The war council t in a small command tent. Only five sat within: Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn, Brynden Tully, Eddard Stark, and Artos Stark.
The air reeked of tallow and sweat, heavy with the weight of death yet to co.
Artos spoke first, voice flat and cold:
"The Northern cavalry lost fewer than eight hundred. We still have strength enough."
Brynden Tully followed:
"The Riverlands were little blooded this ti. We lost perhaps five hundred."
Eddard's tone was grimr.
"My main force bore the weight of it. The North lost seven hundred dead, the Vale… fifteen hundred."
Jon Arryn inclined his head at the tally.
"Costly, yes, but the enemy suffered tenfold. The war bleeds them dry faster than us. Still, new levies are being raised in the Crownlands. A great host gathers even now. The Vale has eight thousand n left fit for battle."
Robert leaned forward, sour ale on his breath, his voice a growl:
"So the Targaryens finally dare fight like n, not hide behind their bloody banners. I have three thousand here. My strength in the Stormlands remains cut off, pinned by Randyll Tarly."
Artos gave his asure coldly:
"The North marches with twenty thousand still. Count those with Ned's host."
"The Riverlords field fourteen thousand," said Brynden. "Minus the Freys, who find reasons to delay. I'd not hold my sword waiting on them."
Totals settled. Eddard gave the grim count:
"Forty-five thousand. Strong—but the King's army will be greater still, even before the Lannisters commit."
Robert's eyes burned. His hand tightened on the great hamr at his side.
"Numbers? Hah! Let him bring fifty thousand, let him bring a hundred! I'll split their skulls open just the sa."
Jon Arryn's calm voice followed.
"Robert is right in one regard—wars are won not only by numbers, but by montum. And montum is ours. We have won every battle save Ashford. And even there, the Reach is tied and bleeding."
Eddard's frown deepened.
"Even victories co at a cost, Jon. Too much blood spills at each turn."
"Perhaps," Brynden agreed, folding his arms. "But blood is war's only coin. If we shrink from the price, we lose."
The tent fell into a grim stillness. War never sounded as gallant in tally as it did in song.
Artos broke that silence, his jaw hard.
"This is the part I cannot stomach. Numbers. Stores. Roads. All this talk. I have no place here."
The tent stirred. Even Robert looked up from his cup.
"My brother commands the North," Artos continued. "Let him see to it. From this day, I leave such matters to Ned. I'll be with the n. Fighting, where I belong."
Ned frowned. "You can stay, Artos. You've won battles before. Your counsel matters."
"My counsel is a sword arm," Artos answered. "What good am I when you need n of patience to count bales of grain and plan marches months ahead? That is not . I'll serve with the soldiers, and when the fighting starts, I'll lead them. Leave the thinking to you."
For the first ti, Ned laughed in the council, the sound startling in the heavy air.
"Aye. That's the brother I rember. The bullhead who never cared for books or maps. Go then. Enjoy the camp. Rest for once."
Artos nodded and rose.
Jon Arryn asked, cautious: "Is it wise to let him leave? His victories might yet shape our plans."
Ned's smile was faint.
"He only sat here out of duty to . He hates these walls, these talks of stores and rations. He's a soldier, not a chess-player of war. Brandon raised him wild, heart-first. That cannot be unlearned."
Brynden gave a gruff nod. "He's no commander of n from tables or parchnts. But out there, in the mud, with a blade in hand—aye, he's well suited. Let him be."
Robert laughed, red-faced and booming.
"By the gods, I like the lad. He's a true warrior. Not one of these ink-fingered lords, but a man of blood and iron."
Jon ignored Robert's grin and turned the maps again. "Let us return to planning, then. He will play his part. Now we must play ours."
In the Soldier's Camp
By the ti Artos left the council, nightfires dotted the camp like fallen stars. n from every land sat together — Northerners sharpening blades beside Vale archers, Riverlords sharing bread with Stormlanders. The air was heavy with smoke, laughter, weeping, and the endless retelling of war-stories.
They spoke of Robert's hamr at Gulltown, of his escape from Tarly's trap.
But one tale eclipsed all others: the Battle of Demons.
The victory of the North against the Reach had grown in the telling. Twice their number, yet still cut down. The cavalry like wraiths, the corpses in heaps, the fields soaked dark. Soldiers swore the Northerners were not n at all, but monsters clothed in steel. And above all stood Artos Stark — the Demon of the North. So called him the Demonwolf. His na slipped through the campfires of half a dozen kingdoms, and even n who had never seen him swore they dread of him riding, bloody and relentless.
Artos walked the camp with three of his sworn companions: Bert and Hal, the grizzled twins of his guard, and Stig with his sister, Yor. When they ca to a great circle of Northern soldiers, he stepped forward.
The n rose hastily. One stamred:
"Milord—do you bring us orders?"
"No," Artos said flatly. "Only myself."
The n looked uncertain. "But… you are commander…"
"Not anymore." Artos cut him off with a half-smile. "Ned,my brother commands the North. I am just a soldier, as you are. So give so space by the fire."
The mood lightened; laughter stirred. They shifted aside eagerly, and Artos sat hard on the ground, pulling Yor into his lap without hesitation. She leaned against him easily, used now to his fierce nearness.
"Well then," Artos said, taking a cup of ad and swallowing. "Tell what's spoken in the camps. Stories. Slaughter. Who killed more than who."
The n obliged, voices loosening with drink. Stories of spears that took three n in one thrust, of knights split clean by axes. Soon enough, one spoke in awe:
"The truth is, milord, the tale most told… is of you."
Artos nearly choked on his drink. "?"
"Aye," the soldier grinned. "Everywhere. Even Stormlanders and Riverlords mutter your na. They call you the Demon of the North. Say you ride with a host of demons. And…" he lowered his voice, "so say they've made a song of it."
Artos snorted, eyes narrowing.
"A song?"
"About you, milord," another answered. "Demonwolf."
The circle grew silent, except for the crackling fire. At last, one man lifted his voice, low and rough, and sang as others hushed to hear — not a courtly lody, but the raw, haunting chant of soldiers carrying both fear and pride:
Demon Of the North
He rides in the dark when the horn calls for war,
The ground shakes with thunder, the dead rise once more.
No rcy, no quarter, no prayers to be told—
The Demon of the North cos to reap your soul.
His blade drinks deep, his spear bites fast,
The howl of his horse is the sound of the past.
From head to heel, blood makes him whole,
The Demon of the North cos to reap your soul.
Where torches burn red and the rivers run black,
He rides with his demons, and none co back.
They say even the gods avert their control—
The Demon of the North cos to reap your soul.
So tremble in darkness, and curse what you fear,
A wolf in the saddle, the end drawing near.
For Legion is with him, and damnation his goal—
The Demon of the North cos to reap your soul.
When the song ended, silence lingered. Faces glowed with firelight, a mixture of awe, dread, and pride. Artos only sat still, stone-eyed, Yor's weight heavy against him.
He drank again, but in his heart there was no laughter. Only the knowledge that he had beco a tale. A song. A demon in n's mouths.
Whether he willed it or not, the na would never leave him.
---
YOU LIKE THE WORK PLEASE SUPPORT 🙏
Please join the patreon and join the pack
patreon/Cregantheblackwolf
Thank you for your support and I am really grateful.
User Comments
0 comments from readers