XIX : The Northern Iron Fist - The Dragon & The Wolf

To read early:

Chapter 20: 'Double Dual'

Chapter 21: 'Dragon against Wolf'

Chapter 22: 'The Tournament of Pretenders'

Chapter 23: "The divided Pack"

Chapter 24: "Too far, too late"

Chapter 25: "The Ghosts of Guilt"

Chapter 26 : "How time and blood flow"

Chapter 27: "Those who rule over Winter"

Chapter 28: "Clinging to hope"

Chapter 29: "The Barn owl"

Chapter 30: "Legends"

Chapter 31: "The Starks of Winterfell"

Chapter 32: "Ice and Fire"

Chapter 33: "Rhaenyra and Arthur"

Chapter 34: "The Choice is not the one you thought"

Chapter 35: "What we are meant to be"

Chapter 36: "The Fresh air of the North"

Chapter 37: "From this day, Until our last day"

Chapter 38: "Husband and Wife"

Chapter 39: "The Heirs' Meeting"

Chapter 40: "Parents and children"

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w w w . p a t r(e)on (slash) MonsieurLAH

Enjoy reading!

Chapter XIX : The Northern Iron Fist

Arthur Stark had been staring in the mirror in his room for the past fifteen minutes, he was looking severely at his own reflection.

"What are you doing?" He whispered. "What in the name of the Old Gods is wrong with you?"

He remembered everything, Rhaenyra's words were dancing in his skull like a bunch of wildling women around a fire. He remembered her lips, her smell, the softness of her skin, the smoothness of her hair. Gods, gods he desired her. He could not keep that bloody image out of his head; Rhaenyra and him sitting by the fire in Winterfell's great hall, cuddling like a couple of lovebirds.

He gritted his teeth in frustration, she had managed to claw her way under his skin, she had invaded his mind, she was torturing him day and night.

Nothing could keep her out of his skull, she was there constantly, and when they worked together in his solar, he found it his hardest trial to ignore her.

She was just… too much. She was… Gods! She was the most beautiful woman of the Realm, how had he been so blind to this truth until now?

Her words haunted him, he could not possibly fathom that she had been serious. Would she truly abandon her claim to be with him? How could she even think of doing this? She would ruin everything they had worked for to secure her rule, she'd abandon the luxury of the capital to live with him, in the North, where he'd be, at best, the lord of a minor house.

What could she possibly see in him that would made her abandon everything she has ever known? Did she even realize what she was dreaming of? Arthur had always seen her clothed with the finest silk and satin, wearing numerous jewels and eating the most delicious food. A woman that has enjoyed the greatest luxury would not settle for a more modest life. And there was her dragon to consider as well, would it settle in the North? Feeding it would be expensive, what happens when it goes ballistic and starts demanding more than what the Northerners could spare? It was simply not feasible, Arthur could not give her what she wanted, for he did not have it.

He sighed after he came to that conclusion, Rhaenyra would not understand, and she would keep torturing him no matter what excuse he would pull out of his pocket, the tourney could not come sooner.

He felt a breath on his neck, and froze, he knew what was happening, he did not dare turn back, nor did he need to, for the mirror was part of his illusion. Here she was, wearing the Direwolf's skin cloak he had carved for her, glaring at him with her pupils darker than the Long Night itself.

" You fucking kneelers don't have anything better to do than wake the dead from their sleep so you can cry to them like newborns?" Rasha spat at him, furious.

"I did not mean to summon you, I did not do anything, my mind is just playing tricks."

"Good, 'cause I don't want to be here Arthur Stark!" Her black hair looked as smooth as Arthur remembered. "I'm dead, I got caught, got fucked, got cut and got eaten, I ain't got anything left for me here, 'specially in the fucking South of the South."

"You also got stabbed." Arthur could never forget what piercing her heart had felt like, nor the sound it had made.

"Will you shut up, you prick!" Her voice was stronger and colder than the Winter's wind. "I'm dead, Stark, fucking dead, deadmen don't need lovers. Why don't you go fuck that pretty little bitch of yours?"

Arthur's face turned dark.

"Angry are you?" She laughed a cruel laugh. "You wanna fuck that girl, you're just using me as an excuse, why don't you steal her, I wonder, wouldn't even be stealing, she wants it as much, if not more than you."

"You're not my excuse." He snarled, he was talking out loud, too loud. "You're my reminder."

"Of what?" She laughed again.

"Of what happens when I choose love over duty."

He had been ready to abandon everything for her, his house, his family, living North of the Wall without any other responsibilities than survival, that had been more than tempting. He would have raised sons and daughters of his blood without having to worry about anything else. That had been a boy's dream, he was a man now.

"Fuck you, Arthur Stark." Rasha spat. "I'm dead, you're not. Dead women don't need living men, get me out of your fucking kneeler's skull and go fuck your pretty little dragon. If someone gets between you and her, kill him."

"Shut up." Arthur finally sighed. "You don't understand, you have never understood."

"And I never will, so get out of my…"

Someone knocked at the Hand of the King's door, snapping him out of his illusion, he erased his disgusted and furious face in a blink and shook his head to cool his burning mind.

"Who is it?"

A handmaiden entered, young, red of hair, green eyes and freckles, Arthur had never seen her before, he was instantly on his guard.

"Forgive me, Lord Hand, but there are men at arms and riders at the Castle's gate, they say they have been sent to serve you."

Arthur rose an eyebrow, now that was unexpected, but quite welcomed if he was honest with himself.

"Who's leading them?"

(-)(-)(-)

"Lord Roderick Dustin!"

The Lord in question turned his horse towards Arthur who had just arrived in the courtyard, he sneered at the guards who had -more than likely- forbidden the castle's entrance to him and his men, and dismounted while the Hand of the King was walking towards him with the two guards Rhaenyra had assigned him.

They clasped arms, Lord Roderick was an aging man, but he was still almost seven foot tall and his arms were as strong as they were in his twenties.

"So the rumors are true." The burly man said as his eyes fell on Arthur's pin. "You've grown pup, heard you bit off a Dornish's throat, that true?"

"Yes."

Dustin laughed and hit his shoulder.

"Now that's a Stark if I've ever met one." He declared as the men he had brought cheered for the Lord Hand, drawing wary glances at them from every single person in the courtyard. "Your uncle, Lord Rickon has requested our presence in the capital as soon as he's heard of your appointment."

"So all it took for my uncle to send me a contingent of men worthy of my name, was to become the second most powerful politician in the Realm." He thought bitterly but kept it to himself.

"Be welcomed." He said and he pulled two gold dragons from his purse to give one to each of his guards. "I no longer require your protection, I thank you for services."

The men bowed and left after taking the gold coin that had been handed to each of them, Lord Roderick spat on the ground and grumbled something along the lines of 'Fucking Southerners'.

Arthur ignored him to look at the hundred men the Lord of Barrowtown had brought with him.

"Don't bother trying to find some of your friends among my men, lad, I mean… Lord Hand." The burly man said. "None of their fathers agreed to send them South."

"Most of my friends are their fathers' heirs." Arthur sighed. "I would have been surprised if one of them had been allowed to come to the capital alone. I am actually surprised by your presence my lord, are you not needed in Barrowtown?"

"My son is two and thirty, and he has two sons of his own. I am not getting any younger and there is nothing I can do that he can't. I chose to come here on my own accord, your safety is too important to be entrusted to a green boy."

"I am honored to hear you say those words, my lord." He actually was.

"Don't sweat it, Lord Iron Fist." He stroke the young man's back. "You're here to serve the North and you have served it well. The northern folk are singing your praise since your first shipment of Myrish glass has arrived in Whiteharbor, even your Uncle's proud of you. Oh, and you're little cousin's asked me to tell you to write him more often."

Arthur smiled and nodded, before leading them inside the Red Keep. It was a good thing that they had arrived a few weeks before the tourney, now Arthur would actually look like a proper Hand of the King with a man such as Lord Roderick at his side.

Finding rooms for his men proved to be more tedious than he had imagined, since the most important lords of the Realm would be here in less than a moon, there were few chambers worthy of a Lord. Fortunately, there was one right next to Arthur's own room, and that was where Lord Roderick would sleep. Fifty of his men would find quarters in the Gold Cloak's barracks, Ser Harwin had recently asked for more men to secure the city before the tourney were to begin, the Heir to Harrenhal would be satisfied. For the other forty nine, Arthur kept thirty in the Tower of the Hand, and scattered the other nineteen as best as he could within the Red Keep, they were his guards, that they had quarters in the keep was essential, knights and Lords alike could complain all they wanted, his men were here to stay.

Once this was done, he invited Lord Roderick for a horn of proper Northern ale in his very own solar. He would inform the King of the hundred new inhabitants in the Red Keep once he was done with the new captain of his new guard.

Shadow did not wake from his slumber when they entered the solar, he only rolled in his sleep. Arthur uncorked a small barrel of ale and poured two horns. Lord Roderick drank his in one go.

"Gods, finally some good fucking ale." He breathed, his beard shivered in satisfaction. "They all drink drunkard's piss South of Moat Cailin."

"We can agree on that." Arthur laughed as he took a long swig. "So…How does the North truly fare, my lord?"

The burly man scratched his beard.

"Not gonna lie to you, Lord Hand, your uncle is actually quite pissed."

Arthur rolled his eyes, he had expected that much. What he had not expected, was the poison in his voice when he had called him by his title.

"And why is that?"

"'Cause you killed a Dornish Prince. Never in our history had there been bad blood between Northerners and Dornishmen, now well… Let's just say Lord Rickon is pretty concerned about little Cregan's safety."

"If Cregan dies, I'm the heir to Winterfell." Arthur reminded him. "The Dornish won't do anything that would benefit me, if it's revenge they want, they can either target me or my brothers."

Lord Roderick threw him a stern look, Arthur simply rose an eyebrow.

"You don't know the Dornish lad, some of us do. They don't forget something like the death of one of their Princes so easily, and they are resentful to say the least. They won't stop until you're dead, and they'll find ways to hurt you. Least, that's what your uncle said."

Arthur did not argue that fact, for he knew it to be true. It had been many moons since he had killed Prince Qyle, he was not unsurprised by Dorne's silence, he simply believed they were bidding their time. As he was Hand of the King, killing him could start a war, if they were to assassinate him, they'd need to make sure no one would know they had a hand in it. Few assassins could find a way into the Red Keep, ever fewer could do it and leave no evidence. The faceless men were far too expensive, even a Dornish Prince would need to disrupt his Kingdom's economy to pursue the service of such an assassin. Prince Qoren was not reputed to be hot-blooded, yet he did send men to the Stepstones according to Prince Daemon and Lord Manderly. Though this move had a reasonable explanation; Drahar and the Triarchy must have offered safe passage to Dornish ships should they aid in their war against Daemon. This had not been an act of war, at least, not by Arthur's standards, it had been, at worst, agressive trading negotiations.

Arthur could not figure out Prince Qoren Martell's intentions; There were many ways to hurt the Hand of the King, but what would be satisfying enough to avenge a dead son? Did it matter that Qyle had thrown himself in the Wolf's den? Was he hated? Truly hated? It's not like it had been something personal, what had he been supposed to do? Fall on his own sword? Arthur was not optimistic, this would not end well, the people of Dorne were known for being resentful. So what would it be? Would they be foolish enough to attack his family back at Winterfell? Murdering a Lord Paramount and/or his heir, and war breaks out, six kingdoms against Dorne. Daemon alone was not worth Aegon and his sisters, but the combined might of the Realm against the descendants of the Rhoynars… What would it be? Three hundred thousand men and one dragon against forty thousand and no dragon? Dorne would end up in ruin, Prince Qoren had nothing to gain from murdering Arthur, Rickon or Cregan. With a bit of luck, they'd target his father and brothers, that would get four thorns out of his side.

Arthur knew how grim it was to wish for his family's death, but if anything, that was just evidence of their terrible relationship, and the potential limits of the links of blood among a family.

"How is Cregan?" He finally asked. Perhaps it had been rude not to ease Lord Roderick's worries, but Arthur was Hand of the King, and he had nothing but theories to share on this matter.

He was certainly not about to tell a fellow Northerner that he was hoping for his family's deaths.

"Wilder every day." Dustin laughed. "He's always playing with that brown direwolf of his, though the beast is thrice his size. Boys his age don't interest him, his beast frightens them and the little Lord prefers the company of his wolf over anyone else's."

Arthur smiled, Cregan was going to be a great Lord of Winterfel, he would be more wolf than man, perhaps, but he would also be the head of the giant pack that the North was. Arthur could still remember how his little cousin's eyes shone when he presented the brown direwolf to him. Cregan had always been energetic, the way he jumped when he took Giant in his arms for the first time, his smile, his laugh, Giant's confused and scarred look. Arthur had had to calm Cregan down, otherwise his direwolf would have tried to run away from him. He would need to treat it like a brother, and Cregan had listened, he was a smart boy, he'd be an even smarter man.

"Does he take his duties seriously?"

"'Course he does, otherwise Old Rickon would have kicked his skinny ass. He even asked the maester what book you've read, he wants to be like you."

Now, that sounded like a reproach, Arthur rose an eyebrow.

"If you have something to say, My Lord, please do so."

Roderick snorted.

"Your reputation of a bookworm still follows you, Lord Hand. Had you not killed a Dornish Prince, plenty of our people would have said that you are a Wolf with paper teeth."

Arthur laughed at that, a wolf with paper teeth, now that would have been a poor sight.

"I did not realize I carried such a terrible reputation. Considering my expedition North of the Wall and my reputation among my friends."

"You're the first Stark to ever get down South and make a name for himself without a sword to carve it. Some of us think you're turning southerner."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Trust me, my Lord, one fucking moon in this shithole, and you'll realize that a sword in here can't get you farther than the next corridor. Stay by my side, but do not speak a word unless spoken to. No matter what you feel, you will swear on the Old Gods and the New that you will not let your temper get the best of you for as long as I am Hand of the King. Most Southerners are displeased that a Northerner rules by the King's side, they will taunt you into striking them to cause a scandal. Challenge them in the training yard and nowhere will not give them what they want, or I will dismiss you."

Lord Roderick looked as interested as he looked furious.

"Do you think me some kind of green boy, boy?! Do you think that golden hand on your chest gives you the power to dismiss me like a fucking handmaiden?! I'm here on your uncle's orders, but I will not let a boy who takes orders from a woman command me like a dog. Make no mistake, I'm here to follow your uncle's orders, not yours…"

Shadow bit his calf before he finished his sentence, and Arthur punched him in the face with all his strength. Lord Roderick fell flat on his arse, Shadow pinned him to the ground with his giant paws and growled at his bleeding face. But Arthur whistled a short note, and the wolf's paws were replaced by its master's knee.

"Lord Roderick." His tone was low, cold, lordly. "I'll say this once and once only: I don't care what my uncle told you to do, if you do not wish to follow my command that means you are useless, and if you are, you can fuck back North on the first ship to Whiteharbor this instant. A direwolf has no need of a rusty useless axe. Are you rusty, Lord Roderick?"

The Lord of Barrowtown examined the young man's cold grey eyes for five long seconds, then he smiled a crimson smile with a missing tooth that he spat on the side.

"I'm old, not rusty, and neither are you, Lord Iron Fist." He laughed. " Aye, I'll do as you asked, you're still one of us, you're just better at Southern games than Southerners themselves. Now I get why my grandson likes you so 'd have made a fine Lord of Winterfell."

"And that is why my Uncle sent me away." Arthur thought as he got the Lord of Barrowtown back to his feet. "We are in a nest of vipers, Lord Dustin. Either we strike from the dark or we do it the honorable way. No fucking fighting."

Roderick Dustin rolled his shoulders, truth be told, he liked the boy, he was a Stark, a real Stark. A name would not have been enough to make the Lord of Barrowtown bow, but this young man had the North in him. He could see it.

"And one last thing." Arthur's eyes had turned yellow, which took his new captain of the guards by surprise. "Do not speak ill of our future Queen, ever."

Lord Roderick looked into the Lord Hand's eyes, then he looked at his direwolf and saw the exact same eyes.

"A warg." He understood, mesmerized. "A bloody warg."

Was Little Cregan the same? Did he inherit the abilities of the First Men, of their ancestors? Were the Old Gods finally smiling upon them now that they had come south for the first time in centuries?

"You've yet to swear." Arthur said.

And Lord Roderick swore, for he knew this was the man that would carve their people's path.

Rasha was laughing in Arthur's ear.

"You want to do more than fuck that Dragon girl." She mocked. "You want to cloak her, and crown her, and breed her. You can't relieve yourself with an Iron Fist when your tongue wets for dragon meat."

And she laughed again as Arthur thought of his Princess.