Chapter 42: A Cadet Branch
The hearth in the private chamber burned bright, casting dancing shadows across stone walls that had stood for centuries. Three Stark brothers sat around a heavy oak table, cups of dark mead cradled in their hands. Outside, the wind howled across the ramparts of Winterfell, but inside, there was warmth and the kind of companionship that only came from shared blood and shared loss.
Benjen raised his cup appreciatively. "This drink is strong as a Northman. You should have given me this earlier, Arty. It's damn good."
"I have limited supply after the war," Artos replied with a grin. "So don't be whining about it, brother. Just enjoy what you've got and be grateful for small mercies."
Eddard took a long pull from his own cup and sighed heavily. "I needed this after my conversation with Catelyn. I don't know if we'll ever find common ground now. She's absolutely furious about Jon."
Artos laughed, though there was an edge to it. "Welcome to the glorious prison that is marriage, brother. I'm telling you right now—I will never marry. It's far too restrictive for my tastes. Give me freedom and the company of willing women, and I'm a happy man."
"Father would have cut out your tongue for that kind of talk," Benjen observed, taking another sip.
"Father's in the ground now," Artos replied with characteristic bluntness. "Not much he can do about it anymore. Though I suspect when I die and meet him in the afterlife, he'll spend eternity chewing me out about it. But until then, I'll say what I please."
Despite everything—the losses, the grief, the weight of responsibility that pressed upon them all—the three brothers found themselves smiling. They were moving on, not forgetting the dead, but accepting that life continued regardless. The missing presence of their father, Brandon, and Lyanna hung over them like morning mist, but it no longer suffocated.
"I've commissioned the crypts to be expanded," Eddard said quietly. "I called in sculptors and artisans. We're creating statues for Father, Brandon, and Lyanna. Technically, only lords are interred in the crypts, but I thought we could make an exception."
Benjen nodded solemnly. "It's fitting. They deserve to rest with the Starks of old."
"Aye," Artos agreed. "Besides, exceptions have been made before. There's already an Artos statue down there, and he wasn't a lord."
"Artos the Implacable," Benjen said, raising his cup in a mock toast.
"Nice title," Benjen continued with a slight smile. "It seems all Artos seem to inherit titles."
Artos laughed. "Somebody has to keep the traditions alive. Our ancestors would be furious with Ned for refusing the Iron Throne. I can practically hear Theon the Hungry Wolf crying from his grave about that particular failure."
All three brothers laughed at the image of their legendary ancestor's disappointment, though the laughter carried an undercurrent of what-might-have-been.
"Speaking of tradition," Eddard said with a wry look at his youngest brother, "I hear you've been maintaining some of our older customs. Marrying off defeated enemies' daughters? That's quite the Stark tradition you've embraced."
Artos grinned broadly. "Ah, so you approve of my 'negotiations' after all? I seem to remember you having doubts about my diplomatic abilities."
"I never doubted your ability to swing a sword and get results," Eddard replied. "But I'll admit you surprised me. Though Jon Arryn has made sure I hear about nothing else except your 'robbery' of the Targaryen treasury."
"At least he got grain prices reduced for the North," Benjen offered diplomatically.
Eddard sighed. "Aye, I know he did good work. Better work than I expected, truth be told. I'm still furious with him for acting without my approval, but the results speak for themselves. Things have turned out... better than they might have."
"What's done is done," Benjen said pragmatically. "We need to think about the future now, not dwell on the choices already made."
"Aye," Artos agreed, raising his cup.Benjen was quiet for a moment, clearly gathering courage for something important.
Finally, he set down his cup with deliberate care.
"Actually," he began slowly, "I was thinking of taking the Black."
Both Eddard and Artos sputtered, nearly spewing mead across the table."Fuck no,"
Artos said flatly, once he'd recovered his composure."Why would you do that?"
Eddard demanded. "You don't have to, Benjen. Taking the Black is one of the most significant decisions a man can make. You need to think about it far more carefully than you apparently have."
"The Wall is a mess right now," Artos added, his tone serious now. "Especially since we've sent so many of the lords I defeated during the war to join the Night's Watch. They're enemies in the best position to cause trouble."
"Doesn't that make it the perfect time?" Benjen asked quietly. "A Stark needs to do his duty. I feel like I'm not contributing anything here at Winterfell. I held the castle while you were away, but that's done now. I'm just... existing. I need purpose, Ned."
Artos leaned back in his chair, regarding his brother carefully. "You're right that every Stark needs to do his duty, Ben. But not at the Wall. Not yet, anyway."
Eddard looked confused. "What do you mean?"
Artos turned to face his eldest brother directly. "Moat Calin. The ruined fort in the Neck. That's where Benjen needs to go."
For a moment, neither Eddard nor Benjen understood. Then understanding began to dawn, and with it came realization.
"Moat Calin?" Benjen asked slowly. "The place has been abandoned for years. It's crumbling."
"Aye," Artos confirmed. "But Brandon told me about Father's plans. Father wanted to restore Moat Calin for years—he's been dreaming about it since before we were even born. The problem was always funding and political opposition from the southern lords. Father had to make alliances through marriage to even attempt such things without facing rebellion from the great houses.
"He leaned forward, warming to his subject. "But we don't have that problem anymore. We have six million dragons in gold. We have the political support of the king—your best friend, despite his many flaws. And most importantly, we have no one telling us we can't do it."
"You want me to rebuild Moat Calin?" Benjen asked, the magnitude of the proposal beginning to sink in.
"I want you to rebuild Moat Calin and establish yourself as lord of a cadet branch of House Stark," Artos replied. "Father's original plan was to give it to Ned, to create a secondary seat of Stark power in the Neck. It would have served as both a defensive and offensive position against the South. But now that Ned is Lord of Winterfell, that duty falls to you."
Eddard was quiet, processing this. "Father never told me this plan."
"He wouldn't have," Artos said. "You were fostered in the Vale. But Brandon knew about it, and Brandon told me when I was pestering him with questions about our family's future. Father believed the North needed a second center of power, especially one that could control the Neck. A lord at Moat Calin could command any southern invasion before it gained strength."
"But in peacetime?" Benjen asked uncertainly. "It would be mostly administrative and boring. Border disputes and merchant taxes."
"Exactly," Artos said. "Which is why I'm not taking it myself. You want purpose, Ben? Build something. Create something that will last. Become the lord of a new branch of Starks that will endure for generations."
"This is too much all at once," Benjen protested. "There are too many things happening, too many decisions."
"It's not that complicated," Artos replied with characteristic bluntness. "You take a wife—marry for love if you can, for duty if you must. You settle at Moat Calin with her. You have children. You build something. The rest will fall into place naturally."
Eddard found himself nodding slowly. "It's a good plan, actually. It solves multiple problems. Benjen gets his purpose, the North gets a stronger defensive position, and we maintain the hierarchy and structure that Father always believed in."
"Besides," Artos added, his tone taking on a harder edge, "the Karstarks are becoming increasingly arrogant. Rickard Karstark especially—he acts as though his branch of the family deserves more respect than it's earned. Father was concerned about this even before the war. I saw it manifest during the campaign. A man like that can become dangerous if not kept in check by a rival power base."
"You're establishing me as a counterbalance to the Karstarks?" Benjen asked, understanding the political calculation.
"Among other things," Artos confirmed. "In the North, we respect each other and don't exploit those beneath us, but hierarchy must be maintained. Fear and respect need to remain. The Karstarks need to remember that they are a cadet branch, not the equal of Winterfell. Moat Calin, under a Stark lord, will remind them of that."
Eddard raised his cup. "To Benjen Stark, Lord of Moat Calin. May he build something worthy of the Stark name."
"And may he find a good wife who doesn't drive him mad in the process," Artos added with a grin.
Benjen picked up his cup, though his hand trembled slightly with the enormity of what was being proposed. "To the future of House Stark. May we endure."
The three brothers drank, and in that moment, surrounded by stone and shadow and the ghosts of those they had lost, they began to imagine what could be built from the ashes of war.
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