Chapter 62: Past, Half-Truths, and History
Artos leaned back against the cushions, Rick still simpering in Seraphine's lap like a jilted lover made good. The lamprey had gone cold, wine warm in his gut. Her eyes pinned him—sharp, waiting, no patience for bullshit. "So what'll it be, Lady Valen? What do you want to know?"
"Don't trouble yourself if you're minded to weave pretty falsehoods to guard your secrets," she said coolly, her Braavosi accent lilting smooth as canal water over stones. "I'd sooner remain ignorant than be fed lies. Truth, or silence—those are the choices."
He barked a laugh, short and raw. "Lies ain't my trade, lady. Honesty is one of my trait. I am a simple man, Lady"
Seraphine arched a perfect brow, fingers tracing Rick's feathers with idle grace. "Honest, perhaps. Simple? I don't think so , Hal, So spare me. A man adrift from the Westerosi wilds rises to command the most coveted company in Essos. A merchant besides, flooding our markets with that fine mead of yours. Simplicity does not create such things ."
Artos grinned, half-pleased, half-wounded. "Didn't know I was that great and you thought so big of me in your thoughts, my lady."
She tilted her head, lips curving in that knowing smile. "Flattery sits poorly on you, Commander. Shall we begin, or do you hope to distract me with banter until I lose interest?"
"Fair enough, fair enough." He drained his cup, set it down hard. Rick squawked protest. "Aye, everyone knows I'm Westerosi. North, proper like to be exact. Northern Brutes ain't poetry or a coincidence as one might assume."
"The North," she murmured, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. "That icy realm caught in rebellion some years past, was it not? They shattered the Targaryen yoke—war against so-called dragons. A saga that reached even these canals."
Artos's gut twisted—nostalgia, bitter as gall. "You're better read than most here. Aye, we broke 'em. Dragged down the dragons, left 'em bleeding in the dirt. Destroyed them all"
"We?" Her voice lifted, intrigued. "You fought in that storm? Won't you still be a youth in that time?"
"Barely a young man grown," he said, voice gravel. " But War was all I knew, only trade I was confident in. Rebellion took my father, my brother. Had to pay the debt back somehow." Half-truths, aye—Brandon and Rickard burned by Aerys, not battlefield gore. Close enough not to choke on.
Sympathy flickered in her dark eyes, refined and fleeting. "My regrets, Hal. I did not intend to unearth such sorrow."
He shrugged, wolf's grin fading. "Accepted it years back. What's done's done. No need to worry on spilled Milk."
She inclined her head gracefully, passing him wine—a gesture both consoling and composed. "Indeed. But pray, why venture to Essos? Westeros disdains our shores, particularly your Northern kin. Ice does not mingle with sand. They are very infamous to keep to thier lands."
"Aye, most stay put. War ended. Me? Always been a war dog. North went quiet and Essos don't sleep on the killing."
Her gaze sharpened, liberal candor edging her words. "For the endless wars here, then. Men to carve apart. I confess, I hoped you might prove more intriguing than the usual blades-for-hire."
Artos smirked, leaning close. "Ouch, lady. Cuts deep, that—from you."
Last Hearth, Umber Lands
Snow lashed the stone keep like knives, wind howling through cracks no mason could seal. Inside the lord's solar, peat fire spat and crackled, doing fuck-all against the chill that had settled in Lord Rogar Umber's bones. The old bull sprawled in his high seat, face grey as ash, breath rattling wet. Bandages swaddled his chest—old wounds from the Rebellion, spear-thrusts and axe-gouges that time had softened but never forgiven. Age caught 'em now, festering like bad meat.
Great Jon paced the rushes, bear of a man even at twenty-odd, red beard braided tight. "Father, you've gotta rest proper. Maester's fit to chain you to the bed."
Rogar coughed, hawking bloody phlegm into a basin. "Rest's for corpses, boy. And dead men don't see their kin." His voice wheezed, but eyes burned fierce—Umber fire. "Artos. Need to see the lad 'fore I go. "
Great Jon stopped, fists clenching. "Artos ain't come home since... since he stormed off. Eddard says he's in Essos, captaining sellswords. He has become a quite a big shot in essos. they call him something else now."
"Aye," Rogar rasped, grinning through pain. "That's my boy. Stark blood, Umber heart. Fought like a fiend at the Trident, saved your arse twice over. But he's wandering, Jon. North needs him. I need him. He also needs us. He is trailing and wandering and he needs trusted and blunt men near him "
Great Jon rubbed his beard, heavy. Last Hearth bowed under him now—raven-feasts, bandit-holds crumbling, wildlings sniffing south. Father fading fast, and Artos... fuck, the wolf was family closer than blood some days.
"You reckon he'd come?" Jon asked low. "I raised him practically. You grew up with him . You still have some doubt?"Rogar fixed him, unblinking.
"Write him. Tell him plain—old Rogar's dying, wants his foster son's face last.."
Jon nodded slow, jaw set. "Aye. I'll pen it tonight. Seal of Last Hearth. If he's got a drop of north in him, he'll ride. Otherwise I will drag him myself back in North."
Regar sank back, eyes distant. "Good lad. Tell him... tell him the North misses its teeth."
Back in Braavos,
Artos swirled his wine, Seraphine's gaze still hooking him—poised, expectant, a Braavosi lady's refined hunger for truths beneath the silk. "That enough for now, Lady Valen? Or you fishing deeper still?"
Her smile was measured elegance, voice a velvet blade. "For the moment, Hal. But secrets fester like unvented holds. They surface eventually, and rarely cleanly."
"Aye," he said, meeting her eyes steady. "They always do."
Rick croaked lazy agreement, and the fire between them banked low—but not out. Not yet.
---
YOU LIKE THE WORK PLEASE SUPPORT 🙏
Please join the patreon and join the pack
www.patreon.com/Cregantheblackwolf
Thank you for your support and I am really grateful