The silence that followed Artos's revelation was absolute. Servants froze mid-task, their movents suspended as though ti itself had stopped. Waymar's face had gone pale, the color draining from his cheeks as he struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. Even Wyman Manderly, a man whose years of political maneuvering had taught him to maintain composure in nearly any situation, seed montarily lost for words.
"I don't understand," Wyman said finally, his voice carefully asured as he chose each word with deliberate precision. "What do you an you've abandoned the na? One cannot simply cease to be Stark. Blood is blood, and blood cannot be abandoned."
"One can," Artos replied, his voice steady despite the tremor that occasionally threatened to break through. "One can choose to walk away. To renounce the blood and the..." His voice cracked slightly, emotion bleeding through his careful control. "...family that cos with it. I have done so."
"But..." Wyman began, still struggling with this revelation. "This is... I need to inform Lord Eddard. Your brother must know of this decision—"
"He knows," Artos said quietly, and there was such finality in those two words that it seed to close off further discussion on the matter. "We parted under difficult circumstances. I left Winterfell of my own volition and made my position clear to him."
"Why?" Waymar asked, the word escaping before he could stop it. "Why would you abandon everything you've accomplished? Everything you are?"
Waymar could see the struggle in his expression—the desire to explain warring with the difficulty of putting such things into words. Finally, Artos turned to Lord Wyman and posed a question instead of answering directly."Lord Manderly, when your ancestors first ca to the North, when they arrived from the Reach with their southern ways and their foreign god, what did my ancestors ask of you in return for the lands and titles they granted?"
Wyman looked montarily confused by the apparent change of subject, but years of courtly negotiation had taught him to follow where others led, at least until the purpose beca clear. "They asked for loyalty and respect, which House Manderly has given generation after generation, without fail."
"Aye," Artos nodded. "We Starks gave you our trust despite the fact that you worshipped the Seven instead of the Old Gods that rule the North. We took a risk on your house, and we demanded loyalty in return. We made a bargain, unspoken perhaps, but binding nonetheless."
Wyman's eyes narrowed as understanding began to dawn. "Every Manderly child is taught the story of how the Starks welcod us despite our faith. We are told Lord after Lord and hier after hier how they trusted us with lands and positions, and we are warned—always warned—never to attempt spreading our septs beyond White Harbour. Never to breach the trust the Starks have bestowed upon us. It is the foundation upon which our loyalty is built."
"Exactly," Artos said, and there was pain in his voice now, poorly concealed. "This has been taught to my brother Brandon by our father. I heard it myself because I was often present during his lessons about ruling the North. Father allowed to listen despite my lack of discipline." He paused, his voice growing quieter. "I never thought I would see a sept in the North except in your territory. I thought that understanding—that ancient agreent between our houses—would remain inviolable. I was wrong about that."
"A sept?" Wyman's face registered shock. "Where is this sept being built? Surely not... not in the North proper? And the Manderlys had no part in this—I swear by the Seven I speak true." Lord Wyman misunderstood
"I hope it was you," Artos said with a bitter laugh. "At least then there would be so logic to it. But no, Lord Manderly. It is my own blood who has done this thing. My own brother."
What followed was a detailed accounting of the argunt between the brothers—the sept Eddard intended to build for Catelyn, the passionate debate about tradition and compromise, the fundantal disagreent about what it ant to be a Stark and hold Winterfell. Artos spoke with a raw honesty that stripped away all pretense, revealing the depth of his hurt and the anguish of feeling betrayed by the very person he loved most.
Wyman listened without interruption, his expression growing more troubled as the story unfolded. When Artos finished, the Lord of White Harbour sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him as he processed the implications."So you left," Wyman said finally. "Over a sept."
"Over everything the sept represents," Artos corrected. "Over the slow erosion of who we are. Over compromise dressed up as compassion. Over..." He trailed off, searching for words. "Over the fact that I could not make my brother understand that so things matter more than comfort, more than personal happiness. That we have a duty to preserve what our ancestors fought to maintain."
Lord Wyman" I don't know what to say or give opinion. But I will say this I have Faith in Starks and thier Loyalty to each other. They will never abandon each other."
A silence fall between them but Lord Wyman breaks it.
"So what can Manderly do for you, Lord Artos?" Wyman asked gently.
"I told you my story, and you still call Lord," Artos said, a note of frustration entering his voice. "I have abandoned that na. You could be in considerable trouble by helping ."
Wyman leaned back further, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Who are you fooling, Artos?" He called him Artos knowing it would relief the kid , aye he was a kid in his eyes dealing with such contradictory emotions yet Stubborn as mule "Not , certainly. I have dealt with Starks for generations—I know your house well enough to understand that blood cannot be abandoned so easily. Your brother will never let you cast aside that na. You will be a Stark even after your death, when your bones rest in the crypts beneath Winterfell alongside all the Starks who ca before."
"I will tell you what I know from experience, Artos. You and Lord Eddard will not abandon each other like this. This anger, this hurt—it will not last forever. You will return to the North one day. Blood cannot be renounced, no matter how much a man might wish it so. That is not how the gods work, whether Old or Seven. Blood binds, and that binding cannot be broken by words alone."
Artos smiled despite himself, recognizing the clever manipulation for what it was. "You are playing gas with , Lord Manderly."
"And well," Wyman replied with a chuckle. "It is a habit of mine. But I will support your journey to Braavos if that is truly what you wish. Though I warn you—your brother will be angry when he discovers that I allowed you to leave for Essos rather than attempting to convince you otherwise. But what can I do? You are a man grown, capable of making your own choices, even if those choices are foolish ones."
Artos laughed, a genuine sound that seed to ease sothing in the tension that had filled the chamber. "Well, I do have sothing that might benefit both of us. Or perhaps all three of us, if you count the North in the arrangent."
Wyman's eyes sharpened with interest. "The Demon Wolf making a proposition? This becos interesting indeed. I thought you had abandoned all your ambitions when you abandoned the Stark na."
"Not ambitions," Artos replied. "Resources. The North received considerable funds after the war—you've heard the reports, I'm sure. Soldiers have been paid handsoly, both the living and the families of the dead. Roads are being constructed, Moat Calin is being restored, and trade has begun to flourish with the Reach thanks to certain agreents I made."
"Aye," Wyman nodded. "We have felt the effects of the North's newfound prosperity. Trade with the Reach flows through White Harbour now, and our rchants have benefited greatly."
"The gold I obtained," Artos continued, "was significant. I also received a portion for myself and another for my brother Benjen. I have been considering what to do with my share, and I believe an investnt in White Harbour's trade would be mutually beneficial."
Wyman leaned forward now, fully engaged. The math was already running through his mind—if the North had received forty percent of the Targaryen treasury, and Artos had claid a personal share as the commander responsible for the negotiation, the amount would be substantial. "How much are you considering, Artos?"
"Seven hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons," Artos said simply.
Wyman's breath caught. Even a man accustod to dealing in large sums felt the impact of such a number. That was wealth beyond most n's imagining—enough to expand White Harbour's trading fleet significantly, enough to establish new trade routes, enough to build infrastructure that could make the port city one of the wealthiest in the realm."That much?" Wyman managed, his composure montarily slipping.
"Aye," Artos confird. "Bert—my man at arms—will arrange for it to be brought here once we have reached an agreent. The gold will be yours to invest as you see fit in expanding White Harbour's trade networks. In return, your house gains significant wealth and influence, and I gain well more gold and a stablity to survive in Essos."
Wyman sat back, his mind working through the implications. This was an opportunity that could reshape White Harbour's position in the realm. But it was also an acknowledgnt that Artos, despite his claims of abandoning his na, was still thinking like a lord, still strategizing for the benefit of the North and those loyal to House Stark."We have a deal," Wyman said finally.
Wyman nodded slowly, recognizing the truth. Whether Artos acknowledged it or not, he was still Stark—still thinking in terms of dynasties and legacies, still considering how his actions would shape the future. Blood, indeed, could not be abandoned."Then we are agreed," Wyman said, extending his hand. "Let us hope that ti in White Harbour—and the gold that flows through our streets—will give you the clarity you seek, Artos. And perhaps, when you have found what you are looking for, you will rember that you were always a Stark, no matter how far you traveled or how hard you tried to deny it."
Artos clasped the offered hand, and in that mont, sothing shifted in his expression—a flicker of doubt, perhaps, or the first crack in the wall of certainty he had built around his decision to abandon his na.
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