Ti had slipped by in Braavos like water through fingers—days of canal walks with Seraphine, her laughter cutting sharp through market din, nights trading truths over ad and maps in shadowed alcoves. Rick took to her lap like a bloody traitor, preening while Artos watched, half-grinning at the absurdity.
She drew him out, peeled layers without claws, and for the first ti since Winterfell's godswood, talk felt like breathing, not fencing. Whispers chased them— But Artos ignored like he give a damn what a rchant and cowards have to say. They can go and fuck themselves up in the arse.
Back at the rented manse overlooking the harbor, Artos sprawled shirtless on his bed, oiling one of the Valyrian daggers, rippled steel humming under his whetstone. Rick perched nearby, tearing jerky strips with disinterest.
The door banged open without knock—Ronan, face drawn tight as a noose, clutching a wax-sealed tube like it bit.
"Ergency from White Harbor A letter arrived for you," Ronan panted, thrusting it forward. "Manderly courier rode arse off getting here. Said it couldn't wait and has to be handed to you imdiately"
Artos sat up, brow furrowing. Wyman Manderly sent ravens for trade shit, not riders flogging horses to death.
Artos thoughts are in haywire ' The old man must thought to be really urgent that he sent it like that.'
He unfolded the letter suprised to see the seal of Gaint with broken chain than the rman he expected.
He snapped the seal— red wax , it brings nostalgia and mories . He was happy and nostalgic,but the script inside bore a heavier hand, ink bold and blotched from Greatjon Umber, his friend and brother in arms . The letter bore the details of Last Hearth and it's Lord Rogar Umber.
Heart thudded heavy. He unrolled it slow.
Artos,
Oh old Friend. I think it's ti that you return to the Holand and forget your bullshit for few tis . Brother Father's dying. Old wounds turned sour, lungs filling with his own blood. Maester gives him days, maybe. Man's been asking for you— his Wolf and Stark son , he calls you to see you last ti. Wants your face last, before the Old Gods takes him. No Stark lord bollocks, no king's command. So that's why If you don't co I will co to drag your ass from there myself so Ride hard, brother. North's cold and heavy and boring and silent without its Demon Wolf.
Greatjon Umber.
Your brother's in arms once
Artos stared, parchnt crumpling in his fist. Rogar Umber—big as a barn, laugh like thunder, the bull who'd hauled him from mud and made him who he was today ,called him kin, shared ad and food and trained him. Dying. The word landed like a warhamr.
He surged up, bellowing. "Waymar!" Nobody cos. He screams again " Bloody Waymar where the fuck are you."
The Manderly burst in, blade half-drawn, eyes scanning threat. "Commander? Trouble?"
"Boys ready to sail. Now. North. We need to go the Last Hearth. Pack light—we ride hard as wind hits Westeros."
Waymar blinked, shock plain. "Commander, we've irons in the fire here. Illyrio's deal closes tomorrow—pri contract, fat coin. Can't just—"
"Fuck the deal," Artos snarled, yanking on tunic. "Rogar's dying. Wants . That's the only thing matters. The man has done a lot for "
Ronan stepped forward, hands placating. "Hal, listen. A week's grace—wrap Illyrio, settle ledgers. Braavos don't forget slights. Rush off half-cocked, you burn bridges gold can't rebuild."
Artos rounded on him, eyes storm-dark. "Bridges? Rogar Umber pulled from death twice. Fought like a demon for Starks when blood ran hottest. Week's grace? He might be cold by then. We're going. Today."
Waymar and Ronan traded looks—resigned, outmatched. No arguing a wolf roused.
"Aye, Commander," Waymar sighed. "I'll rouse the lads."
Artos stord out, cloak whipping, boots pounding boards. Rick launched after, screeching alarm.
Braavos blurred—canals, rchants gaping as the Northern captain strode like doom incarnate. He hit Valen manse gates hamring fist till iron rang, guards scattering.
Seraphine t him in the solar, pearls at throat, ledgers scattered like fallen leaves. Her smile faded at his face.
"Hal? Gods, what storm blew you here at this ti?"
"I am going to North ," he said flat, no preamble. " Sailing north. Today."
She stilled, processing. "North. Westeros. Your ho. Why? Sothing happened there. Why so fast what's the ergency"
"Aye. Can't wait." He paced, wolf caged. " Sobody's dying out there. Soone close. So I need to go and et that person."
Seraphine rose graceful, hand on his arm—steadying. " Oh I am so sorry to hear that. May I ask who is this person that made the cold rcenary Commander Hal going this sad and emotional. Must be soone close that you are showing your vulnerable side to ." She said hugging Artos and consoling him.
He stopped her , eyes locking hers. "He kind of raised . So kind of like my second father to . So that's why I have to go and that's kind of his last wish. But I will return soon. Thought I tell you before going."
She looks at him softly, but eyes weighed heavy—freedom's pull against family's anchor. " Would you take with you. " She said suprising Artos
Artos bit shocked but tries to compose himself"Braavos whispers already couple us like lovers. You vanish north with ? Your Father would have Quite the nightmares about the rumours he is going to listen."
"Fuck whispers. Fuck magisters." Seraphine said.
Artos gripped her shoulders, voice raw. " See that's why your father warns you about . See your tongue and language gets affected staying with a dirty rcenary like "
Seraphine searched his face, breath catching. Braavosi blood ran hot for adventure, untad seas over ledger cages. Valen heir or no, she chafed at silks and suitors. "You worry about my house? Father's empire? "
"I worry about your reputation and your father threatening eyes when he sees ." Artos said
"I will Send a raven. 'Business North' We'll spin tales later and You're no fragile flower— co on handle those for wouldn't you."
She pulled free, pacing to window overlooking harbor chop. Rick wheeled outside, shadow fleeting. Minutes stretched taut as bowstring. Then she turned, chin lifted, decision carved.
Artos grinned fierce, They burst out together.
Back at the ship
Waymar barked orders—crates lashed, blades oiled, n cursing but moving. Ronan watched grim, counting lost coin in his head. "Madness," he muttered.
Waymar clapped his shoulder. "Not madness. Loyalty. Commander's got a heart under his anger that's what is being A Northn is."
Ships loosed from dock by dusk—swift galley, when they saw both Artos and Seraphine coming.
Waymar lookes at them " That's madness now."
Ronan full heartedly agreed with Waymar assessnt.
Artos at prow, Seraphine beside, wind whipping cloaks north. Rick soared ahead, scouting endless sea.
" Lets go and et the old man ." Artos said.
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