Chapter 45: Brothers in Pain
The wine in Eddard's cup had gone cold long ago, but he drank it anyway, barely tasting the bitter notes that had once brought him pleasure. The Lord's Chamber of Winterfell felt cavernous tonight, though nothing had changed physically. The same tapestries hung on the walls, the same fire burned in the great hearth, the same ancient stones surrounded him. And yet it felt as though the room had grown larger, as though something vital had been removed from it, leaving only an echoing emptiness behind.
Maester Luwin stood in the doorway, watching his lord with the careful concern of a man who had served House Stark for a few years now. The old maester had tended to Eddard's wounds, both physical and otherwise, and he knew the difference between the grief of loss and the particular torment of self-inflicted separation."My lord," Luwin said carefully, "I am sure Lord Artos is fine. You need not worry about his safety or wellbeing. He is more than capable of surviving whatever the North throws at him."
Eddard laughed—a sound that held no humor, only the bitter recognition of truth. "Why offer false comfort, Maester? I'm not worried about his health, and you know it. I know he can care for himself. He's a better survivor than any man I've ever known." He took another swallow of wine, as though it might wash away the taste of his own failure. "What troubles me is that I drove my brother away. That I forced him to choose between his pride and his blood, and he chose his pride. And it's my fault."
He turned to face Luwin, and the maester could see the raw vulnerability beneath the Lord's controlled exterior. Here was Eddard Stark, who had commanded armies, who had stood against kings, reduced to the pain of a man who had broken something precious.
"What have I done, Maester? How did I let this happen? Artos would kill or die for the name Stark. He was prouder of that name than any man I've ever known. He would have defended it with his last breath, and I..." Eddard's voice cracked slightly. "I made him feel that the name wasn't worth defending anymore. That I valued my wife's comfort over the traditions he holds sacred. That I was willing to compromise away everything our family has fought for."
"My lord," Luwin began, moving closer, "both you and Lord Artos were right in your own way, and neither of you was entirely right. These are the kinds of conflicts that have no clear answer—only choices, each with their own weight and consequence. Lord Artos made his own decision to leave, just as you made yours to build the septon."
"But I pushed him to it," Eddard said heavily. "That's what haunts me, Maester. I could have found another way, could have been more patient, more understanding. Instead, I was stubborn and insensitive to his concerns."
Luwin hesitated, choosing his words with the care of a physician preparing a patient for difficult truths. "As for his whereabouts, my lord, it will be nearly impossible to track him, he's been roaming the roads for the past two years, since the war and killing bandits in the North. It would be difficult for anyone to pin down his location unless he wishes to be found."
"Why he left Winterfell, we could have talked I would have revoked teh decision but he didn't even listen to me." Eddard asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"Because," Luwin said gently, "he is searching for something to fill the void left by the absence of war. When he was a soldier, he had purpose. When there was conflict, he knew his place in the world, dealing with the grief But now..." The maester paused, clearly wrestling with how to articulate his observation. "I believe Lord Artos is still at war, my lord. The external conflicts have ended, but the internal ones rage on. He craves the clarity that only combat provides. He needs enemies to fight, challenges to overcome, because without them, he must face himself."
Eddard listened, understanding the truth of it. His brother had been shaped by blood and battle, had found his identity in the crucible of war. Now that the war was over, Artos was adrift, searching for meaning in a world that no longer demanded his particular talents.
"Give him time, my lord," Luwin concluded. "That is all I can advise. Time and the knowledge that he is still a Stark, no matter what he claims. The name doesn't leave a man's blood just because he wishes it away."
Eddard nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his brother's absence like a physical thing. He knew Artos would survive. Knew his brother was more than capable of thriving in the harsh world beyond the walls of Winterfell. What troubled him was the knowledge that he had caused this separation, had failed to bridge the gulf between their perspectives, had let pride and stubbornness destroy the bond between them.
He drank again, deeply this time, and tried not to think about the empty seat at his table, the absence of his brother's laugh in the halls of Winterfell, the wolf cloak abandoned on the floor of this very chamber.
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The roads of the North were brutal in winter, even early autumn winter. Artos rode through them like a man possessed, Snow's hooves pounding against frozen earth, his breath forming clouds of white in the frigid air. He had been traveling for days now, and with each passing league, his mind grew clearer and more tormented in equal measure.
Why had he done it? That was the question that haunted him more than any ghost. Yes, the septon had infuriated him—the principle of it, the symbolism, the way it represented a slow erosion of everything his family had fought to preserve. But was it truly worth abandoning the name Stark? Worth turning his back on Eddard, on Benjen, on everything he had ever been?
"Why are you always right, Father?" he asked the empty road, addressing the dead as though they could hear him. "Are you laughing in your tomb that I've finally realized the truth? Or are you raging at me for abandoning the family name like some weak-willed fool?"
The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of snow from the distant mountains. Artos laughed, a sound somewhere between madness and despair. "Still teaching me lessons from beyond the grave, aren't you? 'You are clever but always choose rage over reason.' Is that it? Are you telling me I've done it again—run from Winterfell in anger, just as I once ran from you?"
The memory was clear in his mind. Last time he met his father .Now, he had done the same thing all over again. Run from his brother in anger, cast aside the symbols of his house, let emotion override reason. Is this his habit or destiny to run away from Lords Of Winterfell in rage.
Rick seeing his friend did the only thing that makes sense and friends do for each other.
The great creature descended from the sky with a screech that seemed to carry rebuke and struck him.
"You fucking bastard," Artos snarled, though there was affection beneath the curse. "You're back again, are you? I don't know why the Old Gods cursed me with you, here you are, annoying me as always."
Rick shrieked indignantly and dove at him, talons extended. Artos threw up his arm defensively, and what began as an aggressive encounter quickly transformed into something else—a desperate, physical confrontation .
Artos laughed—a genuine laugh this time, filled with something approaching joy. It was the first time since leaving Winterfell that he'd felt anything other than rage and despair. He reached out and gently stroked Rick's feathers, the eagle allowing the contact for once without immediate attack."You annoying bastard," Artos said quietly.
Rick trilled, a sound that might have been looking down or might have been mockery—with the eagle, it was always hard to tell.
Rick screached again.
"I know," Artos said, and he meant it. "I remember the deal with the Old Gods. When the time comes, I'll take you beyond the Wall. That was the bargain, wasn't it?"
Rick ruffled his feathers and shifted away as Artos tried to pet him, evading contact with the irritating bird-logic that seemed to define the creature's entire personality.
"You fucking brat," Artos laughed, and for just a moment, the darkness that had consumed him since leaving Winterfell seemed to lift slightly.
He stood, brushing snow from his clothes, and looked down the road stretching before him. White Harbour is his destination.
They might roam far, might act as though they stood alone, might even convince themselves they'd severed all ties.But the blood remained. The name remained. And no amount of rage or defiance could change that fundamental truth.
Artos spurred Snow forward, heading north toward White Harbour, carrying with him the weight of his choices and the slowly dawning realization that his father had been right all along. Rage was a poor substitute for wisdom, and running away from pain never solved anything—it only extended it, stretching it out over endless roads and frozen nights.
Behind him, Rick circled once in the sky before disappearing into the grey clouds, and Artos continued on, alone but not quite, carrying the burden of his blood whether he acknowledged it or not.
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Sorry for the delay. There was a family situation. My plan was to upload chapters before Christmas and let you enjoy your holiday week with family. But I guess I really reached deadlines. So I upload one more chapter after this. Will start working so give me few hours. After that You enjoy time with your family and We will continue on 2 Jan. Thanks
Merry Christmas and Happy New year.
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