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Artos Stark Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2025-08-21 12:53:51 +0000 UTC**Chapter 3 – Call the Banners**
Nearly six moons had passed since Artos Stark stormed out of Winterfell and returned to Last Hearth. Now, on the edge of fifteen name days, he stood even taller—six feet two, broader in the shoulders. He'd grown fast, in body and battle both.
On this morning, he stood across from Greatjon Umber in the training yard, their sparring blades clashing with sharp, echoing strikes. Around them, the frozen dirt bore the scars of a dozen morning duels.
But the rhythm broke when Lord Rogar Umber approached, his usually thunderous presence oddly subdued. The two men lowered their blades and turned.
"There's news," Lord Rogar said, voice grim as a funeral bell. "Bad news. From the South."
Artos's brow furrowed.
"Your sister, Lyanna," the old lord continued, "has been taken. Kidnapped by Prince Rhaegar."
A beat passed.
"And Brandon," he went on. "Your brother rode to King's Landing to demand the Prince's head. He was seized by the Mad King. They've summoned Lord Rickard next. He's already on the road south, hoping to clean up the mess before things burn out of control."
Artos stood motionless for a moment,
Then came the fire in his gut.
Rage.
"We march," Artos snapped. "Get your men ready, Lord Umber. We ride for King's Landing."
Rogar, an old warrior who had seen two kings rise and fall, raised a hand. "Cool your damn head, boy. You ride now, and you'll risk more than your life. Diplomacy is in motion. Your father's already gone—to make peace, not spark war."
"Peace?" Artos growled. "My sister's been stolen. My brother's in chains. This isn't peace—it's madness."
"And the South will see marching banners as a declaration of war," Rogar warned, voice like rumbling stone. "If they panic, they'll kill Brandon… or your father."
Artos grit his teeth, pacing, trying to chain down the fury burning through him. His fingers twitched at his sword belt.
"The Mad King sits the throne, Lord Rogar," Artos said at last, steady now, but only just. "We have no idea what he'll do next."
He turned, eyes dark and fixed.
"Prepare your men. The North is vast—we'll need time to gather strength if war comes. I'll send letters to each major house. And you'll write them on my word as a Stark."
Rogar tilted his head, listening as Artos continued like a man possessed.
"Write this: 'I, Artos of House Stark , command all Northern Lords to prepare their men for war, should the call come. To refuse is to betray the North, and I swear by my name and my honor as a Stark, winter will come for those who do not answer.'"
He stepped forward, standing tall like the young lord he was born to be.
"Do you object, my lord?"
Rogar was silent for a moment. Then a dry smile creased his weathered face.
"No objections," he said, then slowly knelt before Artos. "As you command, my lord."
The Umbers had been loyal to the Starks for generations. Rogar would not be the one to break that vow. He rose slowly, already planning how to reach every Lord before snow sealed the passes.
Artos turned to Greatjon. "You're coming with me. The letters won't move the Clans. I need to reach the mountain folk—Liddle, Wull, Norrey, and all the rest. We ride at first light."
Greatjon nodded seriously. "As you say, my lord."
There was no point in arguing. When Artos burned, even rivers froze in his shadow.
That night, Lord Rogar and his maester pored over wax-sealed letters, bearing his heavy signature.
To the Lords of the North—Karstark, Manderly, Bolton, Glover, Hornwood, Crannogman, Mormont, Tallhart, Locke, Cerwyn:
"I, Lord Rogar of House Umber, write at the command of Artos of House Stark. You are ordered to ready your men, gather arms, and prepare for war if it comes. Do not make us write a second time. The honor of the North is at stake . Refuse, and know this—Winter will come for traitors. Artos Stark swears on his Honour as a Stark."
Signed,
Rogar Umber
Lord of Last Hearth
The Maester sealed each raven scroll as Rogar scrawled the last signature. All had been sent—except to the northernmost highlanders.
The mountain clans would not heed parchment. For the Wulls, Liddles, Norreys, Burleys, and Harclays—only a Stark in the flesh would awaken old loyalties.
And Artos would go himself.
The old Umber chuckled to himself in the torchlight.
That damn boy… He's the best I've ever trained. Fights like a demon, rides like the wind… Best in his generation Maybe the golden cub, Jaime Lannister as his only rival. They're close in age, too.He is too well famed to be not considered. The youngest Knight and Kingsguard of the realm.
He sobered slightly.
But Artos has more than steel in his belly. He's clever when he chooses to use his head but his chooses his rage every time .when he fights, that wolf blood burns hot. Gods help us all if war truly comes. He'll be a terror they'll never see coming.
In the high north, Artos and his ten men reached the rough edge of the frozen frontier. Greatjon rode at his side, bundled in bear furs, clutching the reins with frozen fingers.
"These are wild lands," Greatjon muttered. "We'll have to take a walk to the Clans."
Artos nodded. "Then two will stay. Watch the horses. Feed them."
Artos climbed down from Snow, his moody warhorse covered in frost and sweat.
"You stay put, Snow. I'll be back in a few days. Try not to bite anyone this time."
The horse snorted as if in understanding.
Snow had the wild temperament —wild and loyal only to Artos. Brandon had gifted him the beast years ago, claiming that if Artos could tame Snow, maybe he'd come close to matching his own skill in the saddle.
People of the North called Brandon Stark the centaur. His bond with horses was near-unnatural. But if Brandon was ferocity in motion, Artos was riding winter itself.
Thinking about Brandon now twisted knots in Artos's gut. Thinking about Lyanna made his hands clench.
His father had chosen diplomacy, caution—but Artos would not idly wait. His pack was scattered. His blood taken.
No matter what Father decides... I will take heads for this. I will tell them that Winter is coming for them .
Back in Winterfell
Benjen Stark stood alone in his father's solar, the wind moaning outside like the wail of ancient ghosts.
"What in the seven hells is happening…" he whispered to himself, clutching the letter.
First came the news—Lyanna taken. Brandon imprisoned. Lord Rickard summoned to answer for his eldest son's defiance.
Then another raven fell upon his shoulders—this one bearing the Umber crest.
Artos had called the North to arms.
Benjen wasn't surprised.
There had always been something untameable in his brother. Even Brandon, full of rage and pride, bowed before thier father's voice.
But not Artos. He was storm filled with rage.There'd never been a leash that could hold him.
Benjen sighed and turned from the window.
"So it begins…"
And though he would hold the North—because a Stark must always remain in Winterfell—he knew the old gods were watching.
He knew Artos would not be one to stay no matter what Benjen says. He was a better fighter than Benjen. More stubborn. He Will not be moved as it involves Brandon and Lyanna.
Artos would left to tell the South what it had forgotten.
Winter was coming.
