Winterfell 298AC
Eddard Stark POV
Ned despised southron politics. He had vowed to stay as far away from them as he could after the deaths of his father, brother, and sister. Yet with the death of Jon Arryn, the King—his brother in all but blood—was coming all the way north. Ned understood what that meant. Robert did not travel for trifles. Whatever request he brought, Ned would be duty-bound to accept.
He sat upon a stone beneath the heart-tree, waiting, when his nephew arrived. Artys was dressed as luxuriously as ever—a cloak of white mink lined his broad shoulders, pinned with sapphire-studded falcons of white gold. He did have the look of Jon, Ned thought, only much comelier.
Artys smiled as he settled beside him.
"His Grace is but a week away. I hope you've stocked your wine cellars, Lord Stark."
Ned snorted. "If I haven't, he'll drink the North dry regardless."
The jest faded, and Artys's expression hardened.
"I hope you know why he rides all this way to Winterfell."
"I have my suspicions," Ned replied quietly.
"He means to make you Hand, uncle. You and my father were the only men he trusted more than his own kin."
Ned let out a weary breath. "I had hoped—prayed—it would not be so. The gods are rarely so merciful."
Artys leaned forward. "I suspect he has a marriage proposal in mind as well."
Ned's brows rose. "And how would you know that?"
"Because it is what I would do. And knowing Robert as I do, it is what he will do. A union between Stark and Baratheon honors both houses and binds the realm. The Seven Kingdoms are held together by threads these days. Robert has no dragons to enforce his will."
Ned mulled that over in silence. He had never cared for the game of thrones, yet here it was, coming for him all the same.
"And what of the realm?" Ned asked at last. "What state is it in?"
Artys gave him a long look, weighing how much to say.
"Unsteady," he said. "King's Landing is a nest of vipers. The treasury is four million dragons in debt. It would be higher if I had not ensured certain discrepancies were corrected."
Ned blinked. "So much? I refuse to believe Jon Arryn would have let Robert spend the kingdom into ruin."
Artys nodded. "My father advised His Grace well, but the King spends freely—as I'm sure you know. Tourneys and feasts, and all the flatterers who have wormed their way into his confidence. But what concerns me most is Renly."
Ned frowned. "Robert's brother?"
"A few moons ago, I saw Renly show Jon Arryn a portrait of a maid. Mace's daughter. He was asking if she bore a likeness to Lyanna Stark."
Ned's breath caught. "Why?"
Artys looked almost surprised he needed to explain. "His Grace's marriage has been cold at best. The King still mourns his lost love. Renly no doubt seeks to supplant the Queen with Margaery."
Ned's jaw tightened. Tywin Lannister would burn half the realm before he allowed that. Thousands might die. All for southron ambition.
"Do you have proof?" Ned asked.
"It was a plot—and a failed one. Robert hates the Tyrells. He would bed the girl, no doubt, but he would never wed her. Still, the attempt alone shows the realm is not safe. His Grace needs you at his side."
Ned nodded grimly. If even Robert's brother was scheming, who knew what others plotted?
Ned studied him in silence. Artys carried himself with easy grace, but Ned sensed the same sharpness Jon Arryn once had. It was clearer now why Wyman Manderly spoke so highly of him.
"For one so young, you speak as though you've ruled for decades," Ned said.
Artys sighed with a hint . "The realm has forced me to learn quickly. I envy my cousins on that regard i did not get to be child as they did".
Ned knew the feeling he to was thrust in war and woe at to tender an age Artys was of age with Robb . The thought of Robb having to deal with burden of ruling and dealing with schemers sat ill with him.
The leaves rustled above them, whispering around the carved face of the heart-tree.
"Robert rides because he needs you," Artys said. "Not for feasts or memories. He needs a man he can trust."
Ned sighed again. Duty was not a choice. It never had been.
"And when the time comes," Artys added, softer, "you will not face it alone. You have my house and my sword, uncle. I fear for winter, This summer is coming to an end the days grow shorter slowly. If we are not prepared this winter will kill millions. The realm cannot afford a war."
Ned nodded once, in grudging acceptance—and in that moment, a small measure of peace settled over him.
Artys POV
"The King is only a few days away," Ser Shadrich informed him.
Artys nodded. He needed to set a certain plan in motion.
He could already count on the North, the Riverlands, the West, and the Vale. Those regions had every incentive to back him when the time came. Robb Stark was in awe of him and his skill-at-arms. Martial prowess still held great weight in Westerosi society, and Artys's combination of strategic humility and emphasis on blood ties had endeared him to the Starks.
Myrcella had been as charming as ever, ingratiating herself to Catelyn with little effort.
But to secure the future of the realm, certain obstacles had to be weakened—and certain ambitions contained. The Stormlands and the Reach were powerful rivals, and he would need to blunt their influence without plunging Westeros into open war. Not yet.
Artys opened the hidden compartment inside his traveling chest. A leather pouch sat within, filled with fine sand to conceal its contents. He dug his fingers through the grains until he found what he sought: a vial of purple liquid.
Basilisk blood.
He held it up to the torchlight and smiled.
"Finally," he murmured to himself.
After dinner, Artys walked the walls of Winterfell beside his uncle. The evening wind was cold and sharp, the sky deep with stars.
"I wanted to speak to you about Jon," Artys said.
Ned's face tightened immediately. Artys did not miss it.
"He is an able boy," Artys continued. "I would take him as my squire—if I have your leave."
Ned stared at him for a moment, surprise giving way to relief.
"That is a generous offer, nephew. You honor us. May I ask why?"
Artys clasped his hands behind his back.
"Bran is still young. He will begin as a page at the Eyrie and I would rather he not feel alone. Jon is steady and capable. And," Artys added quietly, "I doubt Lady Catelyn will wish the boy to remain here once you ride south."
Ned winced at that truth.
"I have grown fond of Jon," Artys said. "I could use loyal, able men. I will see him trained properly, and knighted in good time."
Ned Stark studied him, and then nodded. "Thank you, nephew."
"Is something troubling you?" Artys asked.
"No. Only… I did not expect such an offer." Ned's voice was gruff.
Artys chuckled softly. "I have an eye for talent, uncle. That is all. Bastardy means nothing to me. A man does not choose the circumstances of his birth."
Ned let out a long breath. "Jon will be glad of your guidance."
Artys looked out over the dark forests beyond the walls and said nothing more.