Chapter 142: Brothers
The gossip had run its course, the feasting had ended, and the great gathering that had drawn half the realm to King's Landing was finally emptying out.
Carts rolled through the Gates in long, groaning lines. Banners came down from guest towers. Lords who had spent the past weeks whispering about Skagosi warriors and severed heads and lords who gave away their seats while still breathing were now simply travelers, tired and eager for home.
Artos had no such luxury.
There were departures to arrange, ships to secure, letters to write, and the ordinary grinding business of running a realm that did not pause simply because everyone he loved was leaving at once.
But he made time. The gods only knew when they would all stand in the same place again.
Which was why, in the pale morning light, he was walking the outer gardens with his brother.
"So you're certain about this," Ned said. "All of us gone. Won't you feel lonely here?"
Artos smirked. "I doubt it. I'll have far too much shit to handle to be lonely."
Ned laughed—a real one, brief and warm. "Aye. You'll have quite a time of it."
"That's one word for it." Artos nodded, still smiling faintly. "Between Robert's debts, Robert's hunts, Robert's whores, and Robert's council, I expect to be thoroughly entertained for years."
They walked a few paces in easy silence, gravel crunching underfoot.
"Sansa and Arya are going to miss you," Ned said. "So will the others. But those two especially. They've enjoyed their time here more than I expected—more than I'm entirely comfortable admitting."
"They've improved," Artos said, and there was genuine pride in it. "Both of them, in different ways. I'll miss them too." His expression cooled slightly. "But it isn't safe here anymore. Not after everything."
"Aye." Ned's jaw tightened. "Which is exactly why I keep saying you should come home as well."
Artos exhaled slowly.
"You know Robert better than I do, Ned. Better than anyone living. He won't agree" He shook his head. "If I am being honest I really can't leave. The realm goes to shit if I'm not here to hold it together, and when the realm goes to shit, the North bleeds with it. Coin dries up. Grain prices climb. Bandits multiply. It reaches us eventually, it always does."
"There are other men—"
"There's Tywin Lannister to take advantage for any slip ups," Artos said flatly. "That's who follows me. And we've kicked that lion in the ribs rather thoroughly these past weeks. If he takes the Hand's chair after I vacate it, every debt we've made comes due at once, and he'll be the one setting the terms." He glanced sideways. "Better this way. Believe me."
"I suppose," Ned said.
He did not sound convinced. He did not look it either.
It sat wrong in his chest—had sat wrong since the moment Artos accepted the position. His brother alone in this city of vipers, with no pack at his back, no Northern walls around him, nothing but his own reputation and a crown that would drink him dry if he let it.
Lone wolf, Ned thought grimly. Of all the things you've made yourself, why that one.
Artos read it easily enough and shook his head, moving the conversation along before it could settle into something heavier.
"As for Arya and Sansa," he said, "I have suggestions for them."
"Go on."
"Sansa. Keep her at Robb's side for lordly duties—ledgers, petitions, holding court, all of it." Artos gestured vaguely. "She'd enjoy it more than you'd think, and it would do wonders for her confidence. She's got a mind for people that Robb would find helpful. Let them work together."
Ned nodded thoughtfully. It was sound advice, and would cost him nothing but a few raised eyebrows from his household. "That I can manage easily enough."
"Good." Artos paused. "I'm also sending Vakho north with Arya. He's been teaching her combat, and she's taken to it far better than I expected. No reason to stop now."
Ned stopped walking.
"Arty." His voice had gone flat with dread. "You cannot be serious."
"Oh but I am brother." Artos said smirking.
"Arty, You're handing me that situation and riding nowhere near it." Ned pressed his fingers to his temple. "Catelyn will—gods, do you understand what you're doing to me? This will be a nightmare. A sustained nightmare, for months."
Artos's smirk widened.
"Still afraid of your wife, then."
"That is not—"
"You're the Lord Paramount of the North," Artos continued mercilessly. "You stared down Tywin Lannister in open court and made him blink. Yet here you stand, sweating over one conversation with a woman half your size."
Ned's eyes narrowed.
"Careful, brother," he said. "You've no ground to stand on and we both know it. Seraphine tore strips off you for months over how you trained Bjorn. I watched it. I watched the Demon of the North stand in his own hall and tremble like a boy caught stealing pies."
He allowed himself a small, extremely satisfied smirk.
Artos laughed outright.
"Aye, I was afraid," he admitted easily. "Terrified, even. But I still did it, didn't I?" He let that sit for exactly as long as it needed to. "You, on the other hand..."
The blow landed clean, and Ned found he had absolutely no defense against it—because there was none.
So he chose, with tremendous dignity, the most mature course available to him.
He said nothing at all and kept walking.
Artos laughed harder at his brother's childlike sulking, and after a moment, Ned's mouth twitched despite himself.
They walked on, past the dry fountains and the pruned hedges the Queen had ordered shaped into lions.
"Speaking of marriages," Artos said eventually, "it seems Loras has taken a liking to Sansa. And I'm fairly certain the feeling runs both ways."
Ned's head turned sharply. "Are you certain?"
"Certain enough. I've watched them both enough especially in that God forsaken Tourney."
Artos shrugged. "It's a good match, in my opinion. Better than most."
Ned was quiet for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face.
"He's a good young man," he admitted. "Better than I expected when he first came to us. Ward of House Stark, and now—" He paused. "Or it would House Startos ?"
Artos laughed. "He's grown, Ned. Far too old to be called anyone's ward." His voice carried unmistakable pride. "Haven't you heard what they've taken to calling him in the tourneys? The Knight of the Wolf."
Ned smirked at that, nodding slowly. "The Knight of the Wolf. Gods." He shook his head, amused. "I'll speak on the matter properly. In Winterfell, where there are fewer ears."
"Wise," Artos agreed.
They kept talking as they walked—about Rickon's growing, about Bran's climbing, about the harvest and the ships and a hundred small things that had nothing to do with thrones or lions or debts.
For a little while, they were simply two brothers in a garden, stealing the last hours they would have for years.
Then footsteps approached from the far path, and both men looked up.
Bjorn had spotted them from across the garden and changed course, still dressed for travel.
"Father. Uncle," he said, inclining his head. "Good morrow."
And both brothers greeted him back with a smile.
Ned with a smile "Bjorn..."
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