Chapter 120: The True Him
Robert ordered the boys brought to one of the inner audience chambers—the situation was too serious to ignore or leave to rumors.
Bjorn came first, broad-shouldered and silent, his jaw set in a hard line. Robb followed with a lord's stiffness in his spine and something like worry in his eyes. Loras Tyrell entered with controlled grace, but there was a tightness to his mouth that had not been there on the tourney grounds.
Prince Joffrey arrived last, flanked by a pair of guards, his chin high and his pride higher.
Robert sat at the head of the chamber, not on the Iron Throne but in a heavy wooden chair that looked more comfortable and no less burdensome. Artos stood to his right, hands folded behind his back, his good eye measuring every face as they entered.
Ethan waited near the door. Raka stood close, ready if needed.
"Close the door," Robert said.
The two Kingsguards who are following Jofferey obeyed.
Silence settled.
Robert let it sit for a beat too long, forcing each of them to feel it.
"Now," he said at last. "What happened?"
Joffrey was the first to move.
He stepped forward a little, anger already sharpening his tongue.
"Father," he began, "this fool Bjorn insulted your son and heir. I was teaching him a lesson, showing him how to behave and treat us. It seems he has not learned anything from the tourney incident yet. I was only reminding him of his place."
Artos's mouth curved faintly.
He laughed—low, amused.
Robert's head turned. "Artos."
Artos did not stop at once, which only made Robert's irritation heavier.
"You find this funny?" the king asked.
Artos shook his head once. "It is funny, is it not?"
Joffrey's eyes flashed. "You treat this as a jest."
Artos looked at him, and for the first time in the chamber, the atmosphere changed. It grew tighter. Thinner.
"I do treat this as a joke, boy," Artos said lightly.
Then his tone darkened.
"Because if I treated it seriously, that would have quite an impact on you—a situation your father would not want for you."
Joffrey stiffened. "I am a royal prince. You should show more respect," he shouted. "I was defending my house—and my grandfather."
Robert sighed at that, already tired of it.
Artos had heard enough.
"Were you now?" Artos asked, almost softly. "Or were you trying to stir the same fire your grandfather carries in his gut, hoping it would make you look more like him? Or reach for your father's approval? You wish to be the mighty Tywin or the Demon of the Trident. But you are neither. You are just a boy, waving a fancy title."
The prince stopped short.
Robb's brows rose at his uncle's words. He thought of the stories he had been hearing of old battles and rebellions, and he began to see the shape of the past behind them.
Loras's expression sharpened, as if curious how far Artos meant to go. He had seen the man who trained Winter Guards in conditions like hell; he knew this was only the surface.
Bjorn said nothing at all. He had already seen this side of his father a few nights ago, when Artos had slapped him down in one of his weakest moments—and one of the moments Bjorn now valued most.
Robert sighed. "Artos, you are meant to be helping me, not creating another problem."
"I am helping," Artos replied with a scoff. "Just not in the way the boy expected. In the way he needs—and you know that too."
Robert sighed
He turned back to Joffrey.
"If you wanted approval from your father, or even your grandfather," Artos said, "you chose the wrong path. Tywin Lannister does not respect temper without result. He does not care for tantrums. He cares for victories. What you did was not a victory. It was a child's attempt to look dangerous. As for your father—what you did was worse. You simply made his situation harder, attacking the family of his most important ally. Twice now. A stupid decision, however I look at it."
Joffrey flushed crimson. "You have no right—"
Robert cut him off. "Shut up, boy, and listen. This should have been done long before. Hear it now, before you do something even more embarrassing."
Artos's voice stayed smooth.
"Rights are for men who can enforce them," he said. "That is the world we live in. You are a prince. You have more rights and power than most. But that title alone does not mean much."
The words landed heavy in the room.
Robert pinched the bridge of his nose. "Here we go," he muttered, bracing himself for a conversation he knew would change things. He had avoided it for years, but after the Kingsroad and the tourney, there were worse things than harsh words from Artos—one day, those words might be replaced with steel.
Artos glanced at him briefly, then continued, speaking now not only to Joffrey but to everyone present.
"You think being a prince is a shield," he said. "You think your blood entitles you to respect, obedience, fear. You should know better, given how you came by that blood. It came through your father. But your father is king not because of blood."
Artos spoke the last word with open contempt, as if mocking Joffrey's whole idea of entitlement.
Joffrey stared at him as if struck. No one had spoken to him like this—not even his father.
Artos did not relent. He did not forgive anyone doesn't matter a prince or a King.
"Robert became king because he had resolve enough to stand, and strength enough to break the men who stood against him," Artos said. "Not because men saw his veins and blood in it and named him king. He won because he was a warrior who could move men to fight for him."
Robert looked at him, half exasperated, half begrudgingly satisfied.
"You could have said that more gently," he muttered.
"That did not work in the past," Artos replied. "It will not work now."
Joffrey's voice came again, smaller but sharp. "You call me weak. I am your prince."
He pulled his sword, steel flashing in the lamplight.
Everyone was shocked by that. Robert's anger flared at once.
"Put that sword back in its sheath, you foolish boy, if you do not want to be slapped," he growled, his voice full of warning. But pride burned hot in a boy who believed himself above all else.
Ethan and Raka moved, ready to intervene, but stopped when Artos lifted a hand. He was already stepping toward the prince himself.
Artos scoffed, the sound cold.
"I call your actions foolish," he said. "You believe that shoving at the North will make you appear strong to your grandfather. That insulting my son—my house—will look like loyalty to your family's pride. Do you truly think that?"
He stepped closer now, close enough to be a threat, close enough that Joffrey could feel his presence like a weight.
Joffrey was speechless.
"Well," Artos said, "you have at least understood one thing."
He went on, voice steady.
"You understand family loyalty. That is good. You wish to defend your blood. I respect that, no matter how naive the attempt, because so do I. You wanted to stand for your house. So did Bjorn."
He paused, then added, "Listen carefully, boy. You have learned in your lessons that men go to war for their families, or worse. You tried that here. I will do the same, if I must."
Joffrey swallowed, but tried to keep his chin high. "Are you threatening me?" His pride would not let him back down. His mother's words and pampering had left him blind to dangers like this.
Artos's smile turned thin. He even laughed, softly.
"No," he said. "This is not a threat. I threatened your father once. I told him I would cut his head from his shoulders during the rebellion. That is a threat. I am talking to you now; that is not the same. Learn the difference."
No man had raised his voice.
But the air felt more dangerous than it had on the lists.
Robb watched, jaw clenched, knowing a single wrong word could turn this from a conversation into a feud that would never end. Loras stood with the poise of a knight, but his eyes were sharp, his hand resting near his sword, weighing every phrase and movement.
Bjorn was more settled than the rest; he had already witnessed this version of his father.
Robert shifted in his chair. "Artos… is this truly how you want to do this? You are doing too much to the boy. He cannot handle it yet."
Artos scoffed. "Really? I was around his age when I started that war," he said. "I know what I am doing. He needs this."
Joffrey clenched his fists. "You know nothing of my—"
Robert cut in, his own voice serious now. "Have you thought this through before you speak do anymore?"
Artos did not turn. "Aye," he said. "It needs to be done—to break the grudges here and from the past."
Robert sighed, thought about it, and said nothing, letting Artos continue.
Artos looked back to Joffrey.
"So. The royal prince with royal blood wants to prove his superiority, to show his grandfather and father who he is," Artos said. "I will give you a chance. A chance that will make your grandfather very, very happy."
Joffrey hesitated. "What chance?" he asked, some of his earlier bravado slipping into fear.
"You already have your sword drawn," Artos said. "Why waste it? I am here. Use it on me. Cut my head off and bring it to your grandfather. Trust me—he will praise you more for that than for anything else you have ever done. And I will not even use a weapon. Only my hands."
The men present were shocked at the offer.
Joffrey saw an opportunity instead. He held a sword; on the other side was a man he had never seen fight with a weapon.
Robb and Loras both wanted to say something, but Bjorn shook his head, stopping them.
"Let him," Bjorn whispered, shocking them.
Robert did not say a word; he was sick of stubborn men, and he knew that any attempt to stop this now would only prolong it.
"If you do not value your life, I will gladly take it," Joffrey said, trying for confidence.
Artos scoffed. "Then come."
Joffrey came at him with his sword.
Artos smirked, stepped aside with startling speed, and let his leg do the work, setting a subtle trap.
The prince walked straight into it. Artos hooked his leg against Joffrey's, and the boy went down hard, crashing to the floor, sword jolting in his hand.
Joffrey fell.
Artos mocked him, voice cold and amused. "Is that prince's title helping you become a warrior any time soon?"
Joffrey, angered and humiliated, scrambled to his feet and attacked again.
Artos simply backed away a step and dodged, smiling in a way that only made the boy angrier.
Joffrey swung to stab, but this time Artos moved in close, catching the prince's wrist with his right hand and driving his left fist into Joffrey's nose.
Blood burst out at once.
"Ahhh!" Joffrey screamed, dropping his sword as he went down.
"Kill him! Kill him!" Joffrey shouted to his guards, clutching his face. Two Kingsguard beside him—men loyal more to gold than to king—unsheathed their blades at once, ready to obey.
Northern hands went to hilts in answer.
But Artos raised a hand to stop them and bent to pick up Joffrey's fallen sword.
Then he began to walk slowly toward the two Kingsguard, his expression cold and not very calmly.
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