Chapter 141: Pack Above All
Bjorn opened his mouth, the name already forming, already decided somewhere deep beneath all those memories crashing together at once.
Another memory came. This one was quite new. The memory of his father coming to him and asking him for this—a memory to cherish, and one that also left a bad taste.
Days earlier. The Tower of the Hand.
The solar had smelled of ink and candle smoke when Bjorn arrived, summoned without explanation, which had become common enough over the past weeks that he'd stopped questioning it.
"Father," Bjorn said, stepping through the door with a short nod. "You asked for me."
Artos looked up from whatever he'd been reading, and something entirely unexpected crossed his face.
He smiled.
Not the thin, sharp curve he wore when he'd outmaneuvered someone in the Small Council. Not the grim satisfaction he'd shown standing over the Mountain's ruined body. An open, genuine warmth, the kind Bjorn could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen in his entire life.
Bjorn took it in stride, though the surprise must have shown regardless.
"Is something the matter?" he asked.
"There is something," Artos said, still smiling. "And it's quite pleasant, for once."
That only deepened Bjorn's surprise. His father in a jolly mood was rarer than snow in Dorne. He'd seen it perhaps with Lady Seraphine at his side, and later, with Sera, Bjorn's youngest sibling and the only person alive who could make the DemonWolf laugh without effort.
"What is it, Father?"
Artos set his papers aside and leaned back. "I've made a decision. One that includes you in it."
Bjorn's curiosity sharpened. "What decision?"
Artos with the biggest smile one his face he announced "I've decided to leave the lands and titles of Sea Dragon Point to you. Officially. Before the court, before the King, before the gods." Artos held his gaze steadily. "I'm giving up the seat for good."
The words settled into the room, and Bjorn found himself entirely unable to react to them the way he suspected most men his age would have.
He should have been happy. Any young man in the Seven Kingdoms would have been. Lands, a title, a seat of his own, all of it handed over without a war or a death or a decade of waiting.
Instead, something cold and uneasy turned over in his chest.
"Why?" he asked.
Artos's brow lifted slightly. "That's not the reaction I expected."
"Why now?" Bjorn pressed. "You're not old. You're not dying. You're the Hand of the King, and Sea Dragon Point is yours by right and by blood. Why would you simply hand it away?"
"Because you're ready,son" Artos said. "You've proved that well enough. You impressed me, Bjorn, and I don't say that lightly. Consider it a reward for the trial."
Bjorn shook his head slowly, unsatisfied. "I could wait. I'd have gotten it eventually, the way every son gets his father's seat. So why the hurry? Is something the matter? Is something bothering you?"
Artos waved the question aside laughing,
"You've inherited me well enough," Artos said smiling instead. "My strength. My temper. My particular talent for making enemies who wake at night remembering my name." His mouth curved slightly. "But in my eyes, that isn't enough. You're much more than my legacy, boy."
Bjorn frowned. "I don't understand."
"I want you to build something of your own," Artos said. "Not my lands ruled in my shadow. Not my name carried forward . Something that belongs to you and you only, that came from you, that the realm will one day speak of without needing to mention me at all." He paused. "I want to see what you become. I want to be amazed by it. I want to be proud of something my son will make. It's a father genuine wish, son."
Bjorn stood there, stunned into silence, and found himself entirely uncertain what to feel.
Part of him wanted to be happy. His father—the DemonWolf, the man who had spent years grinding him down and building him back up without once offering praise—was telling him he expected greatness from him.
The other part felt something closer to grief. Because underneath all of it, this was also his father sending him away. Bjorn to Sea Dragon Point, Artos to King's Landing, and gods only knew how many years would pass before they stood in the same room again.
"I don't know what I should do," Bjorn admitted finally.
Artos laughed at that—a real laugh, low and warm.
"Accept it, son," he said simply. "It's my wish to see what my proud son achieves. After all, you and your siblings are my greatest legacy. Not the lands. Not the wealth. Not the titles or the name or anything else the realm cares to count. My sons and my daughter. That's all of it."
Bjorn stared at his father's face, unable to find words.
"I have great expectations of all of you," Artos continued. "But you especially, Bjorn. I want you to build a legacy so great that history remembers me as Artos, who was the father of Bjorn—not Bjorn, who was the son of Artos."
His voice had gone quieter, but no less certain. "And I know very well you're capable of it."
Something broke loose in Bjorn's chest at that, sudden and overwhelming, and to his own private humiliation he felt his eyes burn.
A grown man weeping in front of his father, he thought, and a Skagosi at that.
Artos read it on his face before Bjorn could turn away, and crossed the room without a word, pulling his son into an embrace that said everything neither of them had ever been good at putting into speech.
No need to worry, son.
They stayed like that for a while.
When they finally sat again, Bjorn had recovered enough to be calm, collected, and mildly embarrassed.
"There's something else," Artos said. "A suggestion. I've given up the seat, so it's suggestion yours to accept or refuse."
"I'm always open to your words, Father."
"Choose a new house name."
Bjorn blinked. "A new name?"
"Your legacy isn't mine," Artos said. "And it isn't Winterfell's either. You'll support them, protect them, bleed for them if it comes to that—I raised you well enough to know you would. But you're your own man, Bjorn. Your house should reflect that."
Bjorn considered it for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I'll think on it. And I'll follow your counsel."
The present.
The throne room waited in absolute silence, hundreds of eyes fixed on him, and Bjorn thought of his father's words—his legacy, the Stark name, and Artos himself.
He would build something of his own. But he would not tear himself free of his roots to do it.
"I choose the name House Startos, Your Grace."
The murmur that swept the hall carried a different quality than the shock of the earlier announcement. Lords leaned toward one another, working through it aloud—Stark and Artos, both woven into a single name, honoring Winterfell and his father in one breath without claiming to be either.
Robert caught it immediately, and something like genuine approval crossed his face.
"A fine name, young man," Robert said. "I hope you achieve a great deal with it, and make your father proud of this decision of his." His mouth curved. "Though I suspect he already is."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Bjorn said, bowing his head in genuine gratitude.
Robert nodded, settling back slightly. "Words for your house, then? Every house needs them. Though if nothing comes to mind, you may take your time. Some houses waited generations before settling on something worth carving into stone."
Bjorn thought about it.
He thought about Skagos, and the warriors who had thundered their approval when he demanded trial by combat. He thought about Robb and Loras standing behind him without being asked. He thought about Yor with a blade at his father's throat because her son had bled. He thought about Eddard handing him Ice in front of the entire realm, and Artos telling him his children were the only legacy that mattered.
Only one thing made sense.
"Pack above all," Bjorn said, with complete conviction.
The silence that followed was different again—not shock, not confusion, but something closer to recognition.
Eddard's face broke into a rare, unguarded smile.
Artos said nothing at all. He simply met his son's eyes across that vast hall and nodded once, slow and deliberate, and Bjorn found that single gesture worth more than every title and every acre of land he'd been handed that morning.
Robert rose, voice carrying with full ceremonial weight. "Wise words"
"Very well spoken, Well From this day forward, you shall be known as Bjorn of House Startos, Lord of Sea Dragon Point."
The tension that had gripped that hall since the trials finally broke, and something almost celebratory rippled through the crowd—Northern lords thumping fists against their chests, the Skagosi delegation roaring approval, Robb and Loras grinning openly from where they stood.
For some.
Not for all.
Tywin Lannister's face remained perfectly composed, perfectly still, and perfectly unreadable, though anyone who'd studied him long enough would have noticed the particular tightness around his eyes—the look of a man watching his enemies grow roots in ground he'd assumed was his own.
Cersei did not clap.
And somewhere among the Western lords, quiet enough to escape most ears but not all, someone muttered a curse against wolves that would be remembered later, when it mattered.
---
Please, please join the Patreon. Its really a genuine request. Please join it.
Thank you for your lovely support
Please join the patreon and join the pack
www.patreon.com/Cregantheblackwolf
Thank you for your support and I am really grateful