Chapter 73: Frayed Threads
Waymar came to Artos, cup still in hand, his face rough with concern.
Waymar lowered his voice. "You need to pull yourself back from this. The hall was truly scared, you know that. They already knew you were not a soft man. But now it's different. Although it's working for now, since everyone knows not to poke the big bear known as the Stark family. But if you keep cutting men open every time they say something foolish, they'll stop seeing the point and only remember the violence. They will remember it and hold grudges. And when that happens, the Boltons will be all too happy to exploit it. You did the right thing by killing the man, but the brutality involved was not needed, and in my opinion, it was unwarranted."
Artos looked into his cup for a moment. "Aye. But maybe they should remember who I am, and who the Starks used to be."
"That was not what I meant."
"I know what you meant, Waymar. But this was a situation that needed it. At least that's what I would like to think."
Waymar shifted his weight. "You proved your point. That boy was a fool, and now he is dead. The rest of the hall will not forget. But for any lasting rule, they need to fear the Starks less than they respect them. That is what politics is about. No matter how much you say you do not understand it, Commander, you and I both know the consequences of this, and what the result could be. The Boltons and their vassals are already working to weaken Stark rule. This could be a good thing, a message for them to remember to behave, but it could also give them a chance to stir up more disagreement among the other vassals if it is not handled well."
Artos let out a slow breath and rubbed at his jaw. "You think I do not know that?"
"I believe you do know it," Waymar said, "but I also know you tend to forget it when your temper gets hold of you."
That earned a dry snort from Artos. "Hells, you sound like my father."
"That is because he was right too," Waymar said, mocking him lightly with a grin on his face.
For the first time that night, Artos gave the smallest smile. "Aye. He usually was."
Waymar looked toward the doors, where the murmur of the hall still drifted in and out like winter wind. "The men are talking. About you. About what happened. Things will settle as They always do. But the North remembers things like this."
Artos did not answer right away, but after a moment, he gave a single nod.
Waymar seemed satisfied with that, enough to leave it where it stood. He gave Artos a short bow and stepped away, letting the fire crackle between them.
On the other side of the realm, in Braavos, Essos,
Glaro Sythan stood in his chamber in Braavos with one hand on the window frame and the other clenched tight enough to whiten his knuckles.
The moonlight lay cold over the canals, but he hardly saw it. His mind was on a different matter entirely.
Seraphine Valen. She was gone.
Gone with Artos Stark, of all men.
Glaro had already ruined his own reputation by pursuing Seraphine Valen. People made fun of him for losing to a mercenary commander when he was the heir of the proud Sythan family. It was a slight to him and to his family's name.
And Glaro would not forget that slight.
The thought sat in him like a knife. But now she was gone, and that hurt him even more.
It was not simply that she had left. Braavos was full of departures, marriages, bargains, and ships. No, it was the man she had gone with. He might have tolerated it if it had been someone else, but that damned northern bastard made it feel like a spit in the face and an insult to his pride.
Artos Stark was infamous enough, and perhaps that was why some people mistook this whole thing for something more. But in Braavos and the other Free Cities, rumors carried faster than ships. A Valen daughter riding north with a mercenary commander, wandering into the cold with a man half the world whispered about? That was not a private matter. That was a public wound. And the Valen family was taking the blow for it.
There were whispers in the markets already. Traders who had once spoken of the Valens with respect now did so with caution, amusement, or worse. Some said the girl had run wild. Some said she had been stolen and kidnapped. Some said she had chosen badly and was too proud to admit it. Every version of the tale scraped at the family's standing, and that was before the Sythans had begun tightening their own grip on trade and market influence across Braavos.
Glaro laughed. "Damn that wench and her family. They are so proud and mighty, always belittling ours. They will fall hard, and I will shatter their pride with my own hands."
The Valens had always been an influential family, standing tall on their own and suppressing others. This choice was already beginning to weaken the Valen name across Essos, and Glaro knew it.
His mouth curled in disgust as he thought of it. His house was moving with purpose, pressing its advantage where it could, taking over routes, bargaining harder, and seizing opportunities. Braavos was a city that rewarded sharp hands. The Sythans understood that. The Valens, for all their wealth and rank, were beginning to look slow and weak.
And now Seraphine had gone and given fools another reason to talk.
Glaro struck the window frame once with the heel of his hand and muttered a curse under his breath.
Artos Stark might have thought he was taking a woman north.
In truth, he was dragging her name through the snow with him.
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