Chapter 27: Silent Wolf and Demon Wolf
The chamber Artos had claimed was small and sparse, little more than a servant's quarters in the Red Keep's lower levels. A single tallow candle flickered on a rough wooden table, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The youngest Stark brother sat hunched on a simple stool, a wineskin cradled in his hands like a man trying to drown his sorrows one swallow at a time.
The door creaked open, and Eddard stepped inside, his grey eyes taking in the scene with the practiced assessment of an older brother who had spent years reading Artos's moods.
"Arty," he said quietly, closing the door behind him. "Why are you hiding down here, drinking alone? You should be with the men, celebrating. They're asking for you."
Artos didn't look up from his wineskin. "Celebrating what?"
"We won the damned war," Eddard replied, moving closer. "We avenged Father and Brandon. Isn't that enough?"
The question hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire. Artos finally raised his head, and Eddard could see the hollow look in his brother's dark eyes—the same look he'd worn after their first real battle, when the reality of killing had settled into his bones.
"Did we really avenge them, brother?" Artos's voice was rough from drink and exhaustion. "Not one dragon died by Stark hands. Not one."
Eddard pulled up another stool, the wood scraping against stone. "But they did die, didn't they?"
"Aye, they could have died of old age too." Artos took another pull from his wineskin, the bitter edge in his voice sharp enough to cut. "Should we have waited until we were too grey and weak to hold a sword?"
"But they didn't die of old age," Eddard said firmly. "They died because we fought a war and won it. Because we stood up when it mattered."
Artos started to speak, frustration building in his throat. "Yet we Starks weren't able to kill a single drag—"
"Yes, we did avenge them," Eddard cut him off, his voice carrying the authority that had commanded armies. "If we hadn't acted, if we hadn't started this war, none of it would have happened. So aye, we did avenge them. We destroyed the dragons' hold on the realm."
He leaned forward, catching his brother's eye. "It isn't about who swung the killing blow, Arty. It's about getting justice for Father and Brandon. And we did that."
Artos studied his brother's face for a long moment, then nodded slowly and held out the wineskin. "Here. Drink with me, brother."
Eddard accepted the offering and took a cautious sip, then immediately erupted into a fit of coughing as the liquid burned down his throat like liquid fire. "Seven hells, Arty! What is this poison?"
For the first time that evening, Artos laughed—a real laugh, not the bitter thing that had been coming from him lately. "Fermented goat's milk. Got the recipe from a wildling I killed beyond the Wall a few years back. Found his pouch after the fight and decided I liked the taste. Learned to make it properly when we wintered at Last Hearth."
Eddard wiped tears from his eyes, though whether from the drink or the coughing, he couldn't say. "Strong and hard as a Northman, I'll give you that."
"Aye," Artos agreed, taking the skin back.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, passing the potent drink between them as the candle burned lower. Finally, Eddard spoke again, his voice softer now.
"You know, Arty, it's good to see you're still here. Still yourself, I mean. I was worried—after everything that's happened—that you might lose yourself in all the blood and killing."
The words were carefully chosen, but Artos understood their true meaning. His brother was talking about King's Landing, about the Lannister soldiers he'd cut down, about the reputation that was already spreading through the camps. Demon Wolf, they called him now. Some said it with fear, others with something approaching awe.
"I'm not the same person I was when we left Winterfell," Artos said quietly. "The war changed me, Ned. Changed us all. But I'm still a Stark." He met his brother's eyes. "I kill soldiers, not women and children. I know the difference between war and murder."
"Aye," Eddard nodded. "Spoken like a true Stark."
They drank again, the harsh liquor warming them both against the stone chamber's chill. The alcohol was loosening tongues and easing old tensions, the way it always did between brothers who had shed blood together.
"You know," Artos said after a while, "you could have taken the Iron Throne yourself, brother. Both Jon Arryn and Robert would have supported you. Hell, they might have preferred it."
Eddard shook his head. "Aye, they might have. But the North is enough for me. More than enough. And Robert's my best friend—I wouldn't do that to him. The throne is his by right of conquest."
Artos grinned, the first real smile Eddard had seen from him in weeks. "Our ancestors would be furious with you for that, you know. I can practically see Theon 'The Hungry Wolf' rising from his grave to box your ears for passing up a crown."
"Fuck off, Arty," Eddard replied, but he was smiling too.
Artos's grin widened at hearing his proper, honorable brother curse like a common soldier. Some things, at least, never changed. War might make demons of men and wolves of boys, but it couldn't break the bonds between brothers who had grown up in the cold halls of Winterfell, dreaming of glory and never imagining the true cost of getting it.
The candle guttered lower, casting their shadows long against the stone walls, and for a moment they were just two boys again, sharing secrets in the dark.
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