Chapter 36: The Wolf's Share
Jon Arryn had lived through seven decades of politics, war, and intrigue. He had seen bold young lords make demands that would have made their grandfathers weep, had watched Robert's own brash confidence reshape kingdoms. But even he felt his composure slip at the audacity of what he was witnessing.
The Hand of the King gathered himself quickly, drawing on years of diplomatic experience. "Well, Lord Artos, you make this demand on behalf of the North. But with due respect, you are not the Lord of Winterfell or Warden of the North. While we will take your request under consideration, we must speak with Lord Eddard about this matter, as he holds those titles."
Artos's smile was knowing, almost predatory. He had expected this exact response—Jon Arryn was playing the game precisely as his father had tried to taught Brandon such men would. Lord Rickard Stark had been a rarity among Northmen, a politician as sharp as any southern lord, and he had tried to pass those skills to Brandon. But Brandon's temper had made him ill-suited for such subtleties. Artos, however, had observed due to his tendency to stick to Brandon in his childhood.
"Lord Eddard is indeed Warden of the North and my brother," Artos replied, his voice carrying the weight of command. "With his support and that of our bannermen, I was appointed Commander of the Northern Army. I believe that gives me the right to speak for those who bled and died to put Robert on that throne."
His tone hardened. "After all, it was the army that won this war. It was Northern men who died so that we could all stand here and discuss the spoils."
The political maneuvering struck home like an arrow finding its mark. Jon Arryn's weathered face showed genuine surprise—he hadn't expected such sophistication from the boy.
Behind Artos, Lord Rogar Umber felt his jaw drop. 'If you could do this, why did you make me stumble through diplomacy every time? he thought, equal parts impressed and exasperated. I hate politics and I'm terrible at it, and you knew those tricks all along?'
Bert, standing at attention near the wall, allowed himself a small smile. He had seen this side of Artos before—the boy who could charm his way out of trouble with Lord Rickard, who could manipulate situations with an innocence that fooled no one but somehow worked anyway. It was rare for Artos to show this side of himself, especially since he despised the similarity to his politically minded father.
"Very well, Lord Artos," Jon Arryn said carefully. "State your demands."
Artos's smile brightened, taking on an expression of such obvious false innocence that several lords shifted uncomfortably. "I demand sixty percent of the Targaryen gold reserves."
Robert had been drinking wine throughout the discussion, content to let his foster father handle what he considered tedious counting of coppers. But at the mention of sixty percent, he choked on his wine, spraying it across the floor.
"What in the seven hells, boy?" Robert sputtered, staring at Artos in shock. The innocent expression on the young Stark's face only made it worse—this was clearly calculated audacity.
The Northern lords looked mortified. They had followed their commander into whatever mad scheme this was, but demanding more than half of the royal treasury was beyond anything they had imagined.
Lord Rogar felt heat creep up his neck. He had known Artos since the boy was small, had watched him grow from a stubborn child into a formidable warrior, but he had never seen him make that particular expression of innocence. Even at age five, Artos had been too fierce to make that face for real.
Tywin Lannister's voice cut through the shocked silence like a blade through silk. "This is absurd beyond measure. Are you jesting with us, boy?"
Artos turned to the Lord of Casterly Rock with that same maddening smile. "Well, well. Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?"
Scattered laughter rippled through the throne room, mostly from the Northern contingent who appreciated seeing someone match Tywin's notorious unreasonableness.
"Speak clearly, boy," Tywin demanded,
"Aren't you the one who got away with the most absurd arrangement here?" Artos asked, his voice dripping with mock. "Your son still serves in the Kingsguard despite breaking his most sacred oath. By rights, he should be taking the black, yet here he remains."
"He saved this damned city and everyone in it," Tywin replied coldly. "Didn't you get that answer from him yourself?"
Artos's expression shifted, the false innocence melting away to reveal something more real. "I did. That's why I said the black, not death. If not for that explanation, he wouldn't have survived for taking my of the satisfaction of killing the Mad King."
The temperature in the throne room seemed to drop several degrees as both men stared at each other, hands unconsciously moving toward sword hilts.
"Lords," Jon Arryn intervened quickly, "perhaps we should take a breath and return to the matter at hand."
Both men stepped back from the precipice, though the tension remained thick enough to cut.
Jon Arryn continued once he was satisfied the immediate danger had passed. "Lord Artos, while I recognize the North's tremendous efforts in this war, demanding sixty percent of the Targaryen treasury is simply unreasonable. In recognition of your sacrifices, we could offer fifteen percent—which is already a substantial sum."
Artos said nothing, merely stared at the Hand with those dark Stark eyes."Seriously, Lord Artos," Jon pressed, "you cannot expect to take more than the king himself. We have a realm to rebuild, roads to repair, armies to pay and disband."
"Fifty percent," Artos said simply.
"Twenty percent," Jon countered. "We have massive expenses ahead of us, and it was also the North that wanted this war . You sought vengeance for your father, brother, and sister."
Artos was quiet for a long moment, then spoke with a voice that carried across the throne room like winter wind. "We could have fought this war alone if necessary. Did you join us for justice, or because your own lives and power were threatened?" He let that sink in before continuing. "I won't pretend the North didn't get its revenge, but it's also true that we gained almost nothing personally from this war. We didn't kill the Mad King or his heir, despite bleeding the most, losing the most men, fighting the bloodiest battles when victory seemed impossible."
His voice grew stronger, more passionate. "We deserve at least an equal share. But out of respect for the king and for Lord Jon Arryn, who raised my brother Eddard as his own son, I will accept forty percent."
The throne room fell silent. Jon Arryn's mind raced through calculations—the treasury's size, the realm's needs, the political cost of refusing versus accepting.
After what felt like an eternity, the Hand nodded slowly. "Agreed."
Artos kept his face carefully neutral, but inside he was stunned. He had hoped for thirty percent at most, had calculated that as the absolute maximum he could extract through pressure and reputation. The forty percent he had just won was beyond his expectations.
What he didn't realize was how much his reputation had grown during the war. The Demonwho had carved through enemy lines, who had faced down Tywin Lannister in the throne room, who had the loyalty of hardened veterans—that reputation was worth more than gold in negotiations like these.
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