Chapter 37: The White Cloak
Morning light filtered through the narrow windows of the Red Keep chamber, casting long shadows across rumpled silks and furs. Artos lay sprawled across the bed, dark hair tousled, with two young women curled against him—gifts from grateful southern lords hoping to curry favor with the Demon Wolf. He had no particular attachment to them, but the wine had been good and the company pleasant enough.
The sound of Bert's voice at the door pulled him from the pleasant haze of half-sleep."Lord Artos, the Lord Hand Jon Arryn is here to meet with you."
Artos rose without complaint, his movements fluid despite the previous night's indulgences. "Let Lord Arryn enter."
He pulled on a simple linen shirt as the women stirred, still drowsy.
Jon Arryn entered the chamber with the practiced discretion of a man who had seen far worse in his years, though his weathered face did register a moment of amusement at the sight.
"I hope I am not intruding," Jon said mildly.
"Girls, wake up now," Artos commanded, though his tone was gentle. "It seems the Lord Hand has important matters to discuss."
The women giggled as they gathered their clothes, offering playful curtsies to both men as they departed. Once they were gone, Artos gestured to a chair.
"I hope the view wasn't too off-putting for you, my lord," he said with a slight smile, clearly unbothered by the situation.
Jon Arryn laughed—a genuine sound that carried real warmth. "Nothing I haven't seen Robert doing before. Though I confess your brother Ned conducted himself differently. More... restrained in such matters."
"Aye, Ned is a good man. Rare to find one willing to do what's right, especially when it's difficult." Artos poured wine from a pitcher on the table, offering some to Jon Arryn. "It's harder than people think, living by principle. Only a strong man can manage it without compromise, and sometimes it seems stupid to everyone else. But it takes guts to hold to your word no matter the cost."
Jon Arryn accepted the wine and nodded slowly. "True words. I've watched Ned grow from a snotty boy into a man of honor. Robert was always... problematic." He took a sip, then added with a dry smile, "I once found him fucking in my own bedchamber when he was supposed to be practicing sword forms."
Artos let out a bark of laughter. "I've seen enough of him in this war to know his... appetites. I confess I don't understand my father's decision to betroth my sister Lyanna to him. Though I suppose he thought it would strengthen ties with the Stormlands."
Jon Arryn's expression grew more serious, and he set aside his wine cup. "Artos, I came here to discuss something specific with you."
"Aye?"
"You are a younger son. In the natural order of things, you will inherit nothing in the North—your brother holds Winterfell and will pass it to his own heirs." Jon paused, studying the young man carefully. "Have you considered becoming a Kingsguard? It's a great honor. You're clearly one of the finest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms. We all witnessed your skill during the war."
Artos stared at him for a long moment, then began to laugh. It started as a chuckle and grew into full, genuine laughter that echoed through the chamber."You have a fine sense of humor, Lord Hand," he managed between laughs. "I am a Northerner and no knight. I have no wish to serve the king down here in this heat and stone, swearing oaths to a man I barely know. Let the Vale lords have that 'honor'—they're famous for their knights and courtly games."
"I am serious, Artos," Jon Arryn said firmly. "You're one of the best swordsmen alive. You've no lands waiting for you in the North. The white cloak would give you a position of great respect and security. You would be serving the king the North fought to put on the throne. You're a Stark—honor flows in your blood."
Artos's expression sobered, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of winter itself. "Lord Arryn, I made a resolve years ago. I kneel to no one but a Stark of Winterfell. That belief is more binding than any white cloak could ever be." He stood, his movements deliberate and controlled. "You would need to change the king himself before I would consider such a thing. I would sooner take the black and march to the Wall—aye, it's in terrible condition and the wildlings are restless, but it's a Northern watch and a Northern honor. I might die trying to rebuild that cursed ice wall, but I would do it with my head held high."
He fixed Jon Arryn with a gaze as cold as the North itself. "I am a Stark, not a knight. That's not dishonor—it's simply who I am. My place is in the North, whether that's standing at my brother's side or defending the realm at the Wall. Not kneeling before some southern throne."
Jon Arryn sighed, the weight of his years suddenly visible on his weathered face. The shrewd hand had hoped to separate Artos from the North, to remove the young wolf from the equation before he and Eddard became too influential. With Artos gone to the Kingsguard, the North would remain firmly under Eddard's control, which was manageable. But with both brothers working in tandem, especially as Artos grew in experience and cunning...The implications were troubling. Still, Jon recognized a losing position when he saw one. The North's stubbornness was legendary, and Artos embodied it completely.
"I see," Jon said finally, rising from his chair. "Well, I cannot say I'm surprised. You Starks are all cut from the same stubborn cloth." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Safe travels to the Riverlands, Lord Artos. I trust you'll ensure your good-sister and nephew make it safely to Winterfell?"
"With my life, Lord Arryn," Artos replied. "That much I can promise."As Jon Arryn departed, Artos returned to the window, staring out at the city below. The Hand was clever enough to see what would come next—a North united under two capable Starks was a force that no southern lord wanted to contemplate. But that was precisely why Artos would never leave.
The North had survived eight thousand years by knowing where loyalty lay. And loyalty, for the Starks, was never for sale.
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