Chapter 132: The Trial That Pushed History
Yor moved fast for a woman, faster than most people expected, and Artos saw the flat of her palm coming hard across his face.
He could have avoided it with his speed, but he didn't. He knew Yor and understood her reasons.
So, to the surprise of every man and woman present, somebody dared to slap Artos fucking Stark.
It landed hard against his face.
The crack of it echoed sharply off the yard's stone walls.
Raka stood behind Artos, but this time he knew better than to get between them. Pissing off Lady Yor would be disastrous enough; coming between a mother and her wrath was something else entirely. Old Gods save him.
The crack of Yor's palm against Artos's face still hung in the air when she moved again, faster than anyone standing in that yard had time to properly react to.
Her hand closed around the hilt of the sword still sheathed at his hip. Artos noticed it, but still did not make a move, knowing it would only push things further.
Yor pulled the steel free with a rasp and put the cold edge of Artos's own blade against his throat.
The City Watch had enough. Artos's own guards had not moved before, especially with Lord Stark—Lord Artos's brother—standing there. But a sword at the throat of the Lord Hand, inside the Red Keep, was something they couldn't ignore, not anymore.
They drew their swords at once, ready to take down the threat if necessary.
Raka sighed and immediately shouted, "Stay back. Nobody interrupts."
He knew what Lord Artos would want.
Stig's breath caught audibly. Eddard's hand had drifted halfway toward his own sword before some deeper instinct stopped him, some understanding that this was not a moment for intervention. The Skagosi warriors behind them stood utterly still, watching the sister of their lord put a sword to the throat of a man they would gladly sacrifice their lives for.
They were confused, but they knew Artos was more than capable of getting himself out of this.
Artos hadn't flinched. He hadn't so much as raised a hand.
"It's been a while, Yor," Artos said, looking down at the blade near his throat. "You've gotten a bit healthier."
"You put my son in danger," Yor said, her voice low and shaking, more fury bleeding through each word than Artos had heard from her in years. "You are going to let him stand in front of that… that thing. You could have saved him that trouble. I know you could."
"I could, maybe," Artos said quietly. There was no defense in his voice, no attempt to soften what she accused him of.
"Then give me a reason," Yor said, the blade pressing a fraction harder. Her voice became even more emotional. "Why? He is just a boy. Can't you leave him out of your games?"
"He is a man, Yor. It's just a trial, and we already have enough support from the lords," he tried to explain.
"Like that is going to happen," Yor snapped. "You know what the boy would choose."
Artos put his hand on the sword and gently guided it back toward its sheath. Then he slowly pulled Yor into an embrace.
"You've gone a little wilder since I last saw you," he said, kissing her cheek.
Yor's jaw tightened. Tears finally broke free despite every effort she made to hold them back, fury and fear tangled together so completely that neither seemed able to win over the other.
It was Bjorn's voice that finally broke the silence. Some Winterguard had brought him there.
"Mother."
He came into the yard at a near run, Robb and Loras trailing close behind him.
Whatever training-worn exhaustion had marked his face moments earlier vanished entirely at the sight before him—his mother with a blade in hand, his father standing still with steel at his throat before he had stopped it.
"Mother, stop." Bjorn's voice cracked slightly, more boy than warrior in that instant.
"Please. It's done. I'm standing here. Please."
Yor's eyes flicked to her son, and whatever iron had carried her this far cracked all at once at the sight of him—whole, breathing, alive, exactly as he had promised through every letter she received these past months.
"Boy, take care of your mother. Escort her to the Tower of the Hand," Artos said.
Yor crossed the distance to Bjorn in three quick strides and pulled him into an embrace fierce enough to make him grunt.
Artos exhaled slowly, rubbing absently at the thin red line left across his throat. Then he turned to find Eddard watching him with an expression that carried far more complicated things than simple relief.
"Brother," Artos said.
"You know, Arty, sometimes I do not understand your actions," Eddard said, his voice quiet but final. "This should not be happening. I expect firmness from you, but this? This should not have happened, especially with you around. A Stark facing a trial , a jape that is what it is. He is your son, for the Old Gods' sake."
Artos nodded once, accepting the scolding without argument. For a long moment, the two brothers simply looked at each other across the yard.
Stig stepped forward then, offering Artos a short, tired nod that carried more warmth than his expression showed.
"Good to see you standing, Arty. I am sorry about Yor. I understand your actions. After all, you have done the same to prove yourself, though the situation was different and the place was different. But to her, Bjorn is still a child."
"I know," Artos said simply.
Three days later, the Great Hall of the Red Keep filled with more lords and knights than it had held since Gregor Clegane's own trial weeks earlier. This time, though, the air carried a different kind of tension—sharper, more personal—because this time it was a Stark standing accused.
Not just any Stark.
The son of Artos Stark.
Robert Baratheon sat slouched upon the Iron Throne, but present, the crown resting heavy and unwanted on his brow. He was flanked by nine judges chosen with the kind of careful, deliberate balance that spoke to how seriously this trial was being treated.
Prince Oberyn Martell sat with his usual deceptive ease, dark eyes missing nothing. Lady Olenna Tyrell occupied her chair like a queen inspecting a particularly tedious court gathering, sharp and unreadable. Lord Edmure Tully sat straighter than usual, aware of exactly how much weight his presence carried.
Tywin Lannister sat rigid and controlled beside two western lords, his expression giving away nothing of the calculations surely running behind his eyes. Lord Renly Baratheon smiled through his teeth. Ser Barristan Selmy stood rather than sat, as was his custom, near the Iron Throne.
Grand Maester Marwyn, called the Mage, occupied the final seat, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms.
Bjorn stood at the center of the hall.
Robb and Loras stood nearby. Eddard, Stig, and Yor sat with the many Skagosi standing behind them who had traveled south for exactly this reason.
Robert shifted in his seat, looking distinctly unhappy about being forced to truly preside over something for once. He cleared his throat loudly enough to settle the murmuring hall into silence.
"Bjorn Stark," Robert said, his voice carrying with reluctant authority, "you stand accused of continuing an assault against Ser Gregor Clegane after your king ordered the fighting stopped, in violation of the King's peace, during a sanctioned tourney. How do you answer?"
The hall held its breath.
Bjorn's chin lifted, steady despite the weight of every eye in the room resting upon him.
"I—"
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