Chapter 5: The Wolf in the Dragon's Den
The journey south was a sombre affair. A chill wind, more biting than usual for the time of year, harried Torrhen Stark and his retinue as they rode from Winterfell. It was a wind that whispered of change, of an epoch ending and a new, uncertain one beginning. Torrhen, now Lord of Winterfell in all but name as his father's health confined him to his chambers, rode at the head of a modest procession. He had chosen his companions carefully: Lord Rickard Karstark, a man whose gruff pragmatism often masked a keen mind; Lady Arya Flint of the Northern mountains, a woman as hard and unyielding as the stone of her homeland, whose presence was a deliberate nod to the resilient spirit of the smaller houses; and Maester Arryk's most promising young apprentice, a sharp-witted lad named Bryen, whose task was to chronicle their journey and observe the southern Maesters, but who also carried several discreetly prepared scrolls from Torrhen's own hidden library. A contingent of fifty of Winterfell's best guards, clad in grey wool and boiled leather, their expressions as grim as the Northern sky, provided their escort. And at Torrhen's side, a constant, silent presence, loped Ghost, his white fur a stark contrast to the muted greens and browns of the Neck they were now entering.
The decision to bring Ghost had been debated. Some lords feared the direwolf would be seen as a provocation. But Torrhen had insisted. Ghost was more than a companion; he was an extension of Torrhen's senses, a living symbol of the North's wild, untamed spirit. And, selfishly, Torrhen drew a measure of calm from the wolf's quiet strength, a reminder of the ancient power he was sworn to protect.
The Neck was a dreary, mist-shrouded labyrinth, its paths treacherous, its air thick with the scent of decay and stagnant water. Howland Reed had met them at Moat Cailin, his small, dark eyes watchful. The ancient fortress, with its twenty towers of black basalt, stood as a crumbling monument to past defiance. It was a formidable obstacle, but Torrhen knew its weaknesses. Dragonfire would make short work of its crumbling ramparts if the dragons could get clear airspace, and its true strength lay in the boggy terrain that surrounded it, terrain dragons could simply fly over.
"Aegon's host is encamped near Riverrun," Lord Reed informed them, his voice a low rasp. "The Trident is swollen with the spring melt. He commands the crossing. Many Riverlords have already bent the knee. Those who resisted… their keeps are smoking ruins."
"And the dragons?" Torrhen asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Reed's gaze flickered towards the sky. "They are seen often. Great, winged shadows. Their roars echo for miles. Some say the very air trembles when they pass." He paused. "Be wary, Lord Stark. These are not men you are going to treat with. They are conquerors who wield a power beyond mortal reckoning."
Torrhen nodded slowly. "The North remembers its own ancient terrors, Lord Reed. We do not frighten easily. But neither are we fools."
Leaving the grim sanctuary of the Neck behind, they entered the war-torn Riverlands. The change was immediate and shocking. Burned villages stood as skeletal testaments to the Targaryen advance. Fields lay fallow, their crops trampled or torched. The faces of the smallfolk were gaunt, etched with fear and despair. Torrhen's assassin's eye noted the disciplined patrols of Targaryen soldiers, their silver-and-red banners snapping in the wind – mostly sellswords from the Free Cities, hard-bitten veterans, but also Westermen and Stormlanders who had already switched allegiance. Their armour was functional, their movements efficient. This was no rabble. This was an organized, conquering army.
Flamel's memories, filled with the horrors of countless European wars, provided a grim context. He'd seen cities sacked, populations decimated. This was the timeless face of conquest, made more terrible by the unprecedented power of dragons.
As they neared Riverrun, the air grew heavy with the scent of woodsmoke, horses, and something else… a faint, acrid tang that Torrhen, with his alchemically-honed senses, recognized as the lingering residue of dragonfire. It was a smell that spoke of unnatural heat, of stone turned molten and flesh to ash. Ghost, normally impassive, let out a low, uneasy whine, his ears flattening against his skull.
Riverrun itself was a jarring sight. The red sandstone castle, its Tully banners still flying, seemed almost untouched. But the surrounding lands were a vast armed camp. Thousands of soldiers, tents stretching as far as the eye could see, the sigils of dozens of newly sworn houses intermingled with the Targaryen dragon. And then he saw them.
High above, circling lazily against the bruised purple of the evening sky, were three shapes. Even at this distance, their size was breathtaking. Vhagar and Meraxes, their scales shimmering like bronze and silver in the fading light. And then, a shadow blotted out a swathe of sky, larger, darker, more terrifying than Torrhen could have imagined from any tapestry or tale. Balerion the Black Dread. His roar, a sound that seemed to vibrate in Torrhen's very bones, rolled across the landscape, a primal assertion of dominance. The Northern guards gripped their spear shafts tighter, their faces pale. Even Lord Karstark muttered a low oath.
Torrhen felt a cold knot of apprehension tighten in his stomach, but his face remained a mask of calm. He had known, intellectually, the power of dragons. But to see them, to feel their presence, was another matter entirely. This was not a force to be defied lightly. His carefully constructed wards around Winterfell, his alchemical concoctions, his desperate plans for guerrilla warfare – they all seemed suddenly fragile, inadequate, against such overwhelming might.
Control, a voice whispered in his mind – the cool, detached voice of the assassin who had faced down death countless times. Observe. Analyze. Do not let fear cloud judgment. Flamel's scholarly curiosity also stirred. These were magnificent, terrible creatures, the last vestiges of Valyria's lost magic. Understanding them was key.
They were met at the edge of the encampment by a Targaryen captain, a stern-faced man with Valyrian features – silver hair and violet eyes – named Daemon Velaryon, a cousin to Aegon, as he introduced himself. His gaze lingered on Ghost with open curiosity but no overt hostility. "Lord Stark," Velaryon said, his Common Tongue accented. "King Aegon awaits you. You and your personal guard may enter Riverrun. Your direwolf… is an impressive beast. He may accompany you, if he remains leashed and causes no trouble."
Torrhen inclined his head. "He is no trouble, Captain. He is merely… observant."
The ride through the Targaryen camp was a calculated display of power. Soldiers paused in their tasks to watch the Northerners pass, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and contempt. The sheer scale of the operation was daunting. Siege engines, supply wagons, smithies clanging with the sound of hammers on steel. This was an army prepared for a long war, if necessary.
Riverrun's gates were open, but heavily guarded. Inside the castle courtyard, the atmosphere was tense. Tully servants hurried about their tasks, their eyes downcast, avoiding contact with the numerous Targaryen knights and officials who now strode through the halls as if they owned them. Torrhen noted the subtle signs of subjugation – the quiet fear, the forced deference.
They were led to the Great Hall of Riverrun. It was packed, but a space had been cleared before the high seat of House Tully. And there, upon that seat, sat Aegon Targaryen.
He was younger than Torrhen had pictured, perhaps only a few years his senior, yet he possessed an undeniable aura of command. Tall and broad-shouldered, with the Targaryen silver-gold hair and piercing violet eyes. He wore simple, functional clothing of black and red, a Valyrian steel circlet his only crown. He was handsome, but it was a hard, martial beauty. There was no softness in him.
At his right stood Visenya Targaryen. She was taller than her brother-husband, her face stern and angular, her silver hair pulled back severely. She wore boiled leather and mail, her hand resting on the pommel of her Valyrian steel longsword, Dark Sister. Her violet eyes were chips of ice, missing none of the Northerners' details, lingering on Ghost with a predatory gleam. She was every inch the warrior queen.
On Aegon's left, Rhaenys Targaryen offered a stark contrast. She was slender and graceful, her expression softer, almost playful, though her violet eyes held a keen intelligence. Her silver-gold hair flowed freely over her shoulders. She was beautiful, undeniably, but there was a restlessness about her, a hint of the dragon's wildness.
Torrhen had read about them, dreamed of them as characters in a story. Now, they were flesh and blood, their presence overwhelming. He could feel the subtle pressure of their innate magic, the aura of command that dragons and their riders seemed to exude. Flamel's senses, honed by centuries of dealing with powerful, often magically-gifted individuals, registered it as a tangible force, like the heat shimmering above a flame.
He made the customary, if brief, obeisance. "King Aegon. I am Torrhen Stark, son of Lord Beron Stark of Winterfell. I come in his name, to answer your summons." His voice was steady, betraying none of the turmoil within.
Aegon Targaryen's violet eyes studied him intently. They were ancient eyes, despite his youth, holding the weight of a fallen empire and the fire of a new ambition. "Lord Torrhen Stark," Aegon said, his voice a deep baritone, surprisingly calm. "You have come a long way. The North is the last of the Seven Kingdoms to acknowledge our rightful rule."
"The North is a land apart, Your Grace," Torrhen replied, choosing his words with utmost care. "Our ways are old, our people proud. We do not lightly bend our knee to any king."
Visenya scoffed, a harsh sound. "Pride did not save Harren the Black. Nor did it save King Mern at the Field of Fire. It merely fed our dragons."
"My sister is… direct," Aegon said, a faint smile touching his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "But she speaks a truth. We have offered the lords of Westeros a choice: a place in our new kingdom, retaining their lands and titles as Lords Paramount under our sovereignty, or destruction. The choice has always been theirs."
"And ours, it seems," Torrhen said. "You ask us to set aside thousands of years of independence, to swear fealty to a king whose ancestors were not of this land, whose power is rooted in beasts of fire that our people view with ancient dread."
"Dread is a healthy respect for power, Lord Stark," Rhaenys interjected, her voice melodious but firm. "And my ancestors carved the greatest empire this world has ever known from Valyria. Westeros is but a fractured land of squabbling kings. Aegon offers unity, peace, under one rule."
"A peace enforced by dragonflame has a bitter taste, Your Grace," Torrhen countered, daring to meet her gaze.
Aegon leaned forward slightly. "And what is the alternative, Lord Stark? Endless war? The North has known its share of conflict, has it not? Against wildlings, ironborn, even against other First Men kings in ages past. I offer an end to that. One king, one realm. Is that not a future worth considering, even for the proud North?"
Torrhen considered his words. He could feel the weight of his lords' expectations, the silent plea of his people. He also felt the cold, pragmatic logic of the assassin: assess the threat, calculate the odds, survive. Flamel's voice, however, whispered of nuance, of finding a path between outright defiance and utter submission, of the alchemy of negotiation.
"The North values its autonomy, Your Grace. Our laws are different. Our gods are the Old Gods of the Forest. Our winters are a trial unknown in the south. To be ruled from a distant throne by those who do not understand our ways… that is a fear greater than dragons for many Northerners."
He then subtly shifted the focus, using information gleaned from his Valyrian studies. "Your dragons are magnificent, creatures of fire and might. But fire requires fuel. The North is vast, its forests deep, its holdfasts scattered and often built into the very rock and ice. A campaign in the North, especially as winter approaches – and our Maesters predict a long and harsh one is due – would be a costly, draining affair. Even for dragons." He was careful not to sound threatening, but to state facts.
Visenya's eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening us, Stark?"
"I am stating the realities of my homeland, Queen Visenya," Torrhen replied calmly. "Just as you state the realities of your power. Understanding these truths is the first step towards any meaningful discussion." He paused, then played a card he hoped would resonate with Aegon's desire for a swift, complete conquest. "The North is not the Riverlands, nor the Reach. We are united. If you seek to break us, it will be a war of generations. A bloody, protracted struggle that will drain your resources and leave the northern border of your new kingdom a festering wound, vulnerable to threats from Beyond the Wall, threats you may not yet comprehend."
He saw a flicker of something in Aegon's eyes – not anger, but calculation. Rhaenys looked intrigued. Visenya remained hostile.
Torrhen then subtly employed a technique Flamel had used in delicate negotiations: creating a faint, almost subliminal aura of sincerity and shared burden. Not mind control, but a projection of calm reason, an empathic resonance designed to lower emotional guards. He focused on Aegon, trying to convey that he understood the king's ambition for unity, but also the North's deep-seated need for self-preservation. It was a delicate dance, a whisper of magic in a room crackling with overt power. He didn't know if it would work on a Targaryen, warded as they likely were by their own innate magic, but it was a tool he possessed.
"We do not seek war, King Aegon," Torrhen continued, his voice imbued with this carefully projected sincerity. "War in the North benefits no one. It would bleed us both. What the North seeks is understanding, respect for our ancient customs, and assurances that our way of life will not be extinguished under your rule."
Aegon was silent for a long moment, his violet eyes fixed on Torrhen. Ghost, who had been lying quietly at Torrhen's feet, raised his head, his red eyes also fixed on the Targaryen king, a low, almost inaudible rumble emanating from his chest. Torrhen placed a hand lightly on the direwolf's head.
"You speak boldly for a man whose kingdom stands alone against us," Aegon finally said. "And you speak of threats beyond the Wall. Wildling raids? We have dealt with far greater."
"There are things beyond the Wall, Your Grace, far older and colder than wildlings," Torrhen said, his voice dropping slightly, allowing a hint of the true dread he felt to surface. "A darkness that has threatened Westeros before, and will again. The North is the first shield against that Long Night. A weakened, broken North serves no one if that darkness returns."
This, he saw, gave Aegon pause. The Targaryen king exchanged a quick, unreadable glance with Visenya. The Long Night was a legend, but a persistent one, even in southern histories.
"You offer… terms?" Aegon asked, a new note in his voice. Not acceptance, but a willingness to listen.
"I offer a basis for an agreement, Your Grace," Torrhen said. "The North will acknowledge you as King of All Westeros. We will swear fealty. We will not raise arms against your throne." He saw surprise on Visenya's face, a calculating look from Rhaenys. This was more than they had expected so soon. "In return," Torrhen continued, his voice firm, "House Stark will remain Lords Paramount of the North, with our ancient rights and customs preserved. We will govern the North according to our own laws, subject only to your royal decree on matters affecting the entire realm. We will not be required to adopt the Faith of the Seven; the Old Gods will remain our gods. And no Targaryen dragons will be permanently garrisoned in the North without our consent, for their presence would incite fear and unrest among our people."
It was a bold set of demands, far more than any other conquered kingdom had received. Lord Karstark, standing behind Torrhen, shifted nervously. Lady Flint's stony expression didn't change, but her knuckles were white where she gripped her furs.
Visenya laughed, a harsh, sharp sound. "He asks for the moon! We conquer, and he dictates terms?"
"He asks for a way to bring the North into my kingdom without drenching it in fire and blood, sister," Aegon said, his gaze still locked on Torrhen. "A pragmatic offer, if an audacious one." He leaned back. "You ask for much, Lord Stark. Why should I grant such concessions to a kingdom that has yet to feel the bite of our dragons?"
Torrhen met his gaze without flinching. "Because, Your Grace, the North is not a prize to be easily won, and its loyalty, freely given, will be a greater asset to your reign than its ashes. Because a North that stands with you willingly will be a bulwark. A North that is crushed will be a source of endless rebellion and a drain on your strength. And because," he added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet carrying utter conviction, "I give you my word, as a Stark of Winterfell, that if these terms are met, the North will keep faith. But if you choose fire and blood… you will find that winter has claws, and its bite is deeper and colder than any flame."
For a moment, silence reigned in the hall, so profound that Torrhen could hear the frantic beat of his own heart. He had laid his cards on the table. He had offered fealty, but not surrender. He had appealed to Aegon's pragmatism, hinted at the North's unique strengths and the hidden dangers of their land, and even subtly warned of a greater, shared threat.
Ghost rose silently to his feet, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Torrhen, his red eyes like embers in the dim light of the hall, fixed unwavering on Aegon Targaryen. The King Who Knelt. The title echoed in Torrhen's mind. He was on the precipice. But he would not kneel from fear. If he knelt, it would be a calculated act, a king's sacrifice to save his people, a bargain struck with a dragon, with the North's dignity, and hopefully its future, intact.
Aegon Targaryen looked from Torrhen to the massive white direwolf at his side, and then to his sisters. Rhaenys had a thoughtful, almost impressed expression. Visenya's was still hard, skeptical. Aegon himself remained unreadable.
Finally, he spoke, his voice echoing in the sudden stillness. "You are either the bravest man in Westeros, Lord Stark, or the most foolish." He rose from the Tully seat, a towering figure of nascent imperial power. "I will consider your… proposals. You and your retinue will be guests of Riverrun. We will speak again on the morrow. Then, you will have my answer. And then, Lord Stark, you will make your choice."
The audience was over. Torrhen gave a slight bow, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than submission, and turned to leave, Ghost padding silently beside him. As he walked from the Great Hall, the weight of a thousand Northern winters, and the uncertain future of his house and his people, rested squarely on his young shoulders. The dragon's den was cold, but the wolf had shown its teeth. Whether it would be enough, only the morrow would tell.