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Sorry for the mishap. Here is your chapter 69. Mistakenly i uploaded Chapter 70.
Thank you. Enjoy your 69 IYKYK â ď¸
Chapter 69: Back to Last Hearth
The road north had been long, hard, and bitter with cold.
By the time Artos and his party left White Harbor behind and crossed deeper into the North, the land seemed to draw in around them like an old memory. The air grew sharper with every mile. The wind came relentless across the open stretches, and the snow, when it fell, did not fall gently but came stinging sideways, as if the gods themselves had some old grievance to settle.
Artos did not mind it. Not truly.
The cold bit at him, aye, but it was a familiar bite. It was the North's own way of greeting a man. Harsh, stubborn, honest. Like the men born from it. Like the people who lived and died under its skies. He found himself staring more than once at the frozen fields, the dark pines, the low hills capped white with snow, and feeling something in his chest settle a little easier.
Home, he thought, though the word did not sit entirely clean in him.
Not all of the party shared that feeling.
Seraphine Valen had complained of the cold so many times that by the third day, even the Brutes had begun to grin at her over it. Her Braavosi pride suffered under the northern weather, and she made no attempt to hide it.
"It's too cold here," she said for the third time in two days, drawing her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "I don't know how you Northmen survive it on a daily basis. I am going mad with all this cold and snow."
Artos only laughed and shook his head.
"What are you saying? It is not even that cold right now. We are used to it. It's in our blood, my lady. Not everyone loves this part of the North."
She shot him a look, half-annoyed, half-amused. "You speak as though I am supposed to praise it."
"Not praise it," he said. "Just endure it."
Seraphine gave him a smirk " Thats why it is isolated with the other Kingdoms. South thinks so little of you, don't they?"
Artos shrugged in his saddle. "Most of them do. We are isolated in Westeros or atleast were Now the trades are rather good. They look down on us most of the time. Until it is time for war. Then they remember what the North is good for."
Her eyes narrowed, the smile still lingering. "And last time that happened, you made quite a show. Or so I have heard."
Artos laughed at that. "Aye, I suppose I did."
He looked ahead for a time, the wind tugging at his cloak, then went on, quieter now. "It is cold, yes. But it is home. You might even like Winterfell if we were going there. The hot springs make it warmer than most of the North. Enough to remind men they are still alive."
Seraphine turned in her saddle and studied him. "We are not going to Winterfell, are we?"
Artos did not answer at once.
She did not press him immediately either. That, more than anything, told him she had learned him better than she had been a few weeks before. Seraphine Valen was not a fool. She had sharp eyes and sharper instincts. She knew when a man had no wish to be dragged into a subject before he was ready.
At last he said, "Not this time."
"Because of your brother?" she asked softly.
Artos lowered his head a little. "Aye. Maybe. It does not feel right yet. Not now."
Seraphine nodded once, and that was all. No prying, no lecture, no silk-wrapped nonsense. Just understanding. It was one of the things Artos had come to value in her. She could be bold enough for any Braavosi noble girl, but she knew when to leave a blade untouched.
So they rode on.
The land grew rougher as they approached Last Hearth. The Umbers' lands were harsh and wide and wild in a way that suited the North better than any warm southern notion ever could. The wind came straight off the hills, the roads grew muddier where the snow had started to melt and freeze again, and the trees stood black and bare against the grey sky like dead sentinels.
When they reached Last Hearth, there was no confusion as to who waited for them.
Lord Greatjon Umber stood there at the gates with a handful of his men, broad as a tower and twice as grim, yet his face shifted when he saw Artos. The men with him all knelt, and for a moment Artos thought that strange. The Umbers were not a house for kneeling. They were the sort to laugh at customs when they suited them and spit in the face of polite nonsense when they did not. They bowed to Winterfell, aye, or to great lords when old obligations demanded it, but not like this.
Not for him.
It was too solemn. Too deliberate.
Artos rode up, dismounted before the others had even finished their formalities, and walked straight to Greatjon. The giant of a man opened his arms and Artos met him with a hard hug.
"How are you, brother?" Artos said, his voice roughening a little. "I am sorry I was so late. I should have been here sooner. I am sorry I was not there at time when the old man passed."
Greatjon hugged him back and clapped him hard on the back. "I am doing good, Arty." His voice was thick and steady, but his eyes carried grief still. "Do not trouble yourself. I read your letter to the old man. He went to the old gods happily enough, and without regret. That is more than many men get."
Artos nodded slowly.
He could still see Rogar Umber as he had beenâbig, stubborn, loud, impossible to break. A man who seemed carved from old tree roots and iron. It was difficult to think of him as dead. Difficult to think of Last Hearth without that booming voice somewhere in its halls.
Then Artos noticed a few faces he had not expected.
Stig of the Skagosi stood among them.
For a second Artos only stared, then he went to him too and pulled him into a hug.
"Artos," Stig said with a laugh. "Still sharp, wolf."
Artos grinned. "I did not expect Skagosi to leave their island. Not after the war, really."
Stig gave a short nod. "Aye. We are an isolated bunch. But even we respected Lord Rogar Umber. My grandfather sent me with regards. I have a personal bond with the old man, and with Greatjon too."
Artos looked from one to the other. "And?"
Stig's mouth twitched. "There is another matter. But that can wait. You should pay your respects first."
"Aye," Artos said. "You are right. Take me to the old man, brother."
Greatjon nodded once, and together they went to the crypts.
The place was quiet except for the drip of melted water and the low murmur of old prayers. The stones were cold underfoot, and the air had that deep earth smell that always sat in grave places. It suited Rogar somehow. He had been a hard man in life; he would not have wanted any softness in death.
Artos and Greatjon stood before the old lord's resting place and paid their respects.
"He was a great man," Artos said at last. "He fostered me. Made me into the man I am today. I truly thought he would be stubborn enough to outlast us all and become one more old man in the North. But we were not that lucky."
Greatjon gave a rough laugh through the quiet. "Aye, I thought so too. Do you remember the first time we snuck to Bear Island for our own pleasure and those pirates attacked us? We fought them like fools. He punished us hard after that."
Artos snorted. "Hard? He had us working ten times our usual for three weeks. He was impressed, though. Even if he would never say it."
"Aye," Greatjon said.
For a time they remained there, remembering old days, old fights, old punishments. Rogar had been the sort of man who taught his boys with bruises, then fed them afterward as if nothing had happened. Artos had not been his son by blood, but in all the ways that mattered, Rogar Umber had treated him like one.
When they left the crypts, Artos waited until they were clear of the halls before he asked the question that had been bothering him.
"What was that about?"
Greatjon glanced at him. "What was what?"
"The customs. The kneeling, the courtesy. You would not do that for me without cause. You know me well enough to know I do not care for all that. You know that."
Greatjon laughed and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Aye, I do know that. But I am a lord now, whether I like it or not. I have to show respect and loyalty with my actions too, not just my words. Or so the maester says. And my father gave me enough speeches on the matter during my heir training that I could recite half of them drunk."
Artos snorted. "Aye, I get it. I do not care much for customs either. My father was always on my back about them, though Brandon got the worst of it. In the end, Father gave up on me and sent me to your father to be straightened out instead. Also my position didn't demand it even if you are becoming the stickler for customs."
Greatjon laughed. "That is where you are wrong, brother. A letter came from Winterfell. Ned wrote it. He sent his regrets on my father's death and offered the Starks' respect. He cannot come himself, he says, as a Stark must remain at Winterfell. So he is sending youâArtos Starkâas the representative of Eddard Stark and Winterfell to show respect to Lord Rogar Umber."
Artos stared at him.
For a moment he said nothing at all.
"Not only that," Greatjon went on, grinning now because he knew exactly what he was doing to him. "You are given the seat and position of the Lord of Sea Dragon Point to hold as a lord yourself. So congratulations. We are peers again. Lord Artos Stark of Sea Dragon Point."
Artos just looked at him, stunned.
He had expected letters. Expected that old awkward dance of northern obligation and pride.
He had not expected that.
Not like this.
Not Artos Stark.
Not Lord Artos Stark.
For a moment the words rang in his head like a hammer on an anvil.
Then, very slowly, he let out a breath and gave a short, crooked laugh, though there was little humor in it.
"Seven hells," he muttered. "Ned really has gone and done it, has he?"
Greatjon's grin only widened. "Aye. He has."
Artos looked away toward the cold grey walls of Last Hearth, jaw working.
And perhaps, he thought, that was exactly the point.
---
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