Chapter 72 - "Rage and Control"
By the time the hall had settled again, the feast was ruined.
The smell of burnt flesh clung to the beams like a curse. Men kept their voices low, if they spoke at all. A few would not look at the place where the fool had died. A few looked too often. The fire still crackled, but its warmth had gone strange, as if the hearth itself knew better than to be cheerful after what had happened.
Artos stood near the high table with a cup in hand that he had not touched. The blood had been washed from his fingers, but it still seemed to cling to him.
He looked less like a lord and more like the thing men warned children about on dark winter nights. DemonWolf. Northerners really getting to know why Southerners calls him by that name.
GreatJon approached him at last, slow and careful and take him to a room to let it loosen up even if a bit.
For once he did not grin. GreatJon is serious after witnessing this.
"You overdid it," he said plainly.
Artos gave a short, humorless snort. "Aye, I know."
GreatJon folded his arms across his broad chest. "It was too much, Arty. EVEN FOR A FOOL, it was too much."
Artos stared into his cup as though the answer might be sitting in it. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" GreatJon repeated. "You nearly ashed the hall in half for one drunken fool's mouth."
Artos's jaw tightened. "He was talking about Ned."
"I know what he was talking about. Even I was angry but IT WAS TOO MUCH."
"He was talking about taking Winterfell from him."
"He was talking shit. Drunk shit."
Artos turned then, and there was still fire in his eyes, though it burned lower now. "Aye. And I am the one who would call bullshit a bullshit. I did with the same with Ned. But he is my brother. I would not tolerate this not while I still breathe."
GreatJon studied him for a long moment. He had known Artos long enough to know that the answer he gave was not the whole of it. It never was with him. Rage, aye. That was part of it. But beneath the rage there was always something else. Guilt, perhaps. Or shame. Or the fear that if he did not strike first, then one day the world would take from him everything he had left. Of what had remained of his family.
GreatJon spoke more quietly. "You've made your point. Any man in that hall knows now that Stark blood is not to be spoken of lightly again. But would your brother approve of this think about it."
Artos gave a slow nod.
Artos looked away toward the fire. "It had to be done. Not like that, maybe. But it had to be done. I did too much with the fire. But rage took over my senses "
GreatJon frowned. "You mean that?"
"I do."
Artos let out a heavy breath. "My brother made a choice. Maybe a bloody stupid one, maybe not. Doesn't matter now. What matters is this—people need to understand that however the hell brothers might quarrel, no man is to take that as a sign that Stark blood is weak. They should understand that I will not let my family be killed again betrayed again." While Artos saying this. His eyes are red as blood.
GreatJon's eyes narrowed a little, but he said nothing.
Artos went on, voice lower now, rougher. "If men think one Stark can be pushed aside because another left, or because I was gone, or because some fool thinks the family can be divided and picked apart, then they'll test it. They always do. They always bloody do. So I made sure they knew. Stark is still untouchable. Still strong. Still feared like the old times."
GreatJon rubbed at the back of his neck, then sighed. "Aye, and you did that by nearly murdering a boy in front of half the North."
"Does it matter?" Artos said bluntly. "Do you think My ancestors, Our ancestors build this by playing politics. We did this by becoming the most brutal. I have read enough history of Starks to know that."
GreatJon gave him a tired look. "You know that is not the same thing ."
"No," Artos said. "It isn't."
That honesty surprised GreatJon enough to make him blink.
Artos looked at him now, the anger fading just enough for the rest to show through. "I got carried away. I know that. I was angry and drunk and tired of hearing fools talk about things they know nothing of."
For a moment neither spoke.
GreatJon looked at Artos with a weariness that came from more than the night's drinking.
"You should come back here permanently," he said at last.
Artos's head turned slightly. "What?"
GreatJon did not repeat himself. He did not need to. "You are sick of Home . You are out of control, you need rest that you didn't do after the war.You've got your head in the North whether you admit it or not. Come back. Stay."
Artos stared at him a little longer than was comfortable.
That was the real question, in the end.
It was whether he could truly stay.
He did not answer right away.
He thought of Braavos. Of Seraphine. Of Rick circling high over salt wind and market roofs. Of the freedom he had made for himself in Essos, ugly and hard-won but real. He had liked that. More than he cared to say.
At last he said, "I'll think about it."
GreatJon gave him a long look. "That means no."
"No," Artos said. "It means I'll think about it."
"That is what I said."
"Aye. And I meant what I said."
GreatJon shook his head, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "You're a difficult man."
"You knew that when you met me. That's why I was sent to your Father."
"I was hoping you'd grow out of it."
Artos snorted and finally took a drink.
GreatJon studied him.
"Good," he said. "Then maybe you still have time to be the man you want to be instead of the one you think you are."
Artos let that sit with him for a moment.
It was a dangerous thought.
Waymar found him not long after,
He came up carefully, as if approaching a man who might still bite.
"Commander," he said.
Artos glanced at him. "If you've come to tell me I made a mess, save your breath."
Waymar's mouth twitched. "No, I was going to say you made a very memorable one."
Artos gave a dry snort. "That I did."
Waymar stood awkwardly for a moment, then looked aside. "The men are talking."
"Of course they are. They always talk."
"Aye," Waymar said. "Ofcourse , But it would be a political mess for your Brother."
Artos grunted."Aye, but he knows and always handle my mess, even when we were children."
Waymar continued, a little more careful now. "You wanted them to know Stark blood wasn't to be mocked. Well, they know. You made sure of that."
Artos looked at him. "And what do you think?"
Waymar hesitated. That alone told Artos it mattered.
"I think," Waymar said at last, "that you are still the same man I followed into war. Just older, and more dangerous when someone makes you angry. More easy to make angry."
Artos gave a crooked smile at that. "Comforting."
Waymar shrugged. "I've seen worse men."
That got a real laugh out of him, short but honest.
Waymar took the opening and lowered his voice. "But if I may speak plain, Commander..."
"Go on."
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