Chapter 24: Demons of the North
Artos Stark
The funeral pyres had burned three days past, their smoke long since scattered by the wind, but the taste of ash still lingered in Artos's mouth. Victory tasted different than he'd imagined bitter as old iron, heavy as a gravestone.
His body was healing faster than the maesters had predicted. The cuts that should have taken a moon to close were already pink scars, and his sword arm which he'd feared might never grip a blade properly again felt almost as strong as before. Perhaps the old gods weren't finished with him yet. Or perhaps, as some whispered, demons healed quickly.
The demon moniker did stick together . Even my are famous or accurately saying infamous as *Demons of the North*. The four thousand who'd survived what the camp was naming the Bloody Dance the slaughter on the right flank that had left two-thirds of both armies feeding the crows. The title had spread through the loyalist prisoners and rebel camps like wildfire, whispered in fear and awe.
Robert had earned himself a name too the *Demon of the Trident* but his was sung in triumph, not spoken in dread. Jon Arryn made certain of that, pushing the tale of the great lord who'd crushed the dragon prince with his warhammer. A hero's song for the bards, clean and glorious.
Artos's tale was different. Darker. The kind of story told in hushed voices around dying fires, when men wanted to frighten their enemies.
He understood the necessity of it. The common folk needed to see Robert as their savior, not another mad king drunk on blood. Fear served well in battle, but poorly in politics. With rare exceptions like Tywin Lannister.
Still, it rankled. They'd won the war with Northern steel and Northern blood, and now the South wanted to forget the cost.
*Their problem*, he told himself. *I've done my part.*
But the men who'd fought beside him... they were changed. He could see it in their eyes, the way they held themselves, the hunger that never seemed to fade. They looked at him like hounds waiting for the hunt, ready to follow him to the seven hells and back if he but gave the word.
Artos made his way to his command tent, where his inner circle waited. The canvas walls couldn't contain the atmosphere that had settled over his forces thick with violence barely held in check.
Stig sat cleaning his blade with methodical precision, the steel gleaming like silver in the afternoon light. "The men are restless," he said without looking up. "They don't want to go home. They want to fight."
"Aye," Bert agreed, his massive hands folded carefully in his lap. Still trying to forget how much blood had stained them. "They're calling you the Demon Commander now, my lord. Ready to die on your word alone."
The Greatjon lounged in a camp chair, but his posture was that of a wolf at rest all coiled energy and predatory awareness. "Half of them sleep with their weapons drawn. Not from fear, mind you. From hope."
Artos settled into his own chair, feeling the familiar ache in his healing ribs. "I've heard the complaints. Jon Arryn's getting nervous about our... reputation. Even our allies are keeping their distance."
"What's their grievance?" Stig asked, testing his blade's edge against his thumb. A thin line of blood appeared. "We won their bloody war for them."
"According to the lords paramount, we won it too thoroughly," Artos replied. "They say we should have accepted surrenders when they were offered. Should have shown mercy to men who'd have shown us none."
"Mercy's a luxury," Bert said quietly. "Dead men don't surrender."
"No, but they also don't raise armies in revenge," Artos countered. "That's the concern, anyway. We killed too many important men ords, knights, heirs. Made too many enemies in the Crownlands. Now their families will remember every slight, every death."
The Greatjon spat. "Let them remember. Let them know what happens when you cross the North. After all the North remembers the most."
"For us, it doesn't matter," Artos said. "We're Northerners. We understand that wars are meant to be brutal, decisive. But the Southrons..." He shrugged. "They play different games. Politics over warfare. They need Robert to be seen as a liberator, not a conqueror."
"Politics," Stig muttered like it was a curse word.
"Aye. Politics."
Footsteps approached the tent, and Ned's familiar silhouette appeared at the entrance. His brother looked older than his years, weighted down by responsibilities that seemed to multiply daily.
"Brother," Ned said, stepping inside with a tired smile. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"Never," Artos replied, though he noticed how his men straightened at Ned's presence. The future Lord of Winterfell commanded respect even from demons.
But then Ned's face brightened, the weariness lifting from his features like morning mist. "I have news good news for once. A raven from Riverrun. Catelyn is with child. The babe should come within a moon or two."
The tent fell silent for a heartbeat, then erupted in congratulations. Artos stood and embraced his brother warmly, surprised by the genuine joy that filled his chest. After so much death, the promise of new life felt like a blessing from the gods themselves.
"A nephew or niece," Artos said, grinning. "Have you thought of names?"
Ned replied, his voice soft with memory. " I will let the mother decide . I will not be there at the time anyway."
"Congratulations, my lord," the Greatjon said gruffly. "The North needs strong heirs."
Bert and Stig added their own well-wishes, and for a moment the tent felt lighter, filled with hope rather than the weight of war.
When Ned took a seat among them, his expression grew more serious. "What were you discussing when I arrived?"
"The Bloody Dance," the Greatjon replied bluntly. "How the men have changed. How we've all changed, if I'm being honest."
Ned nodded grimly. "It's a problem. Jon Arryn is beside himself trying to contain the stories. They've even issued orders to stop the tales from spreading further." He ran a hand through his hair. "Jon says it will be difficult enough selling Robert as the rightful king without adding tales of Northern demons to complicate matters."
"So they'll focus on Robert and Rhaegar," Artos said. It wasn't a question.
"Aye. That and young Lyn Corbray's heroics after his father fell. Clean victories, noble sacrifices. Your battle..." Ned shook his head. "Too bloody for the history books, they say."
"Probably for the best," Artos admitted. "We sent our message to the right people. The lords will remember, and that's what matters."
"True. Having a reputation like Tywin Lannister serves no one, especially not the common folk." Ned leaned forward.
"But there are other concerns. When do we march on King's Landing? The men are recovered, and they're... eager."Artos asked
"Bloodthirsty, you mean," Ned said with a sardonic smile.
Ned's "There's to be a war council tonight. You're welcome to attend, though I suspect most of it will be logistics and politics."
Artos waved a dismissive hand. "You handle that. I've little patience for the games lords play with words. Just make sure that when it comes time for justice when we finally settle accounts for Father and Brandon . This time the North isn't left watching from the sidelines."
Ned's grey eyes hardened with resolve. "Never. We will have our vengeance, brother. The North remembers."
*And the North will have its due*, Artos thought as his brother departed. The lords could play their games, spin their tales, and polish their reputations. But when the reckoning came and it would come they would need their demons again.
He just wondered if, when that day arrived, anyone would be able to control what they'd unleashed on the Trident's bloody banks.
Outside, he could hear his men at their weapons practice, the ring of steel on steel carrying across the camp like a war song. Four thousand wolves, sharpening their teeth, waiting for the word to hunt.
The war might be won, but the killing wasn't over. Not yet.
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