Artos Stark
The world returned to him slowly, like dawn breaking through storm clouds.
Artos opened his eyes to find three familiar faces hovering over himâ€"Bert's worried frown, Stig's grizzled scowl, and Yor's nervous fidgeting. The tent around him slled of blood and herbs, the air thick with the aftermath of battle.
"My lord," Bert said quickly, moving to help him sit up. His big hands were gentle as a mother's, though they still bore the stains of war beneath the nails.
"I'll fetch the maesters," Yor offered, already turning toward the tent flap.
Artos raised a hand to stop him, wincing as the movent pulled at his bandaged ribs. "Wait." His voice ca out as a croak, dry as old leather. "Give a mont to gather my wits."
"Lord Eddard wants to be called the mont you wake," Bert said, though he made no move to leave. "He's been here every hour, checking on you like a mother hen."
"Thank the old gods he's not here now," Artos managed, attempting a weak smile. "I don't think I could survive his scolding on top of everything else."
That earned him chuckles from both Bert and Stig, though their laughter held little humor.
"How long was I out?" Artos asked, testing his limbs. Everything ached, but nothing felt broken that wasn't already broken.
"Sixteen hours," Stig replied. "Good sleep for a wolf, I'd say."
"Aye, though I've had more comfortable beds." Artos looked at Bert, noting the hollow look in the big man's eyes. "You should be grieving, not standing guard over ."
Bert's jaw tightened. "And let Hal's ghost haunt for the rest of my days? He'd have my hide if I left you unguarded."
"I'm not a babe in swaddling clothes, Bert. There are plenty of n"
"It's my duty, my lord," Bert interrupted, his voice firm despite the grief that weighted it. "My brother would have done the sa, and now it falls to ."
Artos studied the young giant's face and saw there would be no arguing. Grief had its own logic, and duty was sotis all that kept a man from drowning in it.
The maester arrived shortly after, a thin man with nervous hands and kind eyes. He seed genuinely surprised to find Artos awake and coherent.
"Remarkable," he murmured as he examined the bandages. "I've seen seasoned knights die from lesser wounds. The gods must have plans for you yet, my lord."
"Aye," Artos replied dryly. "Starks are too stubborn to die easy."
"Food," he added, his stomach clenching with sudden hunger. "I could eat a horse."
"Soup," the maester said firmly. "Broth with small pieces of at. Nothing heavy yet."
When the food ca a thin gruel that tasted like dishwater but filled the gnawing emptiness in his belly Artos devoured it like a man half-starved. Which, he supposed, he was.
He stood when he finished, ignoring the maester's protests.
"My lord, please," the old man fussed. "You need rest. Your body has endured trendous trauma"
"My body is mine to know," Artos said, testing his balance. The world swayed slightly, but held steady. "Tend to the n who need you more than I do."
A flutter of black wings caught his eye Rick perched on a tent pole, his dark eyes fixed on Artos with what looked like reproach.
"Well, hello to you too, you feathered bastard," Artos said, attempting a smile. "Co to see your friends?"
Rick cocked his head, gave what sounded distinctly like a snort of disdain, and flew away.
"That moody brat." Artos muttered, which set his n to laughing despite themselves.
"Clothes," he said when the laughter died. "I need to walk among the n."
"My lord, perhaps you should " Bert began.
"Clothes. Now."
The tone brooked no argunt. Stig handed over a simple tunic and breeches, and Artos dressed carefully, making sure the fabric covered the worst of his bandages. A commander couldn't look weak, not when his n had bled and died on his orders.
Outside the tent, the late afternoon sun painted the camp in shades of gold and crimson. Guards snapped to attention as he erged, so dropping to one knee.
"Commander!" they called out, their voices carrying a mixture of relief and sothing approaching awe.
Artos straightened his shoulders and nodded to each man. Whatever pain he felt, whatever weakness plagued him, it would not show. Not here, not now.
"The funeral?" he asked Bert as they walked.
"Tonight, my lord. They're still gathering wood for the pyres." Bert's voice was steady, but Artos heard the tremor beneath. "There are... many pyres to build."
They walked in silence for a ti, passing groups of wounded n and camp followers tending to the aftermath of war. The sll of blood and smoke hung heavy in the air, mixing with the scents of cooking food and horse dung. War had its own perfu, and it was not pleasant.
The Greatjon found them near the horse lines, his massive fra sohow managing to look both relieved and disapproving.
"Already walking about like nothing happened," Jon Umber said, shaking his head. "You should be flat on your back for another fortnight at least."
"I've had sixteen hours of sleep. That's luxury for a soldier."
"Luxury, he says." The Greatjon's laugh was bitter. "You faced down two Kingsguard in one day and lived to boast of it. The songs will rember that."
"I didn't kill Barristan Selmy," Artos said quietly. "The man's a legend. I barely kept him from gutting like a fish and he was injured, tired and a old man"
"That Old knight is one of the best fighters in the tealm and was trying his best to send you to the seven hells, and you held him off long enough for help to arrive. Don't diminish it. But your brilliant plan at the end? Throwing your life away for nothing?"
Artos's expression sobered. "Aye, that was foolish. But I was a dead man either way, and you knew it. At least I wanted to went down swinging."
They spoke of other things as they made their rounds the wounded, the supplies, the disposition of prisoners. But eventually, the conversation turned to losses.
"Your cousins?" Artos asked gently.
Jon's face darkened. "Both of them didn't survive to know the news. Hother and Crowfood both." He was quiet for a long mont. "Father's taking it hard, though he'd die before showing it. Fifty years he's been watching young n die in wars. Says it doesn't get easier."
"I'm sorry, Jon."
"They died with swords in their hands and enemies at their feet. What more can a warrior ask?"
*A chance to live*, Artos thought, but kept the words to himself. The living had their own burdens to bear.
They visited the wounded after that, moving from tent to tent where n lay groaning on blood-soaked cots. Artos spoke to each man he could, offering what comfort words could provide. Most seed heartened just to see him walking about their commander, still alive despite everything.
When the rounds were finished, Artos made his way to the command tent where the lords were assembled. The pavilion was large enough to hold a dozen n comfortably, with maps spread across a central table and wine flowing freely despite the early hour.
Ned looked up as he entered, relief and exasperation warring on his face. "You should be resting."
"I'm fine, brother. I know my own limits."
"Do you?" Ned's grey eyes were sharp with concern. "Because from where I stand, it looks like you're trying to kill yourself through sheer stubbornness."
"Where's Robert?" Artos asked, deflecting.
"Recovering," Jon Arryn answered. "Nothing serious, but he took a mace to the ribs and needs ti to heal properly. Unlike so people I could na."
Artos ignored the pointed look. "What word from the realm?"
"Victory has wings," Ser Brynden Tully said, his weathered face grim. "My brother sends word that Lord Frey is finally marshaling his n. Wants to join the cause now that it's won."
The words hit Artos like a slap. "Send him word that his swords aren't needed. We've no use for fair-weather friends who only show courage after the battle's done. It's a disrespect to the sacrifice of the n , they sat on their hands while better n bled and died." Artos's voice carried the chill of the North. "I'll not see them profit from courage he never showed. I will not sully the sacrifice of n to honour Cravens."
"That's... a harsh stance," Brynden said carefully.
Ned sighed. " Ser Brynden. The North holds grudges, and being a craven runs deep. Tell Lord Hoster to write that House Stark bears the responsibility for the slight. You can Told them North refused thier support."
The Blackfish nodded slowly. "I'll craft a raven that keeps the peace while making your position clear."
"Speaking of positions," Artos said, settling into a camp chair despite his aching ribs, "what were our losses?"
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Jon Arryn cleared his throat. "The battle was... costly. Perhaps thirty thousand dead across all fronts both crown and Us, with many that number wounded. But your wing..." He shook his head. "Twenty-one thousand n went into that fight yours and the loyalists combined. Only seven thousand walked away. Four thousand of ours, three thousand of theirs."
The numbers hit Artos like physical blows. Half of his force, gone in a single afternoon's butchery.It was tough words to hear but the one he was ready for it.
"You should have accepted surrenders," Arryn continued, his voice gentle but firm. "The slaughter went beyond necessity. n are calling it the Bloody Dance, and so of your own soldiers look at you like you're touched by madness."
"I did what needed doing," Artos said quietly. "My n won the fight."
"At a terrible cost. Wars are won by living soldiers, not dead ones."
"Dead soldiers don't rebel again either."
The tent fell silent at that. In the distance, Artos could hear the sound of axes biting wood as n prepared the funeral pyres. Tomorrow there would be ashes where today there were heroes.
"The realm is Robert's now," Jon Arryn said finally. "But at what price? How many fathers will never see their sons again? How many wives will weep alone?"
Artos t the old lord's eyes steadily. "Fewer than would have wept if we'd lost. War isn't ant to be kind, my lord. It's ant to be decisive."
"And what of rcy? What of honor?"
"Honor?" Artos's laugh was bitter as winter wind. "Ask my father and Brandon about honor. See how much good it did them when Aerys called for their heads."
He stood, wincing as his ribs pulled tight. "I gave the enemy the sa rcy they would have shown us none at all. That's the only honor war understands."
Outside, the sound of hamring echoed through the camp as n built platforms for their dead. Soon the pyres would burn, sending brave souls to whatever gods would have them. The living would mourn, and heal, and try to forget the sound of dying n.
But Artos Stark would rember. He would rember every face, every na, every drop of blood spilled in his service. That was his burden now to carry the weight of their deaths, and to make sure they had not died for nothing.
The war was won. But the real fighting was just beginning.
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