Chapter 52: Perspectives
The morning light filtered through the tall windows of Winterfell's solar, casting long shadows across the parchment-laden desk where Eddard Stark sat surrounded by the endless bureaucracy of lordship. Winter was coming—it always was, always would be—and the North never stopped demanding attention, never ceased its relentless march toward preparation and survival.
Maester Luwin entered with the morning correspondence, a sheaf of letters carefully organized by importance and origin. The old maester had served House Stark faithfully, and his ability to distill the chaos of the realm into digestible information was one of Eddard's most valuable assets.
"Letters from King's Landing, my lord," Luwin began, selecting a sealed parchment bearing the royal stag. "An invitation to a tourney in honor of Prince Joffrey Baratheon's birth. The King himself extends the invitation, as does the Hand. They express hope that House Stark will send a champion to compete."
Eddard set down his quill and leaned back in his chair, rubbing tired eyes. The tourney invitation was both honor and political necessity—a show of faith from the crown, a chance to display Northern strength at court. But the logistics of it were impossible.
"Politely decline," Eddard said, his tone carrying finality. "Compose a courteous response expressing my regrets, but make clear that the demands of Northern governance require my continued presence here. We're in the midst of significant development projects, and I cannot spare the time or the resources for such festivities."
There was more to it than that, of course. Unspoken but hanging in the air between them was the simple fact that Eddard had no one to send. Robb was still a child, scarcely old enough to be The Stark of Winterfell. Benjen was absorbed in the mammoth task of rebuilding and fortifying Moat Cailin. And Artos...Well, Artos was not available, and that was the heart of many of Eddard pains.
"There's another matter that requires your attention, my lord," Luwin continued, his voice taking on a more cautious tone. "The development of Sea Dragon Point is proceeding admirably. The harbor facilities are nearly complete, the fortifications are sound, and the garrison is well-established."
"That's good," Eddard said, some of his tension easing. "The North needs a strong port presence if we're to compete and fullfill current demand in maritime trade. Manderly can't carry all the burden alone."
"Indeed, my lord. However, there is... a concern among some of the Northern lords." Luwin chose his words with visible care. "They are pleased that Lord Artos is being given responsibility through the lordship of Sea Dragon Point—it's a suitable rank and holding. But they are troubled by his prolonged absence. There are whispers that resources are being invested in a castle that lacks its lord, that development proceeds without clear direction."
Eddard felt his jaw tighten. This was the eternal problem with Artos— his refusal to simply remain present and fulfill his obligations was infuriating."Let them whisper," Eddard said, though his voice carried more frustration than wisdom. "I will appoint a capable castellan to manage Sea Dragon Point until Artos returns. Someone trustworthy, someone who understands both the political sensitivities and the practical necessities. The North will not suffer because my brother needs time to work through his... difficulties."
He paused, aware that his words had taken on an edge that should have been kept private. "Artos will return. He cannot run forever. Eventually, the weight of his own blood will pull him back home, and when it does, he'll find a lordship waiting for him—a seat of real power, a responsibility befitting his abilities. He can't play the fool forever. He's a Stark, by the gods, whether he admits it or not."
"Of course, my lord," Luwin agreed quietly. "In the meantime, the news from Essos suggests that his... endeavors are proving remarkably beneficial."
Despite his anger,regret and annoyance, Eddard felt a swell of reluctant pride. Over the past year, reports had arrived about Artos's activities abroad—mercenary work, trade negotiations, some kind of victory against Unsullied soldiers. And more than that, the practical benefits of his arrangements were beginning to reshape the North's economy.
"The mead," Luwin continued, consulting his notes, "has become quite popular throughout the realm. The special recipe—his special recipe—commands premium prices in taverns. And the trade arrangements he facilitated through White Harbour have created a cascade of economic benefits and has become a significant source of revenue for multiple Northern houses. Aphrodisiac trade also the most popular item from the Manderly's."
Eddard listened as his maester detailed the improvements in grain prices, the expansion of trade routes, the general prosperity spreading through the North like spring thaw. It was impressive, genuinely impressive. Artos might be a stubborn bastard who'd run from his responsibilities, but he never left behind a legacy of practical benefit that would serve the North for years to come."What of his current status?" Eddard asked. "Is he well? Safe?"
"Relatively well, my lord, though he continues to court danger with his characteristic enthusiasm," Luwin replied. "The reports suggest he's made enemies among the Essosi nobility—various magisters and lords who feel cheated or threatened by his presence. But he seems to be holding his own, and his reputation continues to grow."
"His reputation," Eddard repeated, tasting the words.
"That of a commander who cannot be defeated, my lord. Tales are beginning to circulate about battles he's fought, victories that shouldn't have been possible. The accounts grow more exaggerated with each retelling, but the core seems to be that he's becoming something of a legend in Essos."
Eddard felt a complex knot of emotions tighten in his chest. Pride that his brother was accomplishing so much, fear that he was accomplishing it too well, too dangerously. Anger that Artos had felt the need to leave at all, guilt that his own stubbornness about the sept had driven his brother into exile."Is there anything we should do?" Eddard asked quietly. "Any way we can support him? Any danger we should address?"
Luwin considered the question carefully. "I would counsel patience, my lord. Lord Artos appears to be thriving, after his fashion. His endeavors benefit the North even in his absence. Perhaps the most supportive thing House Stark can do is what we're already doing—allowing him space to find his way back to himself."
Eddard nodded slowly, accepting the wisdom even as it pained him. "Very well. See to the appointment of a castellan for Sea Dragon Point. Someone competent and loyal. And Luwin—continue gathering intelligence on my brother's activities. I want to know if he's ever in genuine danger, if he ever needs us. Otherwise, we let him be."
"Of course, my lord. Shall we continue with the day's other business?"
"Yes," Eddard replied. "We have a realm to run."
The wind howled across the Neck as Bert made his way to Lord Benjen's chambers at Moat Cailin. The fortress was taking shape beautifully—the old stones being reinforced, new structures rising, the entire position transforming from a ruin into something that might actually serve as a true second seat of Stark power. Benjen had thrown himself into the work with admirable dedication, his natural leadership ability combining with genuine architectural interest to create something impressive.
But today, Bert carried news that would complicate the lord's growing sense of purpose.
He found Benjen reviewing reports from the construction crews, quill in hand, his concentration absolute. The young lord looked up as Bert entered, managing a tired smile."Bert. What brings you to my chambers at this hour?"
"A gift from your brother, my lord," Bert said, gesturing to the large wooden crate he'd set down near the doorway. "Several crates, actually. Mead, if I'm not mistaken. He remembers how to favor his older brother, at least."
Benjen's expression softened slightly at the mention of Artos. Despite everything—the anger, the disappointment, the complex feelings surrounding his brother's departure—there remained genuine affection beneath the frustration."Is there a letter?" Benjen asked.
"Not exactly a letter," Bert replied carefully. "But there are gifts enclosed for your children and Congratulations for your newly born son. And a message, of sorts. He says—and I'm paraphrasing here—that you shouldn't put so much pressure on Lady Dacey regarding the children. Says he didn't know his older brother was so eager to expand the family line."
Benjen let out a short, sharp laugh that was more exasperation than humor. "Damn that bastard. Always knows exactly what to say to get under my skin, doesn't he? Even from across the Narrow Sea, he manages it."
"There's more, my lord," Bert said, and the shift in his tone made Benjen look up sharply. "News that's not directly from him, but concerning him nonetheless."
"What kind of news?" Benjen set down his quill and gave Bert his full attention."Several of our Skagosi men have returned home to bring their families north, after their living arrangements were done building" Bert explained, choosing his words with deliberate care. "Many of them served under Lord Artos during the war. Recently, a few of them brought word back that Lady Yor. She's been seen with a child."
Benjen's eyes narrowed slightly as the implication began to sink in. "This is the same Yor that was with Artos during the rebellion?"
"The same woman, my lord. According to the reports, she seems quite attached to the child. And from the descriptions the men bring back, the boy bears... distinctive features."
"Stark features?" Benjen's tone had become carefully controlled.
"That's what they suggest, my lord. And the timing would be consistent with when Lord Artos was last in contact with the Skagosi people, before he left for Essos."
Benjen rose from his desk and moved to the window, looking out over the stark beauty of the Neck. The wind was sharp there, cutting through cloth and flesh alike, forcing men to be hardy.
"It's not necessarily his child," Benjen said, though doubt colored his voice. "Yor could have married another warrior. The Women don't remain single forever. She could have a husband by now, for all we know."
"She could, my lord," Bert agreed. "However, she doesn't seem to be And the child is described as bearing strong Stark characteristics—dark hair, grey eyes, the look of our house. The timing of the boy's age matches the period when Lord Artos had contact with her before departing for Essos."
Benjen turned back from the window, his expression troubled. "Would she not have sent word if it was truly Artos's child? Would Skagosi not announced that atleast to the Starks?"
"Perhaps, my lord," Bert replied carefully. "But the Skagosi are a proud people, and Yor especially. She may see mothering the boy as her own responsibility. And they are complicated people with very different thoughts."
Benjen ran his fingers through his hair, clearly wrestling with the implications. "You think it's his then? You think Artos has a bastard child among the Skagosi?"
"I think it's possible, my lord," Bert said honestly. "But I wouldn't recommend investigating further without consulting Lord Eddard first. This is a matter that concerns the entire house, not just Moat Cailin. If there is a child, if it is truly Artos's blood, then the decision about how to proceed must come from the Lord of Winterfell."
Benjen nodded slowly, recognizing the wisdom in that counsel. "You're right. We'll wait and inform Ned. He should know, and he should decide how to handle it. Artos would probably find it amusing that he's becoming a father without knowing it, the bastard."
There was affection and sarcasm even in the exasperation, Bert noted. Despite everything, Benjen's love'
for his wayward brother remained strong.
Across the Narrow Sea, in a tavern in Lys that overlooked the harbor, Artos Stark sat drinking wine that was far too expensive for a sellsword captain but exactly appropriate for a man whose reputation was growing with each passing day. Around him, merchants and nobles and various hangers-on cast glances in his direction, some admiring, some fearful, all tinged with the particular quality of attention that legends commanded.
He had no idea that he'd likely fathered a child with a Skagosi. He didn't care that his brother was now lord of a castle being rebuilt to challenge Karstark power. He didn't care that his mead was being sold in taverns across Westeros, that his name was becoming synonymous with military genius.
He knew only that he felt more alive than he ever had, that the weight of being a Stark had been replaced by the exhilaration of being something undefined—something dangerous and legendary and gloriously, terrifyingly free.
Ignorance, as they said, was sometimes a blessing and a bliss.
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