Chapter 38: Back in Winterfell
The great hall of Winterfell was silent save for the scratch of quill on parchment. Benjen Stark sat at the high table in the Lord's Chamber, surrounded by the day-to-day business of running the North—reports from castle stewards, grain counts from the granaries, letters from the mountain lords regarding winter preparations. More than a year had passed since he'd taken up these duties, more than a year of bearing the weight of the Stark name while his brothers fought in the south.
The war was over now. Letters had come weeks ago, carried by exhausted riders who bore tales of blood and victory. Robert Baratheon sat the Iron Throne. The dragons were dead. The Targaryens were gone from the world.
But victory tasted like ash in Benjen's mouth.He had lost so much—his father, burned alive in the throne room by the Mad King himself; his eldest brother Brandon, strangled while watching their father die; and his sister Lyanna, lost to the war in ways that no letter could adequately explain. One moment she was alive and betrothed to Robert, the next she was simply... gone. The realm would probably never know what had truly happened to her.
Benjen set down his quill and rubbed his tired eyes. The work never ended. The North was vast, the winter was coming, and there was so much that needed to be done.A knock at the door pulled him from his brooding.
"My Lord," a guard entered ,"the entourage is near. Lord Artos and his party—they can be seen on the road. They'll be at the gates within the hour."
Benjen felt something shift in his chest—relief, perhaps, or simply the weight lifting slightly from his shoulders. "Summon the household. Have them gather at the gates. And ready the great hall for a proper welcome."
He stood and moved toward the chamber door, taking the stone steps down to the courtyard.
The gates of Winterfell swung open to reveal the approaching column, and Benjen's eyes widened in surprise. This was far more than he had expected , nearly five thousand soldiers marched toward the castle, their armor still bearing the scars of war, their banners showing the direwolf of House Stark.
Benjen wondered, though he suspected he'd find the answer soon enough.Then he saw the massive stallion at the head of the column—Snow, Artos's destrier, one of the finest horses in all the Seven Kingdoms. The beast was magnificent, its coat gleaming in the afternoon light. Artos sat tall in the saddle, guiding the horse forward with an easy confidence.
Artos dismounted with practiced grace, dropping from Snow's back and landing lightly on the ground. He was taller than Benjen remembered, broader in the shoulders, with the kind of hard-worn confidence that came from command and blood.Artos had grown into something more mature than the angry young man who had left Winterfell to join the rebellion.
Benjen smiled despite his exhaustion and moved forward to embrace his brother. They held each other for a long moment, brothers who had been separated by war and duty, two of the few Starks left in a world that had become a colder place.
"Look at you, Arty," Benjen said, pulling back to study his brother. "You're taller than Brandon now."
Artos smiled, and there was genuine warmth in his dark eyes. "I missed you, brother. Seven hells, I missed you."
They embraced again, and when Benjen finally turned his attention to the rest of the party, he noticed the woman holding a small child. His breath caught.
This must be Catelyn Tully—now Catelyn Stark—and the infant was his nephew, the new heir to Winterfell."I am sorry for my manners, my lady," Benjen said, moving forward to greet his good-sister properly. He took her hand and bent to kiss it in the southern fashion, trying to remember the courtesies Father had taught him.
"Please forgive me. The joy of seeing my family after so long made me forget myself."
Catelyn smiled, She had a warm grace about her, and her eyes held an intelligence that suggested she understood the emotions churning in the hearts of the Starks."It is quite alright, Lord Benjen," she replied gently. "I understand completely. You've been separated from your family for such a long time."
Benjen turned his attention to the babe in her arms. "And this must be little Robb. Welcome to Winterfell, my boy ."
Benjen reached out and gently took the boy, cradling him carefully. The infant gripped one of his fingers with surprising strength."A strong boy," Benjen observed. "A true Stark."
Artos laughed. "Aye, he's already been challenging his Uncle Artos for dominance. Won a few rounds too. Little man's got the Wolf's blood, no doubt about it."
"Of course he does," Benjen replied with a slight smile. "It seems you're not the youngest anymore, brother. And here I thought you'd be jealous of the attention the boy's will be getting."
All three of them smiled at that, and for a moment, the grief and loss that had haunted Winterfell seemed to ease just slightly. They were family, and family endured.
That evening, after Catelyn and young Robb had been settled into comfortable chambers and the household had been fed and billeted for the night, Benjen found Artos before the great hearth in the main hall. A fire burned bright, pushing back the shadows of the stone chamber, and two cups of mead sat waiting.
Benjen poured himself a fresh cup and settled into the chair across from his brother. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the flames dance and crackle.
"You've done well, brother," Artos said finally. "Holding Winterfell while the rest of us were away. Ned will be grateful."
"I'm angry at you for going," Benjen replied bluntly. "It was supposed to be me. You're the youngest—you should have stayed here."
Artos shook his head. "Come now, Ben. We discussed this before I left. You know I'm no good at ruling. I'm good at one thing and one thing only—swinging a sword and killing people who need killing. And I did a decent job of that in the war, I'll admit." He took a pull from his mead. "But the logistics, the supply chains, the endless calculations—that's a special kind of torture that I wouldn't wish on anyone. Trust me, maintaining those networks during a war is worse than any battle I fought. I'm glad Ned was the Northern Commander instead of me. It would have driven me mad if I have done it more."
Benjen smirked. "I read some of Ned's letters, brother. I couldn't believe they were about you. He said you were doing a respectable job with the logistics, even if you complained about it constantly. He was a little sad when you handed off the responsibility, actually."
Artos laughed. "Well, I trust him with my life, so why not the boring tasks?"
They drank together for a while, and then Benjen noticed something that had been bothering him since Artos arrived. "By the way, brother, why were there so many carriages in your entourage? Did Lady Catelyn bring half of Riverrun with her?"
"No," Artos said, his smile turning mysterious. "That's our spoils of war, Ben."
Benjen's eyes widened. "You mean... the dragon's gold?"
"Exactly. I negotiated for forty percent of the Targaryen treasury before we left King's Landing."
Benjen nearly spilled his mead. "Forty percent? The word reached here that you were demanding an absurd amount, but I thought it was exaggeration. Ned is going to be absolutely furious with you. That gold technically belongs to the Crown, not to the war spoils."
Artos shrugged with the casual indifference of someone who had already decided he didn't care about the consequences. "He shouldn't have left me incharge in King's Landing then."
"You're petty, Arty," Benjen said, shaking his head.
"And you're self-righteous," Artos shot back with a grin.
"How much is it, anyway?"
"How much what?"
"The gold, you idiot."Benjen took another drink before answering. "Well, how much is it?"
"Six million dragons."
Benjen spit out his mead, coughing and sputtering as the liquid burned his throat. "What? Six million? Seven hells, Arty!"
"Relax, brother," Artos said calmly. "It's ours now."Benjen tried to regain his composure, but his mind was already racing through the implications. Six million dragons was more gold than the North had seen in generations. With that kind of wealth, they could fortify every castle, hire trained soldiers, improve the roads, strengthen the ports..."Six million," he repeated quietly. "We could do incredible things with that, Arty. The North could finally be a better place to live. The roads could be improved, the castles reinforced. We could prepare properly for the winter."
"Aye, but that's Ned's responsibility," Artos said, though his tone suggested he cared more than he was letting on. "We just need to relax and take our share. He's the Lord of Winterfell now—he can worry about the realm's future. We did our part."
"Our share?" Benjen raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't all of it go to the Lord of Winterfell? That's how these things work, Arty."
Artos waved a hand dismissively. "It's six million dragons, Ben. Even if we take a significant cut for ourselves, there will still be enough for Ned to rebuild the entire North if he wants to. I've earned my share, and so have you, sitting here holding the castle while the rest of us were in the south. "
Benjen considered this, then nodded slowly. His brother had a point,."Speaking of the future of the North," Benjen said carefully, "is it true you arranged a marriage between the North and the Reach? That would make it twice in a row that a Lord of Winterfell has married outside the traditional Northern sphere."
"It's fine," Artos replied easily. "We Starks have a tradition—granted, it's an old one and not often needed—of marrying defeated enemies' daughters. It binds them to us, makes them family. Though usually the enemies are dead by that point." He shrugged. "I was just following tradition. Besides, half the assembled lords were there when I negotiated it, and they all accepted it. There shouldn't be any issue."
"Well," Benjen said with a wry smile, "it'll be you who explains to Ned that his firstborn child has been betrothed before he's even met the boy. Good luck with that, brother."
Artos groaned, and the two of them began to laugh—the kind of laughter that only brothers who had survived war could share.
Outside, the North wind howled across the ramparts of Winterfell, carrying with it the promise of snow and the whispered reminder that winter was indeed coming. But inside the castle, for just a moment, it felt like home again.
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