Chapter 53: A Drunken Fool or a Wolf?
The tavern in Lys was warm and thick with the smell of spiced wine, sweat, and the particular atmosphere that accumulated when men gathered to drink away their sorrows or celebrate their victories. Artos Stark sat at a corner table, a cup of his own mead cradled loosely in his hand, and by any reasonable measure, he was quite thoroughly drunk.
This fact was notable primarily because Artos Stark was not the sort of man who got drunk. Or rather, he was the sort of man who could drink an entire army under the table and still maintain enough clarity to command a battle if necessary. Over the past year in Essos, he'd cultivated a reputation for consuming extraordinary quantities of alcohol while remaining functional—a reputation that had become almost as legendary as his prowess with a blade.
Which was why Waymar Manderly noticed the unusual tilt to his commander's shoulders, the somewhat unfocused quality of his gaze as it moved around the tavern.
"Commander, you should rest," Waymar said, moving to stand beside the table. He kept his voice low, aware of the curious glances being cast their way by other patrons. "You've had enough for one evening, I think. Even you have limits, and it seems you've found yours tonight."
Artos looked up at Waymar with an expression somewhere between amusement and irritation. "A buzzkill, Waymar. That's what you are. A complete and utter buzzkill." He raised his cup in a mock toast. "I can drink two bottles more and still fight like a bull. Still lead men into battle. Still kill anything that needs killing. This?" He gestured vaguely at his cup. "This is nothing. A warm-up."
But even as he spoke, Artos made no move to order more mead. Instead, he set the cup down carefully and allowed Waymar to help him to his feet. His movements were less steady than usual, and he leaned perhaps more heavily on Waymar's shoulder than was strictly necessary.
"Aye, I know," Waymar said as they made their way toward the stairs that led to their rented rooms. "Everyone who's fought under you knows you can hold your drink. Seen yku lead raids while half-drunk, seen you fight hungover, seen you do a hundred fights."
They climbed the stairs in relative silence, the tavern noise falling away behind them. Waymar was already considering what needed to be done in the morning—checking on the men, ensuring that the preparations for their departure are proceeding on schedule. But as they reached Artos's chamber door, the commander suddenly stopped.
"Waymar," he said, his voice taking on a quality that suggested genuine uncertainty. "Do you regret coming here with me?"
The question was unexpected enough that Waymar paused before answering. "My lord... Commander, I'm not certain I understand the question."
"Back in White Harbour, you were a knight. A noble scion. You had a future mapped out for you—wealth, position, the respect of your house and your people." Artos's words came slowly, as though he was having to dredge them up from somewhere deep inside. "Now you're here, in Essos, playing nursemaid to a drunk man. Is it worth it, Waymar? Do you regret choosing this over the life you could have had?"
Waymar considered the question seriously, aware that Artos, however drunk, deserved an honest answer. "Aye, there's disappointment in it," he admitted. "I won't lie to you—when I first came to serve under you, I expected something... different. I expected grand purposes and clear causes. I expected warfare to mean something beyond what it is."
"And now?" Artos prompted."Now I understand it's just blood and gore and the endless cycle of violence," Waymar continued. "Nothing clean about it, nothing noble in the way the songs suggest. Just men killing men for reasons that seem important at the time but fade away once the bodies are cold. And yet..." He paused, searching for words. "Yet I wouldn't trade it. Not for comfort in White Harbour, not for a life of merchant dealings and careful negotiations. Because you're right—it's meaningless in the grand sense. But it's honest, at least. It's real in a way nothing else ever was."
Artos nodded slowly, as though this confirmed something he'd been thinking. "You expected a fairy tale from the North. All purpose and honor and meaning. The kind of story they tell children about brave knights and noble causes. But there is no such thing, is there? Just blood and gore and men choosing to kill other men for coin or pride or because it's the only thing they know how to do."
"Aye," Waymar agreed quietly. "That's what I've learned. That we're not really here for the North, not for revenge or protection. We're here because... because why, exactly? Because you needed to escape? Because I needed to find something? And instead we're just living and fighting for the sake of it, with no higher purpose than that."
"Exactly," Artos said, and there was something profoundly sad in his voice. "You feel like a nursemaid to a drunk man because, in essence, that's what this has become. And the worst part is I don't know if that's better or worse than what I left behind."
He leaned against the doorframe, his dark eyes distant. "I left Winterfell because I couldn't accept compromise. I couldn't accept a sept being built in the heart of the North, couldn't accept that my brother was willing to change tradition for the comfort of his wife. And I was right to be angry about that—truly, I was. But what have I done here? I've just substituted one form of running for another."
Waymar waited, sensing that Artos had more to say."Bert used to do what you're doing now," Artos continued, his voice rough with emotion. "Keeping me steady, making sure I didn't do anything completely stupid while drunk. And sometimes I think... I think I should have stayed. Should have remained at Winterfell and raised my brother's children. Robb and Jon and little Lyanna and newborn Rickon(Benjen scions)—they're growing up without me. I could have been a great uncle to them, Waymar. Could have taught them the things they need to know about being Starks."
"But instead you're here," Waymar said gently.
"But instead I'm here," Artos echoed bitterly. "Making myself into a legend that no one asked for. Building wealth and reputation and a name that travels ahead of me like a shadow." He gestured vaguely at the tavern around them.
"We're successful here, aye. We have fame and power and gold enough that we barely know what to do with it. You have opened my own mead business, and it's profitable beyond anything expected. Your investments with my family have proven remarkably sound. And you have bedded more women than one can remember, of every variety and description."
Despite the heaviness of the conversation, Artos managed a ghost of a smile. "At least the last part is good, isn't it?"
Waymar laughed, a sound that helped ease the tension. "Aye, that's certainly one of the greatest benefits of the arrangement. I'd be lying if I said otherwise."
Both men laughed then, the weight of the moment becoming slightly more bearable through shared humor. After a moment, Waymar helped Artos into his chamber and watched as the commander collapsed onto his bed fully clothed, unconsciousness claiming him almost immediately.
Morning arrived with all the unpleasantness it typically brought to men who'd spent the night drinking.
Artos emerged from his chamber looking like something the cat had dragged in, then dragged back out again. His head pounded with each step, his mouth tasted like old leather soaked in vinegar, and the sunlight streaming through the tavern windows seemed deliberately designed to cause maximum suffering to those nursing hangovers. He goes down.
"Urgh," he managed, collapsing into a chair at the common table where several of his men were already gathered. Some, like him, bore the marks of the previous evening's festivities. Others, the more disciplined sorts, regarded the hungover contingent with poorly concealed amusement.
"Give me a full," Artos growled at the tavern keeper, pointing at his empty cup.
Waymar, who'd also put in an appearance looking somewhat worse for wear, gave his commander a look of mild disapproval but said nothing. Instead, he took a seat across from Artos and watched as the man drained what was presumably more mead, expecting it to make his headache worse before it made it better.
"You just woke up, Commander," Waymar observed. "Wouldn't it be better to rest a bit? Eat something perhaps?"
Artos smiled, a thin expression that suggested he was already feeling marginally more human. "There is only one way to deal with a hangover, Waymar. You never stop drinking. Keep the mead flowing and the headache becomes someone else's problem."
The logic was absurd, but his men laughed anyway. Several of them were already following his example, ordering their own drinks despite the early hour.
"Aye, I've heard you say that wisdom at least a hundred times," Waymar replied dryly. "And yet somehow, the hangovers keep returning."
"Words of the wisest sage," one of the Skagosi declared loudly, raising his cup in salute. The others murmured agreement, and even Waymar found himself unable to maintain his disapproval. He ordered a drink of his own and settled in to enjoy what was becoming a companionable morning among men who'd learned to find humor in their circumstances.
After a while, once the worst of the hangover had been temporarily assuaged by the continued consumption of alcohol, Artos turned his attention to business.
"Waymar, has there been any news? New contracts? Any word from the North or from Ronan in Braavos?"
Waymar set down his cup and retrieved a sealed letter from inside his tunic. "Aye, a message arrived this morning via courier from Braavos. It's from Ronan. He says there's an auction happening—apparently a significant one, with wealthy merchants and nobles from across the Free Cities participating. He advises that we should attend, especially given your partnerships with House Manderly and your own mead enterprise."
Artos shrugged, his immediate reaction dismissive. "An auction? That sounds like exactly the sort of boring, tedious affair I try to avoid. Standing around watching rich fools bid on expensive things they don't need. No thank you."
"Commander," Waymar said carefully, "there would be considerable opportunity there. Potential contracts, certainly—wealthy individuals with the means to hire quality mercenaries. But beyond that, there would be contacts and connections. Important people. The sort of people who can afford our rates and don't quibble about methodology."
He paused, then added, "Also, your gold is piling up. You have enough coin that you could diversify your investments. Braavos is a center of commerce and banking—there are opportunities there that don't exist elsewhere in Essos. Opportunities that could significantly increase your wealth."
Artos considered this, swirling his mead thoughtfully. "Flaunt the gold coins I've been hoarding, you mean? Show off to all the wealthy merchants and nobles?"
"If you prefer to think of it that way," Waymar said with a slight smile. "Or think of it as positioning yourself for future opportunities. A man of demonstrated wealth and military success opens doors that a man of poverty never could." Waymar said grandfully and glamorously in sarcasm.
"Aye, I suppose you have a point," Artos admitted though laughing. He raised his cup to Waymar in acknowledgment. "Very well. We'll go to Braavos. Let's see what sort of opportunities await in the City of Traders. Perhaps there's something there worth our time. And if not, at least the wine in Braavos is supposedly excellent."
He drained his cup and signaled for another, the ghost of his earlier smile returning. Whatever doubts and regrets plagued him in the quieter hours, in the daylight with his men around him and new prospects ahead, Artos Stark seemed almost content.Almost.
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