The great hall of White Harbour's castle was filled with the comfortable warmth of a lord at ease in his domain. Lord Wyman Manderly sat in his high chair, a plate of fresh seafood before him—oysters, crab, delicacies that only a port city could provide. He was a man of considerable girth, but not the sort of weakness that ca from indolence. Rather, he was a lord who understood the value of comfort and the rewards that ca from successful rulership. His fingers were sticky with butter as he worked through a crab claw when one of his guards ca rushing in, his face flushed with panic and uncertainty."My lord!" the man gasped.
Wyman set down his claw with deliberate care, regarding the guard with the patient expression of a man accustod to commanding others. "What troubles you to bring you rushing in like a man pursued by wolves?"
"My lord, there is a man at the gates. He identifies himself only as Artos, but his features... he bears the look of a Stark, my lord. Strong features, brown hair, the bearing of a warrior."
Wyman's eyes narrowed with interest. "He gives no surna? No banner, no signet to identify him?"
"None, my lord. Just the na Artos and those... distinctive features."
The lord of White Harbour leaned back in his chair, considering this information. It was unusual for a man to arrive at castle gates looking like a Stark without the full weight of that na behind him. Yet the description nagged at sothing . A tall man with dark eyes and the manner of command...
---
At that very mont, Waymar Manderly was making his rounds through the castle, inspecting the guard posts and checking on the soldiers who maintained White Harbour's defenses. It was a task he'd taken up after the war, using the skills and discipline he'd learned from his ti commanding n in battle. As he passed through one of the upper corridors, he noticed a guard moving with unusual urgency toward the keep's central tower.
His curiosity piqued, Waymar changed course, heading instead toward the main gates. The castle was not large enough that he couldn't reach them quickly, and sothing in his instincts—honed by his years of experience—suggested that the gate was where the real action was occurring.
When he arrived, the first thing he saw was the horse. Snow was unmistakable—a destrier of rare quality, the kind of animal that only the greatest lords could afford to maintain. And astride the beast sat a figure that struck Waymar like a physical blow of recognition.
The man had aged since Waymar had last seen him, hardened further by whatever had occurred in the two years since the rebellion's end. But his face was unmistakable. Those Stark eyes, the strong jaw, the bearing of soone accustod to command.
Without thinking, without even fully processing what he was doing, Waymar dropped to one knee. "Commander!"The word had erged unbidden, a reflex born of battlefield habit and deep respect. Waymar had seen Artos Stark fight—had watched him move through enemy lines with the grace of a dancer and the lethality of a predator. And more than that, Waymar rembered a specific mont two years ago, his first real battle, when he'd been facing down an opponent better positioned than himself. He'd been certain death was coming, certain his story would end there on so muddy field. Then a knife had appeared, whistling through the air to strike the man who would have killed him. He'd looked up to see Artos Stark regarding him with that characteristic blend of humor and contempt for the niceties of so-called honorable combat.
"Waymar," Artos said, and there was sothing both warm and pained in his voice. "I am not a commander anymore. It's been two years since the war ended. Here I thought I was the only one still living in the shadow of those days."
"I'm sorry, my lord. It's just... habit, instinct," Waymar replied, rising to his feet but keeping his eyes respectful.
Artos seed to wince slightly at being called "my lord," as though the title carried a weight he could no longer bear. "Perhaps just call Artos. It's simpler that way."
Waymar looked confused, but before he could question further, Artos gestured toward the castle. "Take to your father. I would speak with him."
"Of course. Yes, imdiately, my lord—" Waymar caught himself, rembering the correction. "I apologize for the guards. They should have—"
"It's not their fault," Artos said, dismounting from Snow with fluid grace. "It's mine. I arrived unannounced and without my colors. They were right to be cautious."
Waymar turned to the confused guards, reading the situation instantly. "This is Lord Artos Stark. Let him pass imdiately and see to his horse. My father will want to receive him properly."
The guards scrambled to obey, though Artos waved away their apologies and excuses. Waymar led him through the castle's winding corridors, heading toward the Lord's Chamber where his father was most likely to be found at this hour.
---
In the Lords Chambers
Wyman Manderly after knowing the whole situation decided to send his hier to found about it more. He wouldn't want to send away a Stark by any chance.
"Wylis go with guard and check out what is going on. And if it's Lord Artos Stark bring him to imdiately with regards of the highest level. He is a great and respected person for our family. We owe him a lot." Wyman said ordering his hier.
Wylis " Of course Father. He saved the life of my little brother and is a Stark. I will go imdiately and check the situation out." As he is saying it A voice imdiately interrupted him.
"No need to search, father," Waymar announced. "I have already welcod Lord Artos and brought him here."
The room seed to pause. Everyone present—Wyman's advisors, servants, and household staff—turned to regard the figure who had entered behind Waymar. Artos Stark stood in the doorway like sothing out of legend, his dark clothes travel-stained, his face marked by the hardships of the road, and yet unmistakably a Stark.
"Lord Artos," Wyman said warmly, rising from his chair despite his considerable bulk. "Welco to White Harbour. You honor our house with your presence."
The greetings that followed were warm and respectful. Servants brought wine and food. Seats were offered. The rituals of hospitality were observed with the careful attention that any great house paid to a guest of such standing. Finally, when the initial courtesies had been satisfied and everyone had settled, Wyman broached the obvious question."Lord Artos, forgive my directness, but what brings you to White Harbour? You are, of course, welco at any ti. But I confess your arrival is unexpected."
Artos smiled, though there was sothing bittersweet in the expression. "Don't worry yourself, Lord Manderly. I won't be pissed at you for asking. Rather, I should apologize for arriving without announcent or warning. It was thoughtless of ."
"Nonsense," Wyman replied with genuine warmth. "You have always been welco here. Every Stark is welco in White Harbour. We do not forget our debts or those who have earned our respect."
Artos's smile faded, replaced by sothing more complex. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but carried clearly through the chamber. "That, my lord, is precisely the problem. I am not a Stark anymore. I have abandoned that na."
The chamber fell silent. Everyone is shocked at the Unbelievable words that Artos spoke.
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