Chapter 44: Rebel
Year- Late 285 AC
The cog cut through the dark waters of the Narrow Sea, its sails filled with an autumn wind that carried the salt spray across its weathered deck. Artos Stark stood at the bow, watching the coastline of the North fade into mist and memory, his dark hair whipping about his face like the wings of some great black bird. The ship rocked beneath his feet with the gentle insistence of the sea, and yet it felt nothing like home.
He was leaving. After everything—after the war, after the triumph, after building something for the North that he thought would matter—he was leaving.Waymar Manderly approached carefully, reading the tension in Artos's shoulders the way men learned to read storms. The youngest son of Lord Wyman , a good lad
"My lord, you seem troubled," Waymar ventured.
Artos's laugh was bitter as winter wine. "I told you—I'm not a lord. I'm not even a Stark anymore. Call me Commander, if you must call me something at all. Or just Artos. That's all that remains of who I was."
"My lo—Commander," Waymar corrected himself, his eyes carrying concern, "you are a Stark. The North would never deny it. Lord Eddard would never deny it."
The mention of his brother's name caused something to crack in Artos's composure. His hands clenched into fists, and when he spoke, his voice was raw. "I abandoned it myself. That's what matters now."
"Whatever you say," Artos replied quietly. "We are going to Braavos either way."
Waymar nodded, not trusting himself to speak further. Artos turned away from the rail and moved toward his cabin below deck, his mind spiraling backward to the moment that had shattered everything.
Some days ago at Winterfell
Artos had been in the nursery with little Robb and Jon Snow, and for once, the weight of his grief had lifted slightly. The two boys were playing they grappled with each other with the fierce determination of true Starks—pushing, tumbling, their small fists grasping at whatever they could reach. Artos laughed, genuinely laughed, at their efforts, tickling them gently and encouraging their mock battles.
"Boys," he said warmly, "you've got the wolf's blood in you both.Just like your father Although he would deny it" Artos said laughing "Never let anyone tell you otherwise."
He controls it well though ,unlike me . But it tore through sometimes like in that throne room once when Tywin threatened me Artos completing his thoughts in his mind.
It was a simple moment, one of the rare ones that had brought him peace. Then a servant had appeared with word that Lord Eddard summoned him to the Lord's Chamber.
When Artos arrived, he found his brother standing before the great window, looking out over Winterfell's grey stones. Eddard turned as he entered, and Artos immediately sensed something was wrong. Ned had the look of a man who had made a decision he knew would hurt someone he loved.
"Brother, you called for me?" Artos asked, keeping his tone light.
"Aye, Arty. I... I wanted to tell you before I announce it formally to the household." Eddard paused, gathering his words with visible care.
"I've made a decision about something important."
Artos smiled despite the gravity of Ned's expression. "You're the Lord of Winterfell, Ned. You can do whatever you want. Nobody's going to stop you."
"Catelyn follows the Seven, as you know," Eddard began slowly.
"Aye, I know. She's made that clear enough." Artos moved toward the fire, warming his hands.
"She's asked me to build a sept—a small church where she can practice her faith and pray. She's asked for it many times, actually, and I've put it off because I knew how you'd react." Eddard took a breath. "I've decided to allow it. A small structure, outside the castle proper, nothing too prominent."
For a moment, Artos didn't move. The words seemed to take a long time to settle in his mind, as if they couldn't possibly mean what they appeared to mean. Then he turned slowly to face his brother, and his expression had gone cold as northern stone."Tell me you're joking, Ned."
"I'm not joking. I've made my decision."
Artos's hands clenched into fists. "You're putting a church—a sept of the Seven—in Winterfell? In the heart of the North? Are you completely mad?"
"It's a small chapel, Arty, nothing more. And it's outside the castle."
"It doesn't fucking matter where it is!" Artos's voice rose, anger pouring out of him like blood from a wound. "It's Winterfell you're talking about. The seat of House Stark. The very castle the Northern lords look to for leadership in maintaining our traditions, our gods, our identity as a people!"
Eddard held up a hand, trying to calm his brother, but Artos was already in full rage. "Do you understand what Starks have died for, Ned? Do you know how many of our ancestors fought to keep the Old Gods alive in the North when every king and conqueror tried to force the Faith of the Seven down our throats? The Targaryen kings, the Andals centuries before—they all tried to break us, to make us kneel to their southern gods, and we refused. We bled for that refusal. We died for it."
"I know the history, Arty."
"Do you?" Artos demanded, his voice rising to a shout. "Because it sounds like you're about to piss all over that sacrifice for the sake of your wife's comfort!"
"That's not fair, and you know it," Eddard replied, his own voice hardening. "Listen to me. It's been difficult between Catelyn and myself. You know it has. After Jon... things broke between us. They're only just starting to heal. She's with child again, and she needs something—some small solace. The Seven is her faith, Artos. I'm not asking her to abandon it. I'm asking her to find peace in her new home."
"She can find peace without a church in the Winterfell" Artos shot back. "The Manderlys have their sept in White Harbor—let her go there if she needs to pray. But Winterfell? By the gods, Ned, can't you see what you're doing?" Artos knew he wasn't being logical but emotional here
"What I'm doing is being compassionate to my wife."
"No," Artos said bitterly, "you're being blind because you feel guilty. You think she'll accept Robb as a true Northman? You think she won't teach him the Faith of the Seven, won't pressure him to abandon the Old Gods The moment there's a sept in Winterfell, she has a foothold. She can convince Robb that his mother's faith is equal to his father's heritage."
"She will do no such thing," Eddard said firmly. "Robb will be raised as a Northman, and his children after him will be raised as Northmen. I will ensure it."
"Will you?" Artos asked, his voice low and dangerous now. "Or will you just watch as the North slowly changes? The Northern lords won't make a fuss over a small chapel now, Ned. You're right about that. They respect you. They respect what we've built. But you're creating a crack in the foundation, and the Boltons—those scheming bastards—will see that crack and push on it. They'll use it. And in fifty years, a hundred years, when some weak Stark sits the throne, that crack will become a chasm. The North will fracture."
"The North will not fracture because of one chapel, Artos."
"Won't it?" Artos moved closer to his brother, his eyes blazing. "You speak of it as though it's just a building. But it's not. It's a symbol. It's a message to every lord from the Neck to the Wall that the old ways don't matter as much as they used to. That compromise is acceptable. That our gods can share their house with southern deities."
Eddard's face darkened. "I am not changing the North. I am a man of the old gods, Artos. You know that. But I cannot force my wife to believe as I do. She deserves the right to practice her faith, and the only price for that is a small chapel."
"The price is the soul of the North!" Artos shouted, his voice echoing through the chamber. "We've fought and bled and died to remain who we are. First Brandon died. Father died. Lyanna died. And now this? you can build a southern church in Winterfell to make your wife happy? This wasn't the same home that I lived and played" Artos knew this was a cheapshot but he was too emotional to think straight.
"Don't you dare bring them into this!" Eddard roared, finally matching his brother's anger. "Don't you dare suggest that I'm dishonoring their memory!"
"Then what are you doing?" Artos demanded. "Enlighten me, brother. Help me understand how building a sept in the most important castle in the North is anything other than abandoning everything they fought for!"
"It is not abandonment! It is compromise!"
"There is no compromise with the gods, Ned. Either you believe or you don't. Either the North remains true to itself or it doesn't." Artos's voice was shaking now, emotion overflowing, threatening to destroy him from within.
"I don't care what faith Catelyn follows in her private chambers. Let her pray to the Seven in secret. But a church in Winterfell? That's where I draw the line."
"I have already made my decision, Artos," Eddard said coldly. "The chapel will be built."
"So that's it?" Artos asked, something breaking inside him. "Just like that? The Lord has spoken, and everyone must obey? This is what we've come to, brother? A Stark who builds churches to foreign gods in the seat of House Stark?"
He reached down and untied the direwolf clasp from his chest—the iron pin that marked him as a member of House Stark. He tore away the cloak, the grey fabric falling to the ground like shed skin."If that's what Starks have fallen to, I don't want to be a Stark anymore."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the crackling of the fire seemed to stop, as though the very castle was holding its breath."Don't be ridiculous," Eddard said sharply, his anger evaporating into something closer to fear. "You're being emotional and foolish, Artos. Take time to think about this properly. It's not a game. You are a Stark no matter what—the best of us,You will not abandon us. You are My brother, my blood. You can't just cast that aside."
But Artos was already moving toward the door, his movements jerky and filled with desperate energy."Stay here," Eddard commanded, following him. "We can discuss this further. You're not thinking clearly!"
Artos didn't respond. He moved down the corridors of Winterfell like a man possessed, his feet slapping against stone, his discarded cloak forgotten in the Lord's Chamber.
"Where are you going?" Eddard demanded, catching up to him as they descended toward the courtyard. "Artos, answer me! Don't you dare walk out that door!"
But Snow was already saddled and waiting, as though the great grey destrier had somehow known that his rider would need him. Artos swung up into the saddle in one fluid motion.
"Don't you dare!" Eddard shouted again, reaching up to grab Snow's bridle. "Brother, please!"
For just a moment, Artos looked down at his brother's upturned face, seeing the desperation there, the love mixed with confusion and anger. And it nearly broke him. Nearly made him dismount, nearly made him stay.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, though whether to Eddard or to his ancestors or to himself, he couldn't say. He spurred Snow forward, breaking through the gates of Winterfell into the grey autumn afternoon, leaving behind everything he had ever been.
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