Chapter 143: Brothers II
Bjorn had spotted them from across the garden and changed course, still dressed for travel.
"Father. Uncle," he said, inclining his head. "Good morrow."
Both brothers greeted him back with a smile.
"Bjorn," Ned said, then paused deliberately. "Or should I say Lord Startos now?"
Artos's smirk arrived instantly. "Aye, you should. Show the man his due respect, brother. He holds a seat of his own."
Bjorn stopped where he stood, looking between them.
One was Lord Paramount of the North and Warden of the North. The other was Hand of the King, and, at present, arguably the most influential man in the Seven Kingdoms.
And they were teasing him like a pair of children in a training yard.
"Of course, Lord Stark," Bjorn said evenly. "Lord Hand."
There was a beat of silence, and then all three of them laughed—an easy, unguarded sound that neither brother would have permitted himself anywhere near the Red Keep's inner halls.
The laughter faded. Bjorn hesitated.
Artos caught it immediately, the way he caught everything. "You've something to say, son. Say it."
"Aye, Father." Bjorn's jaw tightened. "I heard from Raka and Beron that most of the Winterguard is returning home. Including Raka. And Beron. And Vakho."
"Aye, They are," Artos said, unbothered.
"All of them."
"With Sansa and Arya going back to Winterfell, there's no need for so many here." Artos shrugged. "And I'm no longer Lord of Sea Dragon Point, so—"
"You're still the father of one," Bjorn cut in.
Artos's mouth curved.
"Aye. I know." His voice softened by a fraction. "Which is why I'm keeping six hundred men and Ethan with me. That's more than enough for one man in one keep." Then the smirk returned. "And don't worry about me, boy. You're still far too fucking young for that."
Bjorn exhaled slowly and nodded, though the concern didn't leave his face.
Ned watched the exchange with a small, sheepish smile and said nothing. He had lost that same argument himself not half an hour earlier.
"Speaking of the Winterguard," Artos said, "there's something I wanted to raise." He sighed, and something in the sound made both of them turn.
Bjorn waited.
"I want half the Winterguard divided off and sent to Winterfell," Artos said. " Permanently with Winter Town being made a true city—the men settled there with their families, homes of their own, land of their own. Their sons trained where their fathers trained."
He glanced at Bjorn. "That way there's a constant flow of warriors into Winterfell rather than a company that thins with every generation. I know you're Lord of Sea Dragon Point now, and they're yours by right, but—"
"Arty." Ned cut him off, frowning. "There's no need for that."
Artos stopped.
"It makes no difference where they reside," Ned continued. "We trust Bjorn as much as we trust each other. This isn't necessary."
"This isn't about trust," Artos said, and his voice had lost every trace of humor. "We can say that now. You and I, and Bjorn, and Robb aye, of course. But not in a hundred years. Not in two hundred." He held his brother's gaze. "Houses drift, Ned. Cousins become strangers. Strangers become claimants. You've read the same histories I have. GreyStarks gave us quite a good example."
Ned's mouth pressed into a line.
Bjorn spoke before he could answer.
"I don't think there's any need for hesitation in this."
Both brothers looked at him.
"I watched Father train the Winterguard for years," Bjorn said. "I trained beside them. Every one of those men was made for one purpose—to serve House Stark. Not Sea Dragon Point but House Stark." He shrugged slightly. "So there's no loss in it. They'll be doing exactly what they were built to do. And I, as Lord of Sea Dragon Point, am grateful that I get to keep any of them at all."
The silence that followed was the particular kind that comes when a man has said something impossible to argue against.
Artos's brows rose. "You've gone cheeky with your words."
Even Ned smiled, nodding once in reluctant surrender.
"But it will have to wait," Bjorn added.
"Why?" Artos got more curious
"Because most of the Winterguard isn't here." Bjorn's expression cooled. "They're at Castle Black. With Jon."
Artos went very still.
"It seems the problem was larger than anyone thought," Bjorn continued. "He's still there. There have been constant attacks—wildlings, and more of them than the Watch can account for. The reports keep coming and they keep getting worse."
Artos said nothing. But Bjorn watched his father file that away somewhere behind his eyes, the way he did with everything that would eventually demand blood.
It was not good news. Nothing about it was good news.
"And secondly," Bjorn said, "I'm thinking of going to Braavos soon. I am thinking directly after this."
Both brothers turned toward him at once.
"Bravos?" Artos asked.
"Aye, Father." Bjorn nodded. "I want to learn about your trades there. Your holdings, your positions, all of it. Aldric's been handling matters for me well enough, better than well enough—but I'd rather not be a lord who only understands his own wealth secondhand." He paused. "I want to know every connection you've built there. Meet every one of them. And then make my own, so that when yours fall away, mine are already standing."
Artos studied him for a long moment, saying nothing.
"And I..." Bjorn hesitated, and something faintly embarrassed crossed his face. "I miss Sera. And Aldric. I'd like to see them."
Both brothers smiled at that.
"That's good," Artos said, nodding. "You should visit them."
Then he stopped.
Bjorn watched his father look down at his own hands, and something in his father's expression shifted into a shape Bjorn had almost never seen on him.
"Well," Artos said. "If you're going—do something for me there."
"Anything." Bjorn's brow furrowed. "Is it serious, Father?"
"Aye," Artos said quietly. "Very serious."
He moved his hands forward, and it held a chain and ring out in his open palm. He put that forward.
"Take these. Give them to your siblings."
Bjorn didn't move. Neither did Ned.
"Arty," Ned said, and his voice had gone rough. "Are you certain?"
Because Ned had never once seen his brother without them after Seraphine died.
"Aye." Artos's hand did not waver, though something behind his eyes did. "I wasn't the only one who lost her. They lost her too. And they deserve these more than I do."
Bjorn's throat tightened.
"I should have given them up years ago," Artos went on, and for the first time in Bjorn's memory his father's voice carried something that sounded like regret spoken aloud rather than swallowed. "I just—couldn't let go of them. But they'll need something to remember her by. And something to remember me by, now that they're there and I'm here."
Ned stepped closer and set a hand on his brother's back, saying nothing at all, which was exactly the right thing to say.
Bjorn took the chain and the ring carefully, as though they were made of something far more fragile than metal.
"Of course, Father," he said. "But I don't think you should carry it this heavy."
Artos looked up.
"You did the best you could for all of us. More than that." Bjorn's voice was steady. "Aye, we'll be sad that we won't see you as we did in the past. But there isn't one of us—not one—who would ever call you a bad father." He allowed himself a small smile. "We'll miss you. Sera most of all. She's little and she feels everything twice over, and you spoiled her rotten, so she'll be the most disappointed of any of us."
Artos laughed, wetly.
"But she has Aldric," Bjorn finished. "And you raised him into a man who'll be one of the greatest this realm ever sees. She'll be looked after."
Artos was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded and cleared his throat.
"Well. Let's not get emotional in the bloody Queen's garden." He straightened, and the Hand of the King slid back into place like a well-worn cloak. "Waymar will show you Braavos—the trades, the contacts, all of it. And Lord Valen will be there. He'll be a great help to you. Learn from the old man if you can manage it, and take care of him while you're at it." A pause. "He's a good man. There aren't many."
"I'll make sure to show him proper respect," Bjorn said.
Artos smirked and nodded.
After a moment, Ned spoke.
"You've gotten good with your words, son."
Bjorn glanced over.
"Especially in that throne room." Ned's smile was genuine. "You made an impression. On the whole realm, I'd say."
"He did, didn't he," Artos said, and there was no mistaking the pride in it.
Bjorn felt his ears go warm. "Thank you, Uncle. I only did my part."
"Don't be humble, it doesn't suit you." Ned's eyes glinted. "You did far more than your part. You're better at this than your father ever was at your age." He let the pause stretch to precisely the right length. "He fired his mouth off at everyone within reach. No thought for consequence, no consideration of the matter at hand. I spent years covering his arse and cleaning up his shit."
Artos rounded on him. "Brother, we were at war at his age. Different times entirely."
"You were mouthing off to our allies, Arty."
"Strategically."
"Yeah, yeah heard a hundred times, That excuse don't work, it didn't work in the past. It will not not work now. "
Bjorn watched them go at each other and found himself grinning openly.
It was a side of both men he'd rarely seen—almost never, in truth. Not the Quiet Wolf and not the Demon of the North. Not the Warden and not the Hand. Just two brothers pulling japes at each other's expense in a garden, entirely unconcerned with who was watching.
They couldn't be like this in front of others. Men in their positions never could. But together, with no court and no council and no crown, they were simply Ned and Arty.
That's why, Bjorn thought suddenly.
That's why his father had pushed him toward Aldric and Sera and Jon and Robb, toward every sibling and cousin, toward Loras and Margaery who'd grown up under the same roof.
Not for alliances. Not for politics.
For this. For a bond that held when everything else gave way—trust, and someone at your back regardless of who stood against you or what it cost.
"By the way Where were you going, son?"
Bjorn blinked back into the garden. "Oh. I was meant to meet Robb and Loras."
Artos smiled. "Go on, then. Don't let this old man keep you from your fun." He jerked a thumb toward Ned.
"This old man is ..."
Bjorn slipped away and left them to it.
They wouldn't have many more mornings like this one. Better they spend it insulting each other than saying goodbye.
Robb and Loras were already in the eastern chamber when Bjorn arrived, half-packed trunks shoved against the walls and a jug of something between them.
"There he is," Robb announced. "Lord Startos himself. Should we kneel, or is a bow sufficient?"
"If one more person says that to me today, I'm throwing them off the seawall."
"He's serious," Loras observed. "He's got the face."
"He's always got the face." Robb kicked a stool toward him. "Sit. Talk. You've told us nothing still about how this happen, You got any idea what Uncle Artos thinking about this?"
Bjorn sat, and for a moment just looked at the two of them—the brother he'd been raised with in all but name, and the knight who'd grown up in their yard and now rode under a wolf.
"Kind of as a reward," Bjorn said finally. "But not entirely."
Loras leaned forward. "Then what was it?"
"He said I'm more than his legacy. And he wants to make my own." Bjorn turned the words over, still not entirely comfortable with them. "That he wants history to remember him as the father of Bjorn. Not me as the son of Artos."
The room went quiet.
"Gods, Damn that man can speak like this. He must be quite...." Robb said softly.
"Proud " Loras completed with a smile.
"Aye," said Bjorn. "That's rather what I thought."
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