Chapter 135: A Savage Wolf
The King's procession arrived with the usual fanfare, trumpets cutting through the crowd's restless murmur, and every head turned as one toward the raised platform being readied at the field's edge.
The day had finally come, and Bjorn was ready for the challenge.
Whatever answer waited behind his father's silence would have to wait a little longer still.
Robert settled onto the raised stage with all the enthusiasm of a man attending a duty rather than a spectacle. Though he generally liked these kinds of events, this one filled him with dread. He could feel it—the tear in the realm. A tear so big he knew his fool of a son couldn't handle it.
After all, not many could handle the egos and pride of both mighty Tywin and the Demon Wolf. He knew Artos had mostly stayed silent because he didn't want to abandon the peace—maybe years of war had finally caught up with him, or his late wife, or he'd simply come to understand the value of peace. But it was definitely not because he had grown weak. On the contrary, the North had grown strong. The North remained part of the Seven Kingdoms only because the Starks were known to keep their word. They would not tarnish their honor unless given a reason to. After all, who could invade the North? It would be impossible, especially with Benjen Moorstark ruling Moat Cailin. The isn't famous as his siblings and he keeps to himself but Robert knew his capabilities enough.
Robert simply sighed. He could see war and destruction coming, so he needed to satisfy egos and keep the realm united, even if it was only a pretense.
He looked at Bjorn, who was the main attraction of this event—at least until the Demon Wolf himself fought.
Bjorn, in turn, turned to his father. "What about this boar, Father?" he said. "Are you going to tell me now?"
Artos's mouth curved, something unreadable behind his eyes. "I just wanted to follow tradition," he said simply. "It's a sacrifice to the Old Gods, so that they may bring victory to the North."
Bjorn nodded, knowing it was as much a symbol to the realm as it was to the North. His father was trying to pass fear onto the lords and ladies of the realm, while feeding pride to the Northern lords by honoring the traditions of the First Men.
Artos turned and called out, his voice carrying easily over the crowd's restless noise. "Beron."
Beron stepped forward from among the Winterguard, Ice held reverently in both hands, and passed the greatsword to Artos without a word.
Artos unsheathed it and felt Ice, his old companion. He felt euphoric, as if the Old Gods were praising him—but at the same time angry with him, for not following his promises. He knew he would need to pay the price for outliving his fate and failing to keep his word after getting Rick. Maybe that was why the stupid bird was mad at him. Not following his words to the Old Gods.
Artos sighed. Just a bit more time. I still need some. They aren't ready yet... he thought, and moved toward the boar.
The boar screamed and thrashed against the ropes as Artos approached, sensing something in the air that animals always seemed to know before men did. Artos didn't hesitate. The blade came down in one clean, brutal arc, catching the beast across the throat, and the scream cut off into a wet, gurgling silence as the boar collapsed, blood pooling dark and thick across the packed earth.
"Oh the Old Gods, hear me. Blood has been given, and more awaits. We wolves await your judgment in combat, so judge the man who stands before the wolves. We are warriors. We know no right, no wrong. We only know the cruel gods, and we accept them, and we worship them. So make sure winter comes for those who stand before a wolf and its pack."
Artos whispered, only loud enough for the men close beside him to hear.
He poured every bit of emotion into that prayer. He may be every bit the harsh man people believed him to be. Still, he was a father, and he worried for his son despite knowing how capable he was. He remembered his own father, and truly understood now how much worry the man must have felt every time Artos and his siblings had done something reckless. And they had done plenty.
Artos drove the blade into the ground beside the boar, then knelt and dipped his fingers into the still-warm blood pooling from the wound.
The crowd had gone very quiet.
He rose and turned to Bjorn, and before his son could ask what came next, Artos's blood-slicked hand painted a wide, deliberate streak across his cheekbone, down across his jaw, marking him the way generations of Skagosi and First Men had marked their warriors before a duel before the gods.
The Skagosi surrounding the field's edge erupted all at once—shields slamming against spears, voices rising in a wave of guttural approval, some among them throwing their heads back into long, wolfish howls that rippled across the grounds and made half the southern lords in attendance visibly recoil.
Artos threw his own head back and howled with them, deep and full-throated, something wild and old surfacing in him that had nothing to do with the careful, calculating Hand of the King most of that crowd knew him as.
Robert's eyes had gone wide. Beside him, Renly's face had drained several shades paler.
Many lords simply swallowed hard, trying to stomach these savage displays.
Tywin's expression remained carefully, deliberately blank, though his knuckles had whitened slightly against the arm of his chair.
Sansa, seated among the Northern lords, watched with something between horror and fierce, unexpected pride. Cersei, watching from a distance, looked as though she might be sick.
Artos lowered his head, the howling around them slowly settling into low, guttural chanting, and picked Ice up from the earth, offering it to his son hilt-first.
"Make it count. We follow the cruel gods, and they will not be satisfied with just average. Show them that your ancestors can be proud," he said, his voice quiet now, meant only for Bjorn.
Bjorn took the blade, blood still wet and drying on his face, and felt something settle into him that he didn't have words for—not fear, not pride exactly, but something older than both, something that had been waiting in his blood since before he was born.
Bjorn entered the grounds, where a man awaited him.
Bronn had already settled into the ring like a man out for a walk rather than a fight that might end his life, sword resting easy against his shoulder, taking in the blood on Bjorn's face and the howling Skagosi ringing the field with amusement rather than the fear and dread most people felt.
That fact alone told Bjorn he wasn't about to duel an easy opponent.
"Quite the impression," Bronn said, his tone light, though his eyes did the careful, professional work of sizing up an opponent regardless of how casual his mouth sounded.
"Didn't realize I'd signed up to fight something out of a story. At least it's got flair. Consider me impressed."
"We don't do this to impress anyone!!!!" Bjorn shot back, shaking his head.
Bronn grinned, easy and unbothered. "Bronn. My name is Bronn. I'm a mercenary—well, not for long. I've been promised a knighthood and lands if I win."
He remembered the conversation clearly enough—Tywin's cold, measured voice in some back chamber of the Red Keep, laying out the offer. He'd known it was high risk. After all, killing the son of the Demon Wolf was no small task, but the rewards were worth it. Especially since this was a trial, and not some ambush. Kill the boy, and you'll be my knight, with more gold than you could spend in a lifetime, Tywin had said. Bronn had shrugged and taken the job.
After both participants arrived at the ring, the King stood. He didn't seem drunk, which was rare for him—a surprise for the realm.
Robert rose slightly from his seat, his voice carrying with final authority, a voice the realm remembered as the Demon of the Trident.
"LET THE TRIAL BEGIN. MAY THE GODS FAVOR THE JUST ONE."
WITH THAT, THE FIRST TRIAL OF THE DAY COMMENCED.
Bronn moved first, trying to gain every bit of advantage he could, the same quick and efficient style that had carried him through his whole life as a mercenary, through fights he'd had no business surviving. He knew every dirty trick in battle and had far more experience than Bjorn.
They began trading blows.
Bjorn met him with Ice's greater reach, and for a handful of exchanges the fight looked almost even—Bronn's speed and experience against Bjorn's raw, savage power and immense potential.
They moved against each other with their best efforts to kill one another. Betting one's life was never easy, yet neither seemed nervous—not at all. Bronn seemed used to it, like it no longer bothered him. Bjorn, on the other hand... it looked like he was enjoying it rather than fretting. Like he already knew he wouldn't be defeated.
Then Bronn threw a fistful of dirt at Bjorn's eyes.
Bjorn didn't flinch, didn't blink away, didn't do any of the things a man was supposed to do when grit and dust suddenly filled his vision.
Bjorn laughed loudly, like a madman.
"Interesting trick. Pity it won't work," he said to Bronn.
Bronn sighed. "That's disappointing." But he didn't stop attacking.
Bjorn shook his head and continued pressing forward. "These dirty tricks you've been playing from the start—they won't work on me. My father was very harsh with me. I am Skagosi. We fear nothing, neither man nor beast. I am one of the strongest among my clan. I was even considered a successor to my uncle Stig, if not for my father, who made me his own successor instead. It's an honor among my clan—the man they choose to follow willingly, one of their own, becomes successor to that man. I was taught never to fear anyone, first by my clan, and then by that man—my father. But..." Bjorn said, smiling, and pushed Bronn back hard.
Bronn sighed, feeling the disadvantage settle in, though he didn't care much for Bjorn's words. He needed him distracted if he wanted any chance to win. "But what? Are you afraid of me now?" Bronn asked, though he already knew that wasn't the answer.
Bjorn laughed at that. "You're a funny man, Bronn. I'll remember you." He moved forward with sudden, overwhelming momentum, attacking with a relentlessness Bronn had never faced before, finally driving him hard enough to lose his footing.
Bronn tried to recover, but Bjorn, wielding Ice, was a monster, and he gave Bronn no room, no hope.
But instead of going for the head, Bjorn went for his right leg, severing the limb clean. The Valyrian steel gave Bronn no chance to withstand the strike.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhj" Bronn screamed.
After cutting the leg, Bjorn continued from where he'd left off. "No—it's my father, you fool. The man called the Demon Wolf. Like his name suggests A cruel man. He made me fight in open water with his best sword when I was just eleven. When I finally reached a level that satisfied him, he didn't give me glory or praise. He gave me a job—to protect my youngest sibling and care for her like a servant. It's not that I hated it, or hated her. I just expected something more." Bjorn laughed and cut the left leg.
"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" Bronn screamed.
"Then, out of nowhere, he made me his successor. I was confused. I didn't need it, and I didn't care for it. I wanted something else, something that I never got in my life. But then I came here, spent time with him, and I finally understood. He wanted me to carry his legacy, to inherit his will more than anything. Love your siblings, He was and still is very close with them. Protect them. Family above anthing, even some taboos. Be the strongest. As you can see, I am quite successful And now, the final thing—fear," Bjorn said, smiling, and cut off the right arm.
"Thanks to you, I've got that too now. Infamy. I like it. I can see it in the eyes of every lord and lady here—the fear, the gut-wrenching feeling twisting in their stomachs." As he spoke, he cut the left arm, Bronn's final limb.
Bronn was still screaming, though his voice had gone hoarse from the strain.
Then came the final blow. "It's not that you're weak. It's that the monster I've faced these past weeks is simply overwhelming. Like I can't beat him, no matter what I do. I just happened to train under a bigger monster."
As he said that, the greatsword came down through Bronn's neck, through the leather and steel meant to turn aside lesser blades, and Bronn's scream cut off abruptly as the blade sheared clean through him in one merciless stroke.
The grounds went utterly, completely silent.
Then the crowd's silence turned to horror.
Bjorn stood over what remained of Bronn's body, chest heaving, blood-soaked and blind with rage and boar's blood both, and something in him—some old, savage thing his father's training had cracked open and never quite closed again—refused to simply walk away.
Bjorn raised the head by the hair, blood still dripping thick and dark from the ragged stump of the neck, and let it run down over his open palm before bringing it to his lips and drinking—just a few drops, just enough. The old Skagosi rite for a warrior's first true kill in single combat, a tradition older than the Seven Kingdoms and utterly, viscerally alien to every southern lord and lady watching from the stands.
A TRUE DISPLAY OF SKAGOSI SAVAGERY. A reason even the Northerners rarely interacted with them.
Robert had gone pale. Renly had turned away entirely, one hand pressed to his mouth. Cersei made a small, choked sound of disgust. Even Tywin's carefully composed mask had cracked, just slightly—something like genuine unease flickering behind his eyes for the first time in longer than anyone present could remember.
Around the field's edge, the Skagosi roared their approval, weapons slamming against shields in a thunderous, relentless rhythm that shook the ground itself.
Bjorn Stark stood in the center of that ruin, blood-painted and utterly unbothered by the horror rippling through the crowd around him, and somewhere near the platform's edge,
Artos Stark watched his son with an expression that held no shock at all.
Only pride, dark and savage and entirely his own.
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