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Artos Stark Ch 6
🕑 Added 2025-09-01 05:12:43 +0000 UTCChapter 6 – The North Remembers
Artos marched toward Winterfell with an army of six thousand men at his back. Among them were 2,500 Skagosi warriors—a staggering number considering the entire population of the island barely reached twenty-five thousand. It was a true commitment.
Not only had Varr of the Magnars given his warriors, but also his granddaughter, Yor. She rode alongside them now. She wasn't overly beautiful, but she was striking in her own way—sharp-eyed and unflinching. Varr claimed she'd be useful. Artos supposed she might be. Nights in war were long, and she'd not be his first. Being around Brandon Stark too long had its effects. Truth be told, he was surprised Brandon didn't have a bastard already.
But such things didn't matter now.
Brandon and Lyanna. That was what mattered. Bringing them home.
---
It had been a full moon since Artos rode out. Banners had been called, clans summoned. It was time for word from the South—news from his father.
He reached the gates of Winterfell, climbed down from his horse, and entered the keep.
Something was off. The mood was heavy, the air grim.
Then he saw Benjen—face pale, eyes red-rimmed with fury and sorrow.
Benjen walked up and embraced him tightly.
"A raven came from King's Landing," he whispered. "Father and Brandon are dead. The Mad King burned them... accused of treason. And now he demands Ned and Lord Robert's heads."
Artos stood frozen, heart clenched, then crushed. He hugged Benjen tighter, eyes closed.
Then he stepped back.
A storm was brewing in his chest.
"He killed our father and brother," Artos growled. "His son stole our sister. And now he dares ask for my brother's head?" His voice trembled with rage. "The North will march. The dragons will burn. Winter is coming—for them."
He turned to Benjen. "Send ravens again. The banners are already called, but the lords must now know the truth. Tell them to gather their greybeards, rally their men, and move swiftly. We march South, and we won't stop until we've torn the Targaryens from history."
Benjen nodded grimly.
---
A short while later, the brothers sat together in the great hall, calmer now, but the fire had not left their eyes.
"I want five thousand men raised from Winterfell," Artos ordered. "Three thousand greybeards—men with age and experience. The rest, young blood—lads with fire in their veins. I'll take two thousand of the younger men and three thousand greybeards with me. The rest stay here."
Benjen frowned. "Shouldn't I lead them? You're younger than me."
"You know as well as I do—I'm the better fighter," Artos said. "I can't rule Winterfell, Ben. I was never meant to. Father always said I'd die in battle. Better I die fighting for the North, avenging him and Brandon, bringing Lyanna home... than in some meaningless skirmish in the snows."
Benjen didn't argue. He knew his brother too well.
"You've done something incredible," he said quietly. "You brought the Skagosi out of isolation. No Stark has done that in generations. Even Father never dared."
"They swore their oaths like every other Northern clan," Artos replied. "And oaths must be honored. They'll march directly under me, alongside the mountain clans. We'll be at the front."
Benjen nodded again, his respect unspoken but clear.
"Jon Arryn has refused the King's orders," he said. "He's already called his banners. Ned is on his way North to call ours as well—though he'll find you've already done it. Lord Robert and Arryn are fighting in Gulltown, securing the Vale."
Artos nodded. "Good. They'll need to hold Gulltown. If the Vale is vulnerable, it all falls apart."
Benjen continued, "The Reach will be a problem—fifty thousand strong, if they support the Targaryens. And the Lannisters are no less dangerous. Ten to fifteen thousand knights, fully armored, disciplined. And then there's Dorne. Not as many, but their spears are deadly."
Artos narrowed his eyes. "Let them come. Let them all come. The North will stand. Even if I fall, they'll feel Winter in their bones before the end. Prepare the reserves. Train the young ones. Time is the enemy now."
"I'll do it," Benjen said. "Crush them, brother. Show them that Winter has come."
---
Artos rode out on his white horse, Snow, with eleven thousand men marching behind.
Beside him rode Greatjon Umber, Mors Umber, the mountain clan chiefs, and Stig, heir to Varr and representative of the Skagosi. His sister Yor rode close as well, fierce-eyed and silent.
They rode for Moat Cailin, where the rest of the Northern host would gather.
What they found there was breathtaking.
Camps stretched across the swamps and grass, banners of ancient Northern houses fluttering in the breeze. Men drilled, sharpened blades, prepared wagons. The North was awakening.
---
War Council at Moat Cailin
Inside the main tent, the Northern lords had gathered.
"We've assembled twenty-five thousand men," said Lord Crewyn, looking around. "More than expected. But Winter is near. Men are still needed in the fields. If the war stretches, we can call more—but for now, this is what we have."
Murmurs of approval passed through the lords.
Many had expected fewer. But the Young Wolf had done what no Stark had managed in living memory—he had brought the Skagosi. Rough, savage, whisper-ridden warriors—some said they were cannibals. But they were on the Stark side, and that made them the enemy's nightmare.
At the edge of the room, Lord Roose Bolton stood quiet. Even he looked uneasy at the sight of the Skagosi.
"We've got the numbers," said Lord Rickard Karstark, stepping forward. "I can command them for you, boy. I was named for your father. I've fought in battles. You're still green—let us older men lead."
Other lords began muttering, tossing their own names forward, debating leadership.
Artos rose to his feet.
"You don't need to worry about that," he said coldly. "I am Artos of House Stark. We have fought wars for eight thousand years. I am a Stark. I will lead this army—until my brother, Eddard Stark, arrives. Is that clear?"
He looked at them one by one—his gaze sharp and unrelenting.
The lords fell silent.
Then Jeor Mormont stepped forward. "We Mormonts will fight under the Starks. We always have. We always will."
Artos nodded. "And it will be an honor—for me, and for my brother Ned."
He turned back to the council.
"We will march along the Kingsroad.We maybe will meet with Valemen. They will most probably go to Riverlands to get thier support but We will ride south, most likely toward the Reach, if they side with the dragons. Prepare for harsh terrain, long rides, and harder battles."
Plans were drawn. Maps studied. Routes debated. The war was coming—and the North remembered.
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