Chapter 31: Brothers
The argument had been building since Jon Arryn left their chambers, and now it erupted like a dam bursting after winter's thaw."Ned, this is madness," Artos said, his voice tight with frustration. "Going to Dorne after what happened in that throne room—it's suicide dressed up as diplomacy."
Eddard stood by the narrow window, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the city below. "Someone has to do this, Arty. Someone has to bring Dorne into the fold before they decide to water their gardens with more blood."
"And that someone doesn't have to be you, brother." Artos stepped closer, his dark eyes flashing. "I won't allow it."
"Don't be a child," Eddard replied, though his tone was gentler than his words. "This requires diplomacy, not steel. A war can be prevented through careful words and honest dealing. Their sister is dead, their nephew and niece butchered like cattle—"
"Aye, and it was Lannister hands that did the butchering!" Artos interrupted. "You shouldn't risk your neck cleaning up their mess."
Eddard turned from the window, his grey eyes meeting his brother's. "But the North played its part in their grief, didn't it? You killed their uncle at the Trident. Our men cut down their soldiers. This might be a chance to heal those wounds, to build something better." He paused, his voice growing harder. "Tywin can't make this journey—they'd hang his entrails from the Water Gardens before he could speak a word."
"I don't give a rat's arse about Tywin Lannister," Artos snarled. "It's you I'm worried about. You could be just as dead as any lion would be down there."
"This is about diplomacy, brother—"
Artos cut him off, raw emotion bleeding through his words. "Father came to King's Landing for diplomacy too. How did that serve him? They burned him alive, Ned. Burned him alive while Brandon strangled himself trying to save him."
The words hit like physical blows. Eddard felt his chest tighten as the memories threatened to overwhelm him—Brandon's body hanging from the throne room ceiling, their father's screams echoing through the Red Keep."I know, Arty," he said quietly. "Gods know I haven't forgotten. But this is different. Robert is my friend, my king. We have our duty as Starks—we keep our oaths and do what must be done."
Artos clenched his jaw, recognizing the stubborn set of his brother's shoulders. It was a Stark trait, that iron-hard determination.
They all shared it—Brandon had died for it, their father had burned for it, and now Ned would risk everything for it. Every Stark is honorable and headstrong in their own way, Artos thought bitterly. We've never had a Stark who forgot their oaths or broke their word. But Ned... Ned makes it into something almost holy.His brother had grown up in the Vale, raised by Jon Arryn alongside Robert Baratheon. He'd learned southern notions of chivalry and honor, tempering the wolf's instincts with concepts of justice and mercy. It made him a good man, perhaps even a great lord, but sometimes Artos wondered if the wolf in Ned had been tamed too much.The North needed wolves, not knights .
"If it must be done, then I'll go," Artos said finally. "I'm brother to the Lord Paramount and Warden of the North. I commanded armies in this rebellion. Surely I'm qualified enough to speak for our house."
To his surprise, Eddard laughed—actually laughed—though there was little humor in the sound. "Brother, this is diplomacy we're discussing. It requires patience, understanding, careful words. I can't have you drawing steel at the first insult they offer."
The words stung more than any slap. "Ned, I can do this. Trust your brother, for once. I can keep my temper and bring Dorne into the fold—one way or another. You're Lord of Winterfell now, and I swear by the old gods I'll die before I let another brother risk his life. Not for the Lannisters, not for anyone."
"Don't be stubborn, Arty!" Eddard's voice rose slightly. "This isn't some tavern brawl or battlefield charge. Prince Doran is too smart to harm me—he knows that killing a lord paramount would bring the full weight of the realm down on Dorne. This will be peaceful."
"Why won't you trust me?" Artos shot back, his own voice climbing. "Am I that useless in your eyes? That incompetent?"
Eddard sighed, suddenly looking older than his years. "It's not about competency, brother. It's about... suitability. You weren't made for diplomacy, and you know it. Prince Oberyn is down there—Doran's younger brother. He's just like you, hotblooded and quick to anger. I can't risk having you two clash and turning negotiation into bloodshed."
"I kept my calm in the throne room," Artos protested. "When Tywin threatened me, when Robert showed us those bodies—I wasn't the one who drew steel, was I? That was you, brother. Maybe I should be going to Dorne after all."
The taunt hit home, and Eddard's face darkened. "Listen to me, Artos. You want to be diplomatic? Fine. You can go to the Stormlands and negotiate with the Reach lords on behalf of the Crown—you're holding their lord paramount prisoner, after all. Show me you can manage that without starting another war." His voice grew harder. "Then you can go to the Riverlands, meet your good-sister and nephew, and escort them safely home to Winterfell. You understand?"
"Brother—"
"This is an order from the Lord of Winterfell," Eddard said, his voice carrying the full authority of his position. "Not a request. You understand?"
"But—"
"Do you understand or not?".
Artos ground his teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Every instinct screamed at him to keep arguing, to make Ned see reason. But the look in his brother's eyes was implacable as winter itself."I understand," he said finally, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
"Good." Eddard's expression softened slightly. "Arty, I know you want to protect me. I know you're thinking of Brandon, of Father. But this is something I have to do. The realm needs peace, and sometimes that means taking risks."
Artos nodded stiffly, though inside he was already making plans. If his stubborn brother insisted on walking into the viper's nest, he was still a Stark of Winterfell, and Starks looked after their own.
Even when they were too honor-struck to look after themselves.
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