**Chapter 1 – Artos Stark**
A young man, barely fourteen, strode down the stone corridor of Winterfell with a purpose that belied his age. Standing nearly six feet tall, he already towered over most grown men. A long sword hung at his waist; several throwing knives and handaxes were strapped across his chest and thighs like extensions of his body. Few would guess he hadn't lived beyond two decades of winters yet.
With fists clenched and fury burning in his pale grey eyes, Artos Stark pushed open the large oak doors of his father's solar—without knocking.
"Are we truly going through with this farce, Father?" he barked with a voice already deep from the cold northern air. "Giving Lyanna to that drunken whoremonger"
Lord Rickard Stark didn't even flinch at the outburst. He looked up from a scroll and fixed his youngest son with a calm but cold stare.
"Watch your tongue, boy," he said firmly. "That 'whoremonger' is Lord Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. And yes, Lyanna will marry him."
Artos's fists tightened.
"You're selling your own daughter like chattel now? Is this what honor means to House Stark? To the North?"
Rickard's temper cracked.
"Hold your DAMN tongue! That's your wolf blood talking!" He stood now, the shadow of the Warden of the North filling the room. "The Old Gods must've cursed me when I trusted Brandon and Lyanna to raise you and let them make you a pup—fed on rage, pride, and foolishness."
Artos's jaw clenched, his fury simmering just beneath the surface. But even he knew this was a battle he could not win. Not against his father. Not even his Big brother could win.
Without a word, he turned his back and stormed out. His black cloak whipped behind him as he charged down the steps of the keep, his boots echoing against the stone.
Rickard followed, calling after him. "Where are you gallivanting off to now, Artos?!"
"Your memory must be slipping, Father," Artos retorted without stopping. "Last Hearth. You sent me there, remember? To be 'shaped' by the Umbers."
"You brat," Rickard growled. "You'll attend Brandon's wedding at Riverrun when Benjen returns. Your brother will want you at his side."
Artos had already swung into his saddle. "I'll be there when he marries in the North. I'll not attend a marriage done in a sept. You shouldn't have agreed to that southern farce."
Rickard held his temper, staring as the boy rode off, ten loyal men trailing behind him like wolves.
"Seven hells…" the Lord of Winterfell muttered. "Why must you be the most difficult of them all?"
He stood at the gates of Winterfell a while longer, watching his youngest son going into the trees. A sigh escaped his lips as old memories stirred.
He'd lost his wife when Artos was just a babe. The boy never knew a mother's love. Rickard himself had been too tangled in politics and duty to raise a child still swaddled in grief. So he'd left it to Brandon and Lyanna—and the Old Gods had cursed him for it. They'd fed the boy with all their fire but none of the discretion. The wolf blood ran wild in him—untamed.
"Clever lad," Rickard spoke in a rage of his own. "But always choosing rage over reason."
He'd hoped the Umbers would beat some sense into the boy. Sent him to Last Hearth, thinking the wild giants of the North might temper him. But it hadn't worked. If anything, it fanned his fire. By fourteen, Artos had already tasted battle. Led raids against wildling raiders. Rode like a warrior twice his age. Sparred like a berserker possessed. Even Lord Rogar Umber, a giant of a man, had thrown up his hands at the boy's recklessness.
"He's a damn battle-maniac…" Rickard muttered again, rubbing his temples.
Three days after leaving Winterfell, Artos Stark rode hard into Last Hearth under grey skies and northern winds.
He liked the Umbers—tall, fierce, unyielding. Larger-than-life men who respected strength, not titles.
At the gates of the keep stood Greatjon Umber, heir to House Umber—a massive man in his late twenties with a wild grin and eyes as sharp as ice.
"Back already, lad?" Greatjon called out as Artos dismounted. "You didn't even stay a full week in Winterfell."
Artos shrugged. "Wasn't much reason to. Brandon and Lyanna are off at the tourney in Harrenhal, and Father can only lecture me for so long before I go mad."
Greatjon roared with laughter. "Careful, Stark. Say that too loud and Father might double your sparring sessions."
"Long as he doesn't ban me from riding again," Artos muttered. "He already threatened to lock up Snow last time."
Greatjon chuckled. "Your warhorse is half the reason my father despairs. Storms down the yard like a bloody demon."
"Any news from beyond the Wall?" Artos asked, changing subject. "Any wildlings worth chasing? I need to bleed off some frustration."
"Not much lately," Greatjon replied, disappointed. "The bastards are growing scarce—too scared to cross the Wall these days."
"We could poke around Bear Island again," Artos offered with a mischievous smirk. "Might be some Ironborn sniffing there."
Greatjon shook his head. "After last time? My father made me sleep in the kennels for two nights. And then gave me a bloody sermon about being a father and a husband—and not a young boy anymore."
Artos laughed. "And threatened to ban me from riding Snow. I remember."
"Bah, the old giant's just sour he can't ride into raids and risk everything anymore—else Mother would skin him," Greatjon huffed.
Artos barked out another laugh. "And you're so much braver, right? You flinched last time Lady Maera raised her voice. There was a dagger involved, if I recall."
"Fuck off, Stark," Greatjon snapped, though without heat. "You know nothing of marriage. I was stuck outside the bedchamber for a full moon."
"I warned you," Artos said, grinning ear to ear.
Greatjon shook his head in defeat. "Little Jon's been throwing tantrums asking for his 'Uncle Artos.' He missed your chaos."
"I missed the little one too," Artos said softly. "Reminds me there's still innocence in this damned world."
The cold winds of the North howled across Last Hearth's timbered walls. But inside the fire-lit hall, two large men shared laughter and warmth. And for a brief moment, all the rage and duty pressing down on Artos Stark felt just a little lighter.