The Dragon and the Wolf - 41 (Patreon)

Chapter 41: The Return of the Wolf

Standing on a hill on horseback, Arthur Stark felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. Or perhaps it was the familiar stench assaulting his nostrils.

The last time he had come to King’s Landing, he had been alone, with nothing but his horse and his direwolf by his side. His uncle had denied him an escort; he had arrived bearing only a name and a letter, with no ambition beyond becoming the North’s ambassador at court. That had been less than a year and a half ago.

Today, he was returning with a full party, surrounded by friends and soldiers, married to the heiress to the throne, and his ambition was to prepare the realm for the fight against the dead.

Arthur took a deep breath despite the stench and glanced back. He was bringing nearly two hundred men with him—Stark men, but also Umbers, Boltons, and Foresters.

"Had I been told this would happen, I’d have punched the fortune teller in the face for thinking me a fool."

But this was no dream, no lie—just a reality he couldn’t have anticipated and now had to navigate.

It had taken a full moon for his party to travel down the King’s Road from Winterfell to King’s Landing—far too long. They had been frustratingly slow. Arthur had half-expected—and sincerely hoped—that Rhaenyra would appear on Syrax’s back out of nowhere.

That wouldn’t have been proper, and given their current situation, they needed to appear impeccable for the realm to accept their wedding.

But a man could dream, and a husband was allowed to think of his wife.

"Dear gods, where the fuck did you bring us, Stark?"

Arthur didn’t turn his head; he was far too used to Rogar Umber’s booming voice for it to startle him, even if it pulled him from his thoughts.

“Westeros’ asshole,” was his answer.

Sitting on his horse at Stark’s side, Umber didn’t look amused.

“I’m two thoughts away from punching you in the face.”

“Which gives me two days to prepare myself.”

Rounds of laughter erupted from the ranks of the young Northern nobles. Even Rogar cracked a smile.

“All right, smart arse—since you’re so happy to throw us all into the biggest asshole this shitty land’s got—I hope you have a plan to make our stay more comfortable.”

“I have all sorts of plans, Umber. For you, I know a good place: the Street of Silk.”

Rogar spat on the ground.

“It’s the most expensive place in the whole realm, from what I’ve heard.”

“Which is why you’ll need a good job. We’ll all need good jobs.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see.”

“For fuck’s sake, Stark…”

“Rogar.” Arthur’s tone grew firmer. “I get that you’re pissed, alright? I get that you don’t want to be here, but for the gods’ sake, I ask you to keep trusting me. Have I ever disappointed you?”

Rogar sighed loudly, almost a snarl.

“Look, Arthur. I do trust you, and no, I’ve never been disappointed by you. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, you ungrateful cunt. But understand that the way you speak is fucking frustrating.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Geralt Forrester interjected with a sigh of his own, “but I agree with Umber. What’s preventing you from telling us what you’re planning?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Erick quipped. “He first needs to assess the situation in the Red Keep, which is preventing him from making promises he isn’t sure he can keep. He’ll give us satisfaction; he isn’t sure how he’ll do it for now—that’s all.”

Arthur frowned at the Bolton, who smiled in return. Rogar and Geralt exchanged a look.

“The hell is preventing you from saying that instead of talking like an elder?” Umber boomed at Stark.

“I don’t talk like an elder.”

“Aye, you fucking do. Now give me a proper answer, unless you need Bolton here to keep translating that cryptic tongue of yours.”

Geralt chuckled at Rogar’s words but answered instead of Arthur.

“It’s obvious now that I think about it: Arthur here simply wants to show off confidence instead of sharing his doubts with us.”

Rogar burst out laughing when he saw his Stark friend roll his eyes.

“All this shit just so you don’t wanna look like the rest of us, huh? You enjoy theatrics far too much, Stark. Pull that stick out of your arse before you turn southerner. And you, Forrester—you should think more often.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Geralt said.

“Oi, fuck you.”

“Are you all done?” Arthur sighed.

Rogar laughed on his horse.

“Aye, Stark, we’re done. You can go back to pretending nothing can faze you except that wife of yours.”

Everyone laughed at Arthur’s expense—even Cregan, who was riding a pony next to his cousin and covered his mouth to stifle it.

“Ah! Come on, Stark, don’t look so sour! I can’t even remember the last time we laughed at you. This was bound to happen, sooner or later.”

“And better here than in the capital,” Geralt added.

“If you’re all done,” Arthur grumbled, making his friends laugh once again.

“Aye, we’re done, Stark. Let’s give those southerners a taste of Northern order.”

A taste of Northern order, Arthur couldn’t have said it better himself.

They entered King’s Landing through the River Gate and didn’t go unnoticed. As soon as the Stark banner was spotted, the people of the capital turned their heads toward the Northern party. The first thing Arthur realized as he scanned the crowd was that the commoners remembered him: he saw many smiles and was greeted loudly by some. Others frowned and whispered among themselves. Unfortunately, the rest of his party didn’t receive such a warm welcome. It was to be expected, of course—a cohort of more than three hundred Northerners, including two hundred soldiers, flying banners unseen in this city for decades, drew wariness. Moreover, the Northerners were accustomed to the clean air of their homeland; their discomfort with the capital’s stench was obvious. Cregan, riding alongside his cousin, had covered his lower face with his hand.

“Breathe through your mouth,” Arthur whispered to the six-year-old boy. “Don’t let them see how uneasy you are.”

Cregan obeyed, though his first impression of the capital seemed even worse than Arthur’s had been.

"They probably expected knights in shining armor, like the ones they see every day from the Reach, the West, the Vale, the Riverlands, or the Stormlands." Arthur thought. "We must look plain compared to them."

It took quite a bit of time to reach the Red Keep; the city seemed overpopulated, and the stares grew darker the farther they advanced.

Arthur’s eyes met those of many knights and nobles whose names he didn’t know. He hadn’t expected them to be so numerous at his arrival—he had half-expected them to spurn invitations to his southern wedding out of spite. It seemed he had been mistaken.

"They’re all here for me." Arthur thought grimly. "They technically have no way to oppose my wedding, Rhaenyra and I have already married once in the North, but that won’t stop them from trying to break me. Their wounded pride demands it. Either I earn their respect, or I break them before they stab me in the back."

When he finally reached the gate leading to the Red Keep’s courtyard, he was stopped at the entrance by the guard atop the watchtower.

“Halt! Identify yourse—oh, fuck!”

Arthur snorted at that; a few chuckles emanated from the ranks of the Northerners.

“I had a warmer welcome the last time I came here.” Stark said, hiding his grin.

The man of the city watch guarding the gate mumbled something unintelligible before clearing his throat.

“My apologies, Lord Arthur. I hadn’t recognized you.”

“No harm done, good man. Your reaction was quite common today.”

Brief bursts of laughter followed Arthur’s answer, though Rhaenyra’s husband could hear that the laughs only came from outside the gate.

Once they entered the courtyard, Arthur chose not to count the glares thrown his way—he didn’t have ten minutes to waste.

The only friendly faces he saw belonged to a man wearing a very familiar pin and his son.

“Lord Arthur,” Lord Lyonel Strong greeted as the Northerner dismounted. “Welcome back to the Red Keep.”

“Thank you, Lord Lyonel.” The Stark said with genuine respect, before holding out his hand to the knight, who shook it. “Ser Harwin.”

“Lord Arthur, King’s Landing wasn’t the same without you.”

“Strange way to tell a man he smells nice,” Arthur quipped, drawing roars of laughter. “May I introduce my friends: Rogar Umber, heir to Last Hearth; Edrick Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort; Geralt Forrester, heir to Ironrath; and my cousin, Cregan Stark, heir to Winterfell.”

Introductions went smoothly, except for the expected rough handshake between Rogar and Ser Harwin. The two tall men turned it into a contest of strength that lasted too many seconds for Arthur’s taste.

“Boys,” the Stark subtly chastised them, earning a chuckle from both the Umber and the Strong before turning back to Lord Lyonel. “Anything I should know, my lord?”

The Hand of the King refrained from grimacing. As a learned man and experienced politician, reading his face was a challenge, but Arthur knew him well enough to tell when something bothered him.And now that he thought about it, he had expected Rhaenyra to welcome him—yet his wife was nowhere to be seen.

“I will make sure your people are properly settled in the Red Keep, Lord Arthur.” Lord Lyonel said calmly. He then stepped forward to whisper. “I believe you should see the Princess immediately. Also, the King has been feeling unwell since his return from the North.”

“Thank you, Lord Hand.” Arthur answered, his features hardening. He turned to his friends. “Do as Lord Lyonel says and be polite. Cregan? You’re with me. I’ll see you all at dinner.”

No more words were needed. The Stark, knowing his way around, entered the Red Keep with his cousin. Arthur, fearing how nervous Giant might act in the Red Keep, had sent both direwolves into the King’s Wood for Shadow to help his brother familiarize himself with the new environment.Cregan was deeply uneasy as they crossed the corridors of the Red Keep. The castle was vast; the people looked unfamiliar and wore unfamiliar clothes. The nobles they passed greeted them with smiles only to glare once their backs were turned. But what truly baffled the young heir to Winterfell was his older cousin’s calm demeanor and confidence, despite walking in enemy territory.

“You’ll never get used to it.” Arthur stated simply as they climbed the stairs. “They will always have thousands of reasons to despise you, and they only serve their own interests. Do not concern yourself with them for now. I’ll teach you what you need to survive this place in time. For now, say nothing, do nothing until I say so, and wait until I’m done.”

Cregan nodded, staying as close to his cousin as he could, doing his best to ignore the glares and whispers. Once they reached their destination, they were met by the severe look of Ser Harrold Westerling. However, the glimpse of relief in the Kingsguard’s eyes wasn’t lost on the former Hand of the King. Yet the Lord Commander remained dutiful and still.

“Lord Commander.” Arthur greeted.

“Lord Arthur, the Princess is seeing the Grand Maester.”

“I see. Do you mind if I knock?” Arthur didn’t need the Kingsguard’s permission—the knight was well aware of their northern wedding. But asking was a meaningful courtesy.After the knight nodded, the Northerner knocked thrice.

“Go away!” his wife screeched from the other side of the door, startling Cregan.

“Rhaenyra? It’s me.” Arthur answered, unfazed.

A short moment of silence followed his words. Cregan could swear he heard a gasp and some whispers.

Finally, the heiress to the throne replied:

“Come in.”

Before he did so, the Stark turned to the Kingsguard.

“Can I ask you to watch over my cousin, Cregan Stark? He’s not a troubling child, and if he tries to become one, you have my permission to rein him in however you see fit.”

Ser Harrold nodded soberly, though Cregan didn’t like the ghost of a smile he swore he saw on the knight’s face.

Arthur entered his wife’s room and immediately saw that something was wrong.Grand Maester Runciter and his assistant, Melos, were busy packing their ingredients while Rhaenyra sat on a simple cushioned chair, looking away from her husband. Her hair was tangled, and she was still in her nightgown despite the sun being well up in the sky. The Northerner also recognized the scent of vomit and noticed that Melos had replaced the Princess’s chamberpot. Was she sick?

“Please remember to drink your infusion, Princess,” Runciter said as Arthur noticed a steaming cup. “It will ease your stomach and help you keep your food down. Do you eat your fish?”

“I don’t like fish.” Rhaenyra answered absentmindedly.

“Please try to eat it—red meat isn’t good for you at the moment. If you can’t, then I recommend chicken over any other meat. I’ll deliver specific instructions to the kitchen.”“Thank you, Grand Maester, Maester Melos. You may leave.”

Both maesters bowed and did as they were told, greeting Arthur briefly as they passed, leaving husband and wife alone.Said husband chose to proceed carefully, fearing terrible news. Rhaenyra didn’t move, though she shivered at each of her husband’s footsteps.Arthur knelt at his wife’s side; her hair hid her face.

“Rhaenyra…?”

The slap came out of nowhere and hit him so hard he nearly fell backward. He couldn’t gather his thoughts before his wife was on him, locking her arms around him and burying her head in his chest.Arthur blinked multiple times, trying to understand what was happening and regain clear vision. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around Rhaenyra’s shoulders. But she spoke before he did, and what she said blew his mind.

“I’m with child.”

Arthur felt his eyebrows shot up to the ceiling. He blinked again, even though his vision wasn’t blurry from the slap anymore.

A moment of heavy silence—an eternity—filled the room. Rhaenyra buried her face deeper in her husband’s chest, awaiting his answer with dread and doing her best to hide her tears.

“I’m a terrible husband.” He ended up saying, making her snort loudly.

“No, you’re not,” she said as she extracted herself from his arms, allowing him to see her tear-streaked face and red-rimmed purple eyes.

Hells, she only remembered now that she looked like a mess—unbathed, in her nightgown, her hair resembling a broom. She had prayed for him to arrive as quickly as possible, and she had greeted him with a slap! A slap!

“I’m sorry… for hitting you. I don’t know what came over me…”

“Forget about that. I actually think I might need another. How are you? Have you eaten well? What did you tell your father?”

“Arthur, for the love of everything holy…”

“Holy shit…” She raised her head to glare at him in dismay but couldn’t keep it together when she saw he was aghast.

“I’m sorry, Rhaenyra, I…”

“Me too…” She cut in as she leaned back against his chest, allowing him to process what he had just learned while she relaxed in the comfort of his arms.

“Bloody hell… You’re with child.” She giggled, amused by his reaction. She had spent the last moon stressing over the fact that she was with child while he was miles away. Her anxiety had led her to imagine the worst scenarios. Not being able to tell anyone except the maester had gnawed at her mind. She had spent entire nights crying in her bed, thinking of her mother and the words they had exchanged during the last days of Queen Aemma’s pregnancy.

“You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. The childbed is our battlefield; we must learn to face it with a stiff lip.”

Rhaenyra had almost laughed back then, unable to understand her mother’s words. Now, though, she wasn’t laughing. Her battlefield was the worst she had ever fought, for her husband had been far away, and the child growing in her womb was the most terrifying thing in the world—far more than any White Walker.

Perhaps that was why she had slapped Arthur: perhaps she had been so angry that he had taken so long.Yet she couldn’t have asked for better comfort than the one his arms provided. She had needed him so badly, and he was finally here.

Finally…

Arthur was breathing loudly, and she laughed at his expense. It was funny, really, how easy it was to put things into perspective when someone else was in the same position.The Northerner unlocked his arms and looked at his smiling wife, the few tears drying on her cheeks. Rhaenyra couldn’t help but feel relief wash away her tension like a wave, though she felt a pang of guilt when she saw his red cheek.

“Are you alright?”

“I should be the one asking that.” Arthur said. “Gods, it’s been a whole moon… How long have you known?”

“The Grand Maester confirmed it not long after I returned to the capital.” She felt her husband’s hands tighten on her shoulders. “It took me by surprise… I…”

“You were alone this whole time…”

“Arthur…”

“Gods…” He mumbled as he pressed his forehead to hers. “I am so sorry.”

“Me too.” she said, enjoying their moment.

“I have a million questions in mind right now.”

“So do I, but first, I need a bath.”

(-)(-)(-)

They spent the whole afternoon together, reuniting. Arthur had Cregan sent to Geralt so he could stay at his wife’s side. Rhaenyra found it sweet—helping her bathe, taking care of her and their unborn child. She told him everything: how she’d discovered it, how alone she’d felt, how sick her father was. Arthur wasn’t happy that she’d told Alicent about the pregnancy, but he brushed it aside, knowing they’d found a way to deal with this as they had—and would continue to—deal with everything. Nothing seemed to matter more to the Northerner than his wife and her belly, despite the fact she hadn’t started showing yet.

For Rhaenyra, this was a much-needed moment of relaxation in the hands of someone who genuinely cared for her. After being alone for so long, it was invigorating.

Once she was dressed and brushed, they sat on her bed, and she lost herself in his arms once again, sighing in relief.

“Gods, I needed that.”

Arthur didn’t answer; he simply rubbed her back in comfort. So she kept speaking:

“This complicates things. Our wedding before the Seven won’t take place for another fortnight. Alicent must have told her father by now, so everyone of importance in the South must know about my pregnancy.”

“They’ll all think I got you with child before our wedding and that you married me to prevent a scandal.”

“Exactly. We need to…”

“There is nothing to do.”Rhaenyra’s eyebrows shot up; she straightened to look at her husband’s face.

“There is no way to prove those rumors unfounded. The best way to get rid of them is to look as united as we can—not only at our wedding, but everywhere we go. In the end, they’ll drop the matter and find another angle of attack.”

The Princess opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came to mind. She sighed.

“Then what do you suggest?”

“We need your father.” Arthur reasoned. “He can shut the rumors down and openly show his support. You told me the trip back from the North exhausted him?”

“It did—more than I imagined. He’s been feeling weak for a moon now. I’ve spent some time with him, walking in the gardens or sharing a meal. But he’s always pale and spends most of his time in his chambers, resting.”

“And he doesn’t know you’re with child?”

“I was waiting for you…” Rhaenyra looked aside. “I… I felt paralyzed knowing that our child was growing inside me…”

“Nyra…” Arthur smiled as he delicately grabbed her chin to make her look at him. “Stop blaming yourself. You should never have been alone in the first place. What’s done is done. I’m here now, and I don’t intend to leave anytime soon.”

“Good.” The Princess smiled. “You’re right. I believe it is high time to share my condition with my father.”

“Don’t call it that.”

Rhaenyra snorted, seeing her husband pout.

“And what would you suggest I call it, then?” she asked, her smile mischievous.

“How ’bout your pregnancy, or our child?” He answered in the same mocking tone. She kissed him deeply, even though they both giggled between their lips.

“It’s going to need a better name than that.”

“We have moons to think about it, Rhaenyra. For now, I believe your father needs you.”

A glimpse of sadness appeared in the Princess’s purple eyes.

“I don’t even know what I could do…”

“Rhaenyra… I’m not a father yet, but you have no idea how much that little thing in your womb means to me already. Your presence, if it can’t cure him, will still do wonders for his health.”“Or it could stop his heart,” the Princess replied, imagining her father’s reaction when she announced he would become a grandfather in less than a year.

“It did stop mine for a few seconds, so I’m not going to contradict you,” Arthur quipped, earning a slap on his shoulder.

(-)(-)(-)

Arthur wished he could have spent the evening and night in his wife’s room and arms, but considering they hadn’t married before the Seven, he knew it would invite unnecessary trouble. Therefore, he was informed by a servant that his former quarters—which he couldn’t believe he had missed—were at his disposal.

However, Arthur also needed to watch over Cregan, so he asked for his cousin’s quarters to be next to his. Needless to say, the heir to Winterfell was not comfortable in this room—even less so with the fact that he’d have to sleep here for years. Both cousins knew Cregan would spend more nights in this room than in Winterfell the day he becomes Warden of the North.

The six-year-old boy looked at his new walls, covered in Myrish tapestries and filled with southern furniture from the Reach, if Arthur had to guess.

“I don’t like it.” The child said.

“I know.”

“How did you live here?”

“I had distractions.”

The former Hand of the King was doing a pretty poor job at comforting his cousin. Fortunately, he had a trick up his sleeve.

“Don’t worry, Cregan. I wasn’t alone, and neither will you be.”

He went to the mantelpiece of the fireplace and pushed a small brick to activate the hidden mechanism. A clicking sound resonated across the room, catching Cregan’s full attention.“For you see,” Arthur said as he took off one of the tapestries and grabbed a candle holder that seemed to also be the handle to a hidden door, “this place, despite how miserable and insufferable it is, has many secrets.”

With those words, he pulled, and a part of the wall the size of a door separated itself from the rest, opening the entrance to a whole new world of shadow.

In awe, the boy moved to stand next to Arthur to admire the secret his cousin was showing him—only to end up on his butt when the older Stark pushed him aside to slam the door. Cregan barely understood what happened; all he saw was a broken dog’s muzzle in the gap between the nearly closed door and the wall.

“You gotta be fucking shitting me,” Arthur grumbled as he pushed to prevent what sounded like multiple animals scratching at the door from entering the room.

Cregan widened his eyes in alarm when he realized they were being attacked by a pack of mad dogs within the walls of the bloody Red Keep! He got back up to help his cousin push the door but quickly realized his little strength and weight added no difference. However, the pressure he felt informed him that there were more than a few dogs behind that fake wall, and if they didn’t find a solution quickly, they’d end up in pieces.

Without noticing that Arthur’s eyes had turned white, Cregan noted something else: the dogs weren’t barking, merely growling. Even the one whose muzzle had been broken wasn’t squealing in pain. What in the gods’ names was going on?!

“Don’t scream for help.” The older Stark said, his voice like steel. “Guards mustn’t find the secret passages.”

Cregan wanted to protest as the pack of murdering animals pushed harder, but he trusted his cousin more than any southern guards, so he did as he was told and kept his mouth shut.

That’s when he heard rapid footsteps coming from inside the secret tunnel, and growls more powerful than the dogs’.

Both Starks heard a big impact that released the pressure from the door, allowing Arthur to close it and wait for the storm to pass. Cregan then heard flesh tearing and blood spurting. The dogs found their voices as they started whining in agony while bones were crushed.

Then everything ended, and Arthur reopened the door, revealing the bloody muzzles of Shadow and Giant, as well as half a dozen open carcasses of dogs on the ground.

Cregan made to step forward, but Arthur grabbed his shoulder.

“Fetch me another pair of boots.” He commanded. “Let’s not start decorating your new room by painting its floor red.”

With that said, Arthur stepped forward and walked into the growing puddle of dog blood flowing freely on the tunnel’s floor while Cregan did as he was told and left the room to go to Arthur’s.

The latter lit a torch hanging on the wall, took it and prevented the direwolves from feasting on the carcasses to inspect what was left of the animals. The first thing he noticed was that they weren’t trained dogs; given their state, they were most likely strays—fat strays. While it wasn’t uncommon for stray dogs to form packs. This left many questions unanswered: how did they end up in Maegor’s secret passages and why were they waiting before Cregan’s door instead of following the scent of the kitchens?

Arthur started wondering: what could have led them here? Or better yet: who led them here, and how? And what the hell did they eat to get this fat? When Cregan returned with the boots, he stayed at the entrance while his cousin made sure not to get his own knees red. The heir to Winterfell watched as Arthur’s eyes turned white once again but frowned as Arthur frowned himself.

“My rats are dead." he stated simply, not bothering to explain. “Those fucking dogs must have eaten them. Which only leaves one possible conclusion.”

He stood, nodded to signal the direwolves they were allowed to fill their bellies—which they did with much enthusiasm—hung the torch back on the wall, took his boots off once he had left the puddle in which he had been standing, and changed while Cregan awaited his answer.

“There is another warg here in the Red Keep. It knows that I am one, it knows that I used rats to spy on the whole court. And it targeted you to start a fucking war and ruin everything.”

AN: Hope you guys have enjoyed this chapter, feel free to comment, I enjoy reading your comments ;)