snow forward, putting distance between himself and the frustrated giant. He'd learned long ago that Umbers were dangerous when their tempers flared—best to let the mountain of a man cool down before continuing the conversation.
As they rode, Artos closed his eyes and reached out with senses that were not quite human. Through Rick's eyes—his raven circling high above—he caught glimpses of the Red Keep's towers rising in the distance. The connection was still weak, still uncertain, but he was learning. The old gods had gifted the Starks with more than just honor and stubborn pride.
The sight of King's Landing filled him with cold satisfaction. Soon, very soon, accounts would be settled.
The throne room of the Red Keep buzzed with the low murmur of courtly business when the great oak doors crashed open. Conversations died as Artos Stark strode into the hall, his boots ringing on the stones, flanked by his closest allies and bannermen. He had not waited for announcement, had not requested an audience.
"Artos?" Jon Arryn's voice carried surprise and perhaps a touch of concern as he looked up from the papers scattered across a table near the Iron Throne.
King Robert's face broke into a grin, though Artos noted the wine cup already in his hand despite the early hour. "Hah! Artos, good to see you here, lad! We were just discussing plans to find your sister."
At the mention of Lyanna, Artos felt his hands clench involuntarily. He forced them to relax, though the effort cost him. "How goes the search for Lyanna?"
Jon Arryn's expression grew grave. "We're doing everything possible. I've sent men to every corner of the realm—every castle, every holdfast, every village between here and the Wall. But these things take time, and the realm is still in chaos after the war."
Artos nodded, though inside he felt the familiar gnawing fear. Each day that passed made it less likely they would find her alive. Still, he would not abandon hope—not while the old gods still watched over House Stark.
"If I may ask," came Tywin Lannister's cold voice from across the room, "why are you here? Weren't you supposed to escort your good-sister to Winterfell?"
The slight was deliberate—questioning his presence, his authority, his right to be here. Artos didn't so much as glance in the Lord of Casterly Rock's direction.
Instead, he fixed his gaze on Jon Arryn and spoke with the authority of winter itself. "I am here to collect what is owed to the North.
"Silence fell across the throne room like a shroud. Lords exchanged uncertain glances, and Artos could feel the tension building like pressure before a storm.
"Would you be more specific about your intentions, Lord Artos?" Jon Arryn asked carefully, his years of diplomatic experience showing in his measured tone.
Artos's smile was wolf-sharp and twice as dangerous. "Tell me, Lord Hand—which kingdom contributed most to this rebellion? Which realm bled the most, sacrificed the most, killed the most men ?" His voice carried clearly through the hall. "I think we both know the answer."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the assembled lords. Even the southerners couldn't deny the North's sacrifice—too many had seen Northern steel in action, had watched the Demon of the North carve through enemy lines like Death himself.
Robert laughed, raising his wine cup in salute. "There's no doubt about it! Without the North, this war would have been impossible to win. The Demon of the North was quite handy indeed!" His laughter boomed through the hall, and others joined in nervously.
Jon Arryn nodded slowly. "Yes, Lord Artos. The North has done more than any other kingdom in our fight against the Targaryens. We've already divided the spoils of war, and the North received the largest share due to your contributions."
"Aye," Artos agreed, his tone deceptively reasonable. "We have received our share of the spoils from the battlefields, the castles we took, the lords we defeated." He paused, letting his words sink in. "But King's Landing remains to be settled. And the dragon's hoard was quite considerable, I'm told."
The throne room went deadly quiet. Robert's laughter died in his throat, and Jon Arryn's face went pale as he grasped the implications. Behind Artos, Lord Rogar Umber and the other Northern lords shifted uncomfortably—this was not what they had expected, and they suddenly understood why their commander had been so secretive about his plans. Truth to be told they would have wanted both brothers here. Artos to push and Eddard for control. But Lord Eddard isn't here to control the push of Artos.
Tywin Lannister's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "You cannot be serious."
For the first time since entering the hall, Artos turned his attention to the Lord of Casterly Rock. His dark eyes held all the warmth of a winter grave."Oh, but I am, Lord Tywin. Deadly serious."
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