The Dragon & The Wolf - XXXIX (Patreon)

Chapter XXXIX: The Heirs’ Meeting 

“Married life suits you well.”

Arthur Stark, familiar with that voice, cracked open one eye to see his visitor. Exhausted from his day, Rhaenyra’s husband had seized a moment of respite to soak in Winterfell’s hot springs, washing away the grime and sweat while easing the tension in his body—anxiety he hid from everyone, including his wife.

“What makes you say that?” he asked his visitor from the steaming pool.

Erick Bolton was flushed, likely from the unfamiliar heat of the caverns, his pale complexion only amplifying the redness. Or perhaps it was Arthur’s nudity that stirred him? Bolton’s gaze hadn’t strayed from Arthur’s groin.

“Your wife seems happy, your gray eyes have regained their spark… You stand taller, smile more often. And you seem eager to become a father, judging by your wife’s nightly cries.”

Arthur didn’t respond, so Erick sat at the edge of the pool, dipping his feet in after removing his boots. His eyes lingered on Arthur’s bare skin, and Arthur wondered if his friend dreamed of touching it—or flaying it.

“You’re handsome,” Bolton murmured.

“Will you dare repeat such words in front of my wife?” Arthur grinned, closing his eyes to fully savor the soothing warmth of the bath.

“Oh, Arthur… I admit I’m a bit strange, but I’m not suicidal. Why do you think I waited until she took her dragon for a flight to visit you?”

“If you had any decency, you’d have come to my solar, not while I’m bathing.”

“I have decency,” Bolton replied calmly. “Just not for these things.”

“Then get to the point, my friend. What do you want?”

Erick paused, and Arthur felt his lascivious gaze but kept his eyes closed.

“Well… I heard you’re heading back to King’s Landing after your wife leaves, and you’re taking your cousin Cregan with you.”

“Who told you that?”

“My father.”

“And who told him?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask, and he wouldn’t have answered anyway. But is it true?”

“It is.”

“Are you planning to go alone again?”

“Erick,” Arthur growled, opening his eyes to show his irritation. “I told you to get to the point.”

Bolton lowered his head slightly in apology. “I’d like… to come with you to the South.”

That was a request Arthur hadn’t expected. True, he’d planned to bring some friends to form his retinue, but Erick was a wildcard. Beyond the obvious attraction Bolton felt for him, which could spark a scandal if discovered, Erick was a Bolton through and through, taking perverse pleasure in flaying criminals alive on his father’s lands.

In short, Erick was an excellent executioner, which was always useful in a city as crime-ridden as King’s Landing. However, the court was no place for a Bolton. Perverse, sadistic, apathetic, and utterly charmless, Erick wasn’t the kind of man one could afford to be associated with. Arthur also feared the Queen’s reaction if she learned a butcher like him was operating in the dungeons.

On the other hand, Erick was an effective deterrent. His bloodlust and talent for torture could prove invaluable in a place teeming with schemers, few of whom would risk falling into Bolton’s hands, no matter the gold offered by Southerners. Arthur knew using Erick would remind many Southerners of Maegor the Cruel’s methods, and Otto Hightower would leap at the chance to compare Erick’s actions to Rhaenyra’s if they were exposed. Then there was Rhaenyra herself to consider: what would his wife think if he brought an executioner into their retinue? Would she see his value, or be horrified by his methods? And what would she make of Erick’s obsessive desire for Arthur, or his wish to fashion a cloak from Arthur’s skin after his death?

Arthur couldn’t decide to bring his friend without consulting his wife. So he answered, “My answer is no. However, I’ll discuss your proposal with Rhaenyra. If she convinces me to bring you, I might reconsider.”

The flash of fury and disappointment in Erick’s pale eyes didn’t go unnoticed, but Bolton bowed, pulling his feet from the water.

“I see,” he said simply.

As he put his boots back on, Arthur called out, “Send my cousin to me. It’s time he and I had a little talk.”

Erick chuckled softly. “I’ll try to find him, but it won’t be easy. He avoids me like the plague.”

“Then he has excellent instincts,” Arthur thought. “All the girls who fell under your knife would’ve been better off avoiding your sweet looks.”

“I hope your wife softens you,” Erick said, bowing. “Though I like you rigid.”

With that, he left the hot springs, leaving Arthur alone and repulsed.

“Gods forgive me,” Arthur muttered, closing his eyes. “I’d better find a strong leash if I’m to keep that dog from biting.”

Arthur didn’t fear Erick’s betrayal—his friend’s love for him prevented that. But Rhaenyra wasn’t safe from a jealous outburst. Would Erick accept living alongside Arthur’s happiness with a woman, given how much the heir to the Dreadfort despised women? Erick was more than a wildcard; he was a volatile force that could erupt in any direction.

Cregan’s timid footsteps pulled Arthur from his thoughts. He had to ensure his doubts didn’t poison his young cousin’s mind. He needed to remain ironclad so Cregan could be forged from the same metal. Adopting a neutral, stoic expression, he welcomed the future Lord of Winterfell.

Cregan arrived breathless, his face red, suggesting he’d run as soon as he heard Arthur had summoned him. Arthur shook his head—his young cousin had much to learn.

“Cregan,” he sighed. “I’m not your father. When he dies, you’ll become Lord of Winterfell, young as you are. You must start acting like it. Unless I explicitly say it’s urgent, walk with dignity and never rush. Others must match your pace, not the other way around.”

Cregan blushed deeper and stared at his feet, he was about to respond when Arthur cut him off.

“Look me in the eyes and never apologize unless you’ve committed a grave fault requiring humility. When I teach you a lesson, absorb it and respond with a nod—nothing more, nothing less.”

Cregan looked shocked. “But… isn’t that disrespecting you?” he asked in his timid child’s voice.

“You don’t owe me respect, Cregan. I’m honored if I have it, but you can’t let that respect become submission to my authority. You’re the Lord of Winterfell—your authority surpasses mine despite your age. You must never submit to my words or my person in public. But if you abuse that authority, I’ll make it my duty to knock some sense in your head to ensure arrogance never clouds your judgment. Are we clear?”

Cregan had never been intimidated by Arthur. Impressed? Often—how could he not be, idolizing his older cousin as a younger sibling does an elder? The threat of a thrashing didn’t faze him; the fear of disappointing Arthur was far stronger.

Cregan applied his lesson immediately, adopting an exaggeratedly neutral expression and nodding sharply. Arthur couldn’t help but smile, though he stifled a laugh and gestured for his cousin to join him in the hot springs.

Cregan’s face lit up. It had been nearly two years since they’d shared a bath in the springs. 

The heir of Winterfell eagerly shed his clothes and leapt into the water, thrilled to relive a childhood memory. Arthur, seemingly wanting to relive it too, grabbed Cregan under the arms as he surfaced, hoisted him high, and tossed him into the water as Cregan laughed. Cregan splashed his cousin, who grabbed his foot and pulled him under. 

They played like this for a good ten minutes until Cregan tired. Arthur signaled him to sit—they had much to discuss.

“Has your father told you he asked me to take you South?”

Cregan stiffened, about to lower his eyes but stopped himself, keeping his neck rigid as a faint “yes” escaped his lips.

“It’s not a decision we made lightly. I can’t leave you here with my father and brothers—they’d do their best to ruin your upbringing and make you serve their interests. Taking you to King’s Landing and raising you in that cesspit called the capital is a gamble. Many lords will fear you’ll become too Southern to rule them. They’ll test you—they would’ve anyway, but this gives them more ammunition. You’ll need to strive to become a true Northern leader in the most Southern of cities, a difficult task, compounded by another just as challenging…”

Arthur cracked his neck to relax and let out a long sigh to ease his sore muscles. Rhaenyra, dragonrider though she was, loved riding her husband. Her new nightly hobby had left Arthur’s thighs aching, hence his need to soak and stretch in the hot water.

He continued, “Growing up at court will mean mingling with boys your age and older. They’ll mock you for being a Northerner, try to humiliate and belittle you. You’ll have little in common with these boys who dream of knighthood. You’ll have to earn your place with words and the sword. And you’ll inevitably make enemies. Being a Warden at your young age will spark jealousy, making you a prime target.”

Cregan couldn’t believe his ears. “A target?”

“A target,” Arthur confirmed. “They’ll try to beat you just to boast later, ‘I know the Warden of the North—I thrashed him when we were kids.’ They seek their fathers’ and peers’ approval. To stand out, they’ll target you.”

Cregan swallowed, not out of fear but anxiety. Mustering courage, he gritted his teeth and replied, “I’ll beat them all. I’ll break their heads…”

“And that’s where you’d make a grave mistake,” Arthur interrupted, his expression sympathetic.

Cregan’s eyes widened in surprise as his cousin continued.

“Southerners aren’t Northerners. You can’t solve everything with your sword and fists. They see us as savages and expect us to act like it. Even if you were to beat every boy who provokes you—and you won’t, mark my words, you’re only six, and some will be thirteen or fourteen—they’ll paint you as a brute. You’d earn a terrible reputation, one that might make the North proud but would strain North-South relations and harm Rhaenyra. You must be subtler, defusing conflicts with words, targeting their honor and their house’s. Your sword stays sheathed unless your opponent’s is already drawn. You must never be the aggressor.”

This time, Cregan lowered his head, confusion and anger at the injustice making him forget his lesson. He hid his face to conceal the emotions contorting his features. But Arthur waded over and lifted his chin with a finger.

“But if you must fight, Cregan, you must win, no matter how—honorably or not. You can’t afford a single defeat if your honor’s been insulted. Understood?”

A tense silence passed, marked by a single nod.

(-)(-)(-)

Arthur sat before the heart tree as usual, sharpening his sword, with Cregan beside him watching and helping while Shadow napped against the tree. The six-foot blade rested across their four knees. Arthur, after cleaning and polishing the hilt, sharpened four feet of the Valyrian steel, while Cregan worked on the final two feet to the tip. Wearing thick gloves to avoid cuts and wielding a heavy whetstone, Cregan, tongue sticking out, labored to restore Ice’s ancestral edge. His small fingers and bulky gloves made his movements clumsy, but Arthur occasionally guided his hand to perfect the motion. Though it took Cregan twice as long, he completed his task.

Just in time, as Arthur’s friends arrived in the Godswood as Ice was sheathed. Cregan started to stand to greet them, but Arthur discreetly pressed a hand on his knee to keep him seated. Arthur waited for his friends to reach them, then invited them to sit with a simple gesture.

As Rogar grumbled, Erick smiled, and Geralt remained impassive, Cregan mentally counted them to ensure all were present. “Erick Bolton, Rogar Umber, Theomore Karstark, William Dustin, Desmond Manderly, and Geralt Forrester,” he listed silently. “They’re all here.”

“Couldn’t we talk around a table with a good horn of ale, a roasted boar, and a warm fire?” Rogar grumbled, tossing a pebble into the cold black pool. “Why’d you drag us out here, Stark?”

“Because you never listen when there’s food and drink,” Arthur replied with a sly smile. “This is too important for distractions, and the Godswood is the perfect place to prevent spying.”

“Spying?” Theomore Karstark echoed. “What kind of plot are you cooking that needs such secrecy?”

“It’s not a plot I’m planning, Karstark—it’s a way to counter one.”

That piqued everyone’s curiosity.

“You must’ve known your marriage would cause a stir,” William Dustin noted. “Especially in the South.”

“William’s right,” Geralt said calmly. “Many Southern lords will protest against your marriage to the Princess. You must’ve anticipated that. So what should we expect?”

“A war.”

Everyone, including Cregan, stared at Arthur in shock—except perhaps Bolton, who didn’t react.

“Let me elaborate,” Arthur continued. “Since the King named Rhaenyra his heir, many Southern lords have schemed to find an alternative to a woman’s rule. Otto Hightower was the first, but he’s far from the only one. Now that Aegon is born and Queen Alicent’s fertility shows no sign of waning, these lords are more convinced Rhaenyra mustn’t take the Iron Throne.”

Rogar Umber hurled a stone into the water in rage. “Bah! The Southerners are just a pack of dogs and whores. Does their oath to the King mean nothing to their pig eyes?”

“Most oaths were sworn by old, dead, or dying lords. Some heirs weren’t even born, and many will see the oath as worthless, given it was made when the King had no queen or son,” Arthur explained, remaining perfectly calm under Cregan’s awed gaze. “Rhaenyra choosing me as her husband has complicated things further. The Southerners didn’t want a woman on the throne; now they’ll scorn her for having a Northerner at her side.”

A chorus of grunts and frustrated sighs rose from the group. Geralt Forrester cleared his throat to draw attention and spoke after Arthur nodded permission.

“I don’t think you’re a fool, Arthur. But I’m curious about your plan. The North alone can’t keep your wife on the throne if war breaks out with the South. You know that, so what’s your plan?”

All eyes returned to Arthur, who smiled at Geralt. “Luckily, we have time. No lord will openly decry Rhaenyra while my father-in-law lives, and with luck, he’ll live long enough for us to solidify her power. It’ll happen in stages.”

He straightened, a simple gesture that let Cregan see how effortlessly Arthur commanded attention. His cousin chose his words carefully, speaking calmly but firmly, exuding serenity.

“If war broke out today, we’d likely lose. That’s why we must significantly strengthen Rhaenyra’s faction in the coming years, while preserving her reputation in the North and preparing our kingdom and people for war. Let’s start with King’s Landing.”

Arthur paused, then continued, “Everything that happens at court ripples across the realm. Our first step is securing our position in the capital. For that, I need an escort and retinue, which may include some of you—and some of your sisters.”

A heavy silence followed. The heirs of the Northern lords hardened their gazes—some angry, others cautious, while Geralt seemed resigned yet more attentive than before.

“I hope I didn’t hear you right, Stark,” Umber spat. “You want us to come to that shithole they call a city in the South, and bring our sisters? Why the fuck would we do that?”

“Because we’re preparing for a fucking war, Umber!” Theomore Karstark shot back. “Didn’t you hear a word Arthur said? If we sit here twiddling our thumbs, the Southerners will grow stronger, break their oaths, and keep the Princess from the throne! What don’t you get?”

“Shut your mouth, Karstark!” Rogar roared. “If you want to wade in shit for a woman who’ll never be yours, go ahead! Why should I rot down there and drag my sister along?”

Desmond Manderly gave Umber an incredulous look, clenching his fists. “Our fathers swore fealty to Rhaenyra! We’re bound to her by honor. Now that we have a chance to put one of our own on the throne, you’d break your word to hide in your father’s castle, drinking ale and fucking whores? Is that the price of your house’s honor?”

Rogar turned so red Cregan thought he’d explode. He leapt to his feet, drawing his massive claymore.

“Enough!”

Arthur’s voice cracked like thunder, startling Cregan, Rogar, and Desmond. Shadow sprang awake, standing tall, her size and fangs, combined with Arthur’s deathly cold stare, quickly cooled Umber’s temper. He sheathed his weapon. No one had forgotten Arthur’s show of strength against Lord Karstark, and all knew the Warden of the North didn’t hesitate to use force to make his point.

Arthur raised a hand to calm his wolf, who lay at its master’s feet but kept its yellow eyes fixed on Rogar.

“Desmond’s right, though he went too far,” Arthur said, shooting Manderly a disapproving look. “Like it or not, our lords’ oaths bind us to Rhaenyra. If we don’t act to counter the plots against her, we’ll end up alone against all, forced to bend the knee again to a Southern king we owe nothing. If we want to win a potential war against the South, we must start now and bolster my wife’s position to maximize our chances.”

He turned to Rogar, still simmering with anger despite the reprimand. “I know you don’t want to live in the capital, and I understand. I’m not ordering my bannerman to follow me—I’m asking my friend for help. I need you in King’s Landing to deal with the scum infesting its streets, to show Northern strength and humble Southern knights, and to stand on the front line if things escalate to repel any armed attempt against Rhaenyra. I could ask someone else, but I’m asking you because I trust you and your strength.”

Rogar’s complexion returned to normal as Arthur explained, though he snorted and spat into the water. “Why do you need my sisters?” he grumbled, his anger gone.

“Not necessarily yours,” Arthur clarified. “But to strengthen our side and divide the South, we’ll need marriage alliances.”

Another silence fell, but Arthur continued before anyone could protest. “I won’t force your sisters into marriages with unworthy Southerners. Rhaenyra needs a loyal entourage to forge friendships and possibly find good matches for the North and your houses. That’s how things work, and you all know it. Consider that you might find your own future wives in the South.”

William Dustin snorted loudly, and Geralt Forrester clasped his hands under his chin. “You want Rogar with you. Who else?” the heir of Ironrath asked. “All of us?”

“No, that’d be too much. Some of us must stay in the North to prepare the kingdom for war. But you, Geralt, I’d like you to come.”

Forrester, as if expecting this, nodded simply. Rogar raised an eyebrow at his lack of reaction. “What, Forrester, you eager to wade in King’s Landing’s shit?”

“Of course not, but I understand the situation better than you, Umber,” he replied with a smirk, turning back to Arthur. “My sister, Talia, would agree to join the Princess in King’s Landing.”

Arthur nodded and continued, “Ideally, we need five Northern girls. Rogar and Geralt, I leave it to you to convince your fathers to let you come South and select the men to join us. For the rest, I need you to talk to your sisters or cousins, if you have them. Every Northern girl will be part of Rhaenyra’s retinue, with all the honors and benefits that entails. Rhaenyra greatly admired Lyanna, Lara, and Alys’s work. She’d welcome them warmly in the South.”

Rogar grunted, signaling his reluctance to bring his sister Alys to King’s Landing, but he didn’t object—he’d need to discuss it with his father and Alys first.

Erick Bolton sighed loudly, having said nothing during what could be called a “heirs’ meeting.” His pale eyes, which had been fixed on the pond and horizon, settled on Arthur, then rose to the heart tree.

“Let’s pray to the Old Gods your father-in-law lives many more years,” he said in his soft, honeyed voice that made Cregan shiver. “If war came tomorrow, we’d lose.”

Arthur smiled and shook his head. “If war came tomorrow, neither the Hightowers nor we would win. Someone else would.”

(-)(-)(-)

In the privacy of the chamber she shared with her husband, Rhaenyra had undressed and lain on the bed so the man she loved could ease the muscle aches in her thighs, worsened after her ride on Syrax. Despite the stiffness, Rhaenyra cherished these intimate moments with Arthur. He, who months ago had been so reserved, so afraid to kiss her, was now her husband, his hands gliding over her bare skin to soothe pains first caused by their relentless lovemaking.

Rhaenyra moaned softly as her muscles relaxed, letting out a long sigh to release the tension in her shoulders. Propping herself on her elbows, she met the gray eyes she loved so much.

“How did your meeting with your friends go?”

“There was good and less good,” Arthur replied, not pausing his massage of her thighs. “Rogar shouted, as usual. Geralt understood me, as usual. The others are either skeptical or hesitant but loyal. Except…”

Rhaenyra waited for him to finish, but when he didn’t, she prompted, “Except?”

“Except Erick,” Arthur grumbled. “He wants to come with us to King’s Landing.”

Rhaenyra frowned. Arthur had told her of Bolton’s talents, and she couldn’t imagine such a man going unnoticed in King’s Landing. He seemed the type to spark countless scandals.

“Do you trust him?” she asked.

“To do his job? Yes. To be discreet and avoid drawing attention? He’s capable. What I fear is that jealousy might consume him and lead him to target you.”

Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows. “He’d dare?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur admitted with a sigh. “But it’s a possibility I can’t dismiss. Erick… can feel intense emotions, even if he masters himself most of the time. He’ll be diplomatic at court and effective in the dungeons. But there’s always a risk his practices are discovered, or his obsession with me drives him to harm you. That said, I doubt he’d stoop to aligning with the Hightowers—that’s not his way.”

Rhaenyra fell silent for a moment, and Arthur paused the massage.

“Where does your fear that he’d target me come from?”

“He hates women and is in love with me.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s already a lot.”

Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes. “Are you asking for my permission to let him know his presence depends entirely on me?”

“You read my mind,” Arthur smiled.

Rhaenyra returned the smile. “Is he worth the risk of being discovered?”

“He gives us an edge the Hightowers will never have: fear.”

A strange glint flickered in Rhaenyra’s violet eyes. She sighed, resting her head back on the pillow. “Let him come, but he’d better behave. I don’t want Alicent or my father finding out people are being flayed alive in the dungeons.”