Chapter 17: Head to Head

The meeting room was a tomb of stone and smoke, torchlight flickering like moths caught in a jar, throwing shadows that danced nervous on the walls. Eddard Stark stood tall, gray as the North's heart, eyes unyielding—a king forged in frost and duty. Arrax loomed across from him, eight feet of blue-armored ruin, blond hair glowing faint in the dim, a survivor who'd walked through hell's jaws and spat out the bones. The air between them buzzed, a clash of aura—honor battered but unbowed—pressing down so hard the guards along the walls froze, breaths shallow, hands twitching like they'd forgotten how to move.

Eddard's neck ached, a slow burn creeping up as he craned to meet those storm-blue eyes, towering over him like a damn mountain. "Sit," he said, voice rough but steady, nodding to a chair that looked like it'd splinter under a child, let alone this giant.

Arrax didn't flinch, just shifted—armor creaking, a low growl of metal on metal. "Winterfell's chairs," he rumbled, deep as a quake, "can't bear me. I'll stand." His lip twitched, a scar pulling tight—a dry smirk, like he'd just dodged a trap.

Eddard's fingers brushed the chipped wooden wolf on the table, a habit from years of restless nights, its edges smoothed by his touch—a direwolf worn down but still snarling. "Take off the armor, then," he said, softer, a lord's vow in it. "You're safe here. My word."

Arrax thumped a fist against his chest, the clang dull and final, echoing off the stone. "This is my second skin," he said, voice a blade's edge, eyes glinting old and wild. "Stays 'til I'm ash." His blond hair caught the torchlight, a halo on a beast, and the room shrank, that wolf carving trembling faintly, like it felt the weight too.

They locked eyes again, a stare that stretched tight—two men, two storms, neither blinking. Eddard sighed, a gust heavy with battles and ghosts, and sank into his chair, the wood groaning like it was tired of holding him up. "What do you want from Jon?" he asked, voice cracking low, a father's fear bleeding through. "He's my lad. If it's somethin'—coin, blood—I'll pay it, blue knight. Tell me."

Arrax stood still, a cliff in the wind, face blank as stone. "Nothin' from your boy," he said, slow, each word a stone dropped deep. "Met him at the Wall. Blood in the snow, wildlings dyin' screamin'. He stood firm—didn't break." He rubbed that jagged scar on his neck, a tell of wars Eddard couldn't touch, and his gaze drifted, far off. "I'm here to watch. To see. Not to kill—'less my honor's hit. Or my armor. Or my men." His voice dropped, raw and ragged, hanging in the air like a threat you feel in your bones. "Then it's violence. Always was. Always will be."

Eddard's hand tightened on the wolf carving, knuckles paling, the words slamming into him like a hammer's blow. That voice—it lingered, heavy, a echo of Robert in his prime, tall and big and monstrous, laughing through blood and broken shields. Eddard's thumb traced the wolf's chipped ear, a reflex, grounding him against the memory—Robert's roar, his weight, the ruin he left behind. Arrax carried that same storm, that same wreckage, and it sat in Eddard's chest like a stone.

The guards didn't dare breathe, their boots scuffing faint on the stone, caught in the aura's chokehold. That wolf carving sat quiet, worn smooth by years of Eddard's grip—a piece of honor fraying at the edges, still holding. He looked up, eyes catching Arrax's, and something flickered—memory, maybe, or just the weight of knowing.

"You sound like him," Eddard muttered, voice a gravel rasp, cracking like it hurt. "Robert. Big bastard. Loved breakin' things." A laugh slipped out, sharp and dry, slicing the quiet. "He'd have dragged you to a tavern, bet on who'd crack first."

Arrax's mouth quirked, not quite a grin. "Maybe," he said, low, a rumble that gave nothing away. "But I don't break for bets."

Eddard nodded, slow, the ache settling deep. "Aye," he murmured, "that's where you part." His fingers lingered on the wolf, eyes locked with Arrax's—two codes, two ruins, staring each other down. The room held still, torchlight buzzing restless, smoke curling like a ghost slipping free.

The silence stretched thin, then snapped—Eddard's shoulders eased, a slow slump, like a man letting go of a fight he didn't need. Arrax shifted too, armor creaking soft, a beast settling in the dark. The meeting room's torchlight buzzed faint, smoke curling lazy now, like it was tired of the tension. Eddard's fingers brushed that chipped wolf carving again, tracing its worn snout, and he chuckled—a low, gravelly thing, cracking like a log splitting in the fire. "You ever swing a hammer just to feel somethin' break?" he asked, voice soft, a confession sneaking out.

Arrax's lip quirked, a scar pulling tight. "Aye," he rumbled, leaning against the wall, the stone groaning under his weight. "Smashed a daemon's skull once. Felt good 'til the blood hit my boots." His laugh was a bark, rough and sudden, and Eddard's joined it, a rusty echo bouncing off the walls.

They traded stories then, quiet, like old men over a dying fire. Eddard told of the Trident—Robert's hammer crashing through armor, blood painting the river red, the day he lost a friend to a crown. Arrax countered with a tale from a world Eddard couldn't see—black skies spitting fire, a thing with too many mouths howling as he drove a blade through its guts. The guards stayed stiff, breaths shallow, but their eyes flicked, caught in the pull of it—two souls, old and battered, peeling back the years.

Eddard leaned back, chair creaking, that wolf carving still under his thumb. "You're an old bastard like me," he said, voice warm now, a grin tugging his mouth. "Stay, then. Guest of Winterfell. No more questions—'least not tonight."

Arrax nodded, slow, his blond hair catching the light—a halo on a ruin. "Fair," he said, and the room felt lighter, like the wind outside wasn't clawing so hard anymore. But Eddard's mind snagged on Jon's words from earlier—faith—and he tilted his head, eyes narrowing soft. "Jon mentioned faith. Yours. What's it to you?"

Arrax's smile was slow, a crack in the stone, and he straightened, voice dropping low, reverent. "The God-Emperor," he said, like it was a name carved in his bones. "Man and more. Fought gods, bled stars. Kept us alive when the dark came screamin'. Faith's my spine—keeps me standin' when the rest falls." His hand brushed his armor, a tell—fingers lingering on a dent, a memory of wars that'd broken lesser men.

Eddard's thumb pressed harder on the wolf's snout, wood creaking faint. "Old gods for me," he said, voice a murmur, nostalgia seeping in. "No names, just whispers in the leaves. Watched me bury friends, build this place. Silent, but they're there." He paused, eyes distant, seeing snow and weirwoods, blood on roots. "Kept me honest, mostly."

Their words hung, faiths tangling like smoke—Arrax's roaring emperor, Eddard's quiet trees. The wolf carving sat between them, chipped and worn, a bridge of ruin they both understood. For a heartbeat, it was just them—two old souls laughing at the gods they leaned on, the honor they wouldn't let die.

Then the door banged open, a jarring crack, and Robb stumbled in—hair mussed, eyes bright with a kid's impatience. "Father, you still jawin' with the giant?" he asked, voice a tease, leaning on the frame. "When's my turn? I've got bets ridin' on who'd win a wrestle."

Eddard's grin soured, a grumble rumbling up. "Night's taken hold, boy," he snapped, sharp but tired, rubbing his neck where the ache had settled. "Get to bed." His eyes flicked past Robb, catching Catelyn's shadow in the hall—her glare a silent shout, come now, piercing through the stone. He sighed, a gust heavy with years, and waved a hand. "We're done here. For now."

Arrax's laugh rumbled low, a storm fading. "Sleep well, Lord Stark," he said, nodding once, regal as a king playing guest. Eddard stood, slow, the chair scraping loud, and gave a nod back—gruff, warm, a crack of something shared.

The guards shuffled out, boots scuffing, and Robb lingered, smirking like he'd won somethin'. Eddard's hand rested on the wolf carving one last time, fingers brushing its frayed edge, then he turned, Catelyn's call pulling him into the dark. Arrax stayed, a tower of blue in the flickering light, watching the door swing shut.

Outside, the wind howled softer now, like it'd spent its rage, and the wolf sat alone, chipped and quiet, holding secrets it couldn't tell.