No Place for a Wolf
"In a den of vipers, one must learn to either become venomous or tread so carefully the snakes forget to strike."
(Alaric Stark POV)
It has been two days since we arrived here, and I can officially say that I hate King's Landing. I haven't even seen much of it, yet I still despise the place. This city is an introvert's nightmare—and for someone like me, who hasn't seen large crowds in a long time, it's even worse. Even in Noah's memories, the guy was an introvert, and cancer took a huge chunk out of his confidence. Me? I've spent my whole life in the North, among people who mind their business and don't crowd you. This place? It's suffocating.
My family and I were given rooms in the upper level of the Guest Keep. On the first day, I spent all my time searching for secret passages but found none. It seems there aren't any here, so at least there's that.
Father was summoned to meet the king on the second day. He didn't return until nightfall. When he did, he told me the Starks would be paying taxes on the goods we receive from the New Gift. How that came to be, I don't know. When I asked him, he simply said it was the right thing to do. Great. Looks like my father has Ned Stark levels of honour. I have to keep an eye on him—he might trust the wrong man and lose his head for it.
Still, I am a little curious about the king, the man who has ruled the Seven Kingdoms longer than anyone else. I think even in the future, no ruler lasted as long.
On the third day, the celebration truly began. I knew there would be a tourney, but it looks like there will also be archery and a melee.
"Father, will anyone from the North be participating in the tournament?" I asked.
"None from our house will," he replied. "I can't speak for the others, though I think some will take part in the melee. No one from the North is in the joust, though."
"Why not House Stark, Father? Should we not participate to show our strength and talent?" I asked, furrowing my brow.
"Listen, Alaric," he said, voice stern. "We of the North do not care for the showmanship of these tournaments. There is nothing to be gained here."
I wish I could agree with you, Father, but times are changing. His attitude tells me all I need to know—especially when I recall the cold welcome we received at the gate. These people of the South look at us as though we don't belong in the same realm.
The North has been isolated for so long that the only thing they know about us is we live in a frozen wasteland. That has to change. This self-isolation isn't sustainable. From the moment I received Noah's memories and the templates, I knew I wasn't going to be just another Stark. I'm meant for something greater. And on that path, I'm going to make a lot of enemies. But if we keep isolating ourselves, we're practically ensuring every southern house sees us as a threat.
And right now, with the food shortage in the North, we can't afford more enemies.
I know these people are worse than the arrogant young masters from xianxia novels. At least those fools come at you directly. These people will scheme for your downfall with allies you never knew you had to watch. Even the slightest disrespect could set them off.
So no face-slapping—not until I can slap them, their families, and their ancestors, and walk away untouched.
I'm pulled from my thoughts by my mother.
"What are ye thinking about, Al?" she chimed in.
Man, I have to stop monologue. It's a bad habit I picked up from Noah.
"Nothing, Mother. I just don't like it here. It feels like something's always watching me. It's not pleasant. And it's hot. Very hot."
"Don't worry, child. We're only here a few more days. We'll leave after the celebration," she replied.
I'm not exaggerating—the difference between here and Winterfell is like night and day.
"Come, Alaric, we should leave. The melee is about to start. Are you sure you're not coming, my love?" said Father.
"No. You know I don't care for wanton violence. But do you have to take Al with you, my lord? He is just a child."
"A child who will one day be Warden of the North. He must get used to violence."
Looks like I'll be watching the melee. Father didn't take me to the archery contest—something about it being too boring for a child.
When we arrived at the competition grounds, the melee had already begun. It was everything I expected. Men clashing violently, blades slashing and stabbing. It hadn't even been a full minute, and I saw at least two men die, with five more being dragged off for treatment. From the looks of them, they might not survive.
And that's when I realized something: I didn't care. I thought I'd be disturbed by this level of violence. But I wasn't. I just watched with cold detachment—analysing their movements, their posture, their weaknesses. That was it.
And I kind of liked this mind-set.
I wasn't looking away, nor was I enjoying it. I was observing. Measuring.
It also struck me that many of them trained under a similar system. Not exactly the same, but the foundation is shared. I once thought only our soldiers were trained that way, but clearly, others are too. There are differences, influenced by regional experience, but the core remains.
Some knights fight with self-imposed limits—their honour weighing them down. In contrast, hedge knights fare better. The sell swords fight with everything they have, some even using underhanded tactics. A few ganged up on a knight with superior equipment. I couldn't see which house he belonged to, but now he's dead. His honour killed him. He seemed like a decent sort. Handsome, too. Too bad his face wasn't handsome enough to avoid being carved up.
Now those same two sell swords are fighting each other. Seems trust is as rare here as it is back home.
"You've travelled far, milord. Are you enjoying yourself, Lord Stark? I know you Northerners don't often get enjoy these kinds of festivities."
It was a lord I didn't recognize. From his attire and sigil, I guessed he was from House Lannister. He lacked Tywin Lannister's coldness, but still bore that unmistakable pride. Looks like, no matter the time, Lannister always have that smug expression.
"It's alright, my lord. I'm simply here to show my son how celebrations in the South go. I can't say I enjoy them myself."
"Ah, you Northerners and your strange idea of entertainment. Well, since you're here, why not have a little fun, Lord Stark? Care to wager on who will win this melee?"
"You'll have to forgive me, milord. We in the North do not partake in gambling."
"Don't be like that, Lord Stark! It's all in good fun. A small wager, nothing serious. We wouldn't want the Warden of the North going broke over a single bet, would we?" he laughed.
And just like that, the other lords began to laugh too. Some smirking, some outright guffawing—as if this was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. I see what he's doing. If we bet and lose, we're humiliated. If we refuse, we're still humiliated. A perfect trap.
A classic case of a "young master" bullying a "protagonist."
"Well, that sounds like fun," I said, stepping forward. "Milord, I've got two gold dragons left from my allowance. Is that enough to participate? I can do it, right Father?"
The laughter stopped. Some looked amused; others, disdainful.
"Are you sure, Alaric? If you lose, you'll lose those coins, and there won't be any more allowance for a while. Do you still want to bet?" my father asked.
The Lannister lord chimed in. "Ah, don't be such a worry-wart, Lord Stark. Let the lad have his fun. It's only two gold dragons, not a vault. Tell you what, boy—I'll wager a thousand gold dragons against your two. If you win, you won't have to worry about your allowance for a long time."
He smirked, clearly thinking he'd already won. Even if I back out now, he's already humiliated us.
But here's the thing—he only wins if I lose.
And I have no intention of losing. Not to him. Not to anyone here.