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Artos Stark ch 4
🕑 Added 2025-08-23 12:45:24 +0000 UTCChapter 4 – The Call of the Mountains
Artos Stark climbed the steep, wind-battered trails of the mountains, his cloak snapping in the cold wind. He already knew the answer he would receive—the mountain clans had always answered the call of the Wolf.
As they rode higher, he spotted seven hunters in the snow-cloaked woods. The men, wary and alert, froze at the sight of strangers.
One of them, clearly their leader, stepped forward and barked, "Who goes there?"
"They wear the direwolf sigil," one of the hunters muttered. "Stark men."
"Aye," one of Artos's companions replied. "We are with the Starks."
The leader lowered his bow, still cautious. "Men of the Wolves are welcome here. But why come to the mountains? We pay our tributes, send our furs and meat to Winterfell." merely confused
"I am Artos of House Stark," Artos said, dismounting with a grunt. "I'm here to speak with the Chieftain of the Wulls."
At his words, the hunters exchanged grins and gave a respectful nod.
"Welcome, Wolf Lord," one of them said. "The Wulls always welcome a Stark to our mountain."
They guided Artos and his men toward the settlement nestled within the crags. Smoke curled from wooden huts, and the scent of roasted meat carried on the wind. One of the hunters slipped inside to fetch the chieftain.
Moments later, the heavy wooden door creaked open. Out stepped Wonnor of the Wulls, broad-shouldered and thick-bearded, with snow-dusted hair like stone and ice. His sharp eyes landed on Artos—and the towering form beside him.
"Artos of the Starks. Jon of the Umber," Wonnor rumbled, recognizing them both. "Winterfell's wolves walk far this time ."
"Wonnor of the Wulls," Artos greeted in return, nodding respectfully.
Wonnor extended the guest right without hesitation and led them into his longhouse.
Inside, the warmth of the fire and the smell of pine and meat offered some comfort. Still, Wonnor was blunt as ever.
"It is an honor to welcome a Stark. But why have you come, Wolf Lord?"
Artos appreciated the clans' directness—he'd watched his father and elder brother Brandon deal with them when he was a boy, trailing at Brandon's heels like a shadow.
"I've called the banners," he said. "I came to ask for your support."
Wonnor's eyes narrowed. "Wolves go to war?"
"They do," Artos replied.
The chieftain's face hardened, then broke into a grim nod. "Then the Wulls will march. We've never broken faith with the direwolves. We are loyal men."
"You don't ask why?"
Wonnor shrugged. "The Wulls follow no king, kneel to no southern lord. But we follow the Starks. That was the oath of our ancestors taken under the Heart tree ."
He leaned forward, voice low. "But tell me, Young Wolf—why not Brandon? He is heir to Winterfell. Ought he not be the one to summon us?"
"Don't mistake my presence for disrespect," Artos replied. "Brandon has been seized by the Targaryens. That's why I call you now—in his name and in the name of our house."
Wonnor's jaw clenched. "A Stark, taken? The North will remember. The Wulls will fight and die for the Wolves."
Artos nodded. "Then I ask another favor. Send four of your trusted men with mine to summon the other clans. I call for an Ancient Council of the Clans."
Wonnor's brows rose. He was clearly surprised—but pleased. "The old ways live again," he murmured. "The Wulls will send the word."
---
A few days later, five clan chieftains sat around a great wooden table in the longhall of the Wulls.
Hothor of the Liddles. Harl of the Norreys. Osmund of the Burleys. Brand of the Harclays. Wonnor of the Wulls.
All stared at Artos Stark, surprised yet pleased that a Stark had summoned a Council like in the days of old.
Artos stood tall at the head of the table, voice hard with purpose.
"My sister has been taken. My brother—the one you will serve as Lord—has been seized. I call on you now, as your forefathers once answered my ancestors beneath the Heart Tree. Ready your men. Honour your oaths."
For a moment, silence.
Then:
"We will follow the Wolves. We will march."
"We will die for the Starks."
"Brandon has been taken? We'll kill every southerner in our path."
"We are of the First Men. Our blood and oaths run deep—we will follow you till death. Old Gods bless us."
Fists slammed on the table. The mountain rang with war cries.
Artos met their fury with fury of his own. "It's time the South remembers that Winter is Coming."
The chiefs nodded grimly.
"One more thing," Artos added. "Send forth your greybeards. The young will remain to guard the North. But the old warriors—the ones with no more fields to tend—let them come. Let them die for the Starks."
There was no argument.
"They will be glad to go," said Harl. "To die in battle, for the Wolves—that is the end any northern warrior would welcome."
"It will ease the burden for the winters ahead," murmured Brand.
The Greybeards—old warriors with nothing left to prove, suicidal in their resolve, revered in Northern culture—would ride again.
Artos continued, "I want the clans to fight under the direwolf. You will be my front line. There are no warriors in Westeros like you. And I will fight beside you."
The chieftains looked at him with pride.
"We will prepare the men, Young Wolf," Wonnor said.
"They'll follow you to the death," added Osmund.
Artos nodded, as he expected nothing less. "Next, I ride to Skagos."
That caused a stir. Even hardened chieftains grew quiet.
Skagos.
No Stark had called Skagos since the days of their rebellion. The isles were wild, the Skagosi unpredictable—some said mad.
Even the Greatjon stirred, speaking for the first time in hours. "My lord… it's not wise. Not even your father summoned them during the Ninepenny War. It's too dangerous."
"Umber speaks true," Wonnor said. "Skagos has betrayed the wolves before."
Artos didn't flinch. "You follow us not because of southern laws or Targaryen writs—but because of sacred oaths sworn before the old gods. So too have the Skagosi. I'll remind them of that. Isolation has made them forget, but I will make them remember."
They saw the promise of winter in his eyes—unyielding, furious. They knew they would not sway him.
"If you must go," Osmund said at last, "then we'll follow if things go ill. We'll stand with you, kill with you, die with you."
"All under your banner," Brand agreed.
Artos gave a respectful bow. "The Starks will remember your loyalty."
He sent a raven to Lord Rogar Umber, commanding ships to be prepared for Skagos. Within days, 3,200 men had gathered—Greybeards among them, eager to die like warriors.
Before he departed, Wonnor approached with a gift.
"A cloak, for the Wolf Lord," he said.
It was a regal pelt—the hide of a great wolf, thick and weathered, tough as boiled leather. It could almost pass for armor.
Artos draped it over his shoulders. "I am honored," he said.
---
At Last Hearth, Lord Rogar Umber read the message with a scowl. The pup was going to Skagos. Even seasoned warriors feared setting foot on that cursed isle.
"What is wrong with that boy," Rogar muttered, pacing.
But he knew Artos too well to think he could change his mind.
He turned to his younger brother. "Mors. Prepare the ships. And you'll go with him."
Mors stared at him, shocked. "Skagos? You're sending me there?"
"I trust no one else," Rogar said. "You've fought in three wars. That boy needs someone to keep him alive."
Mors growled, but nodded. "Damn pup better not get me eaten by cannibals."
Still, there was a glimmer of respect in his eyes.
He, too, had grown fond of the Young Wolf.
---
