Chapter 21: South to the Serpent's Den, The Wolf Among Lions and Dragons
The journey south from Winterfell was a slow, deliberate procession into the heart of a realm still reeling from the brutal excesses of Maegor the Cruel and now tentatively embracing the hopeful, yet untested, reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. For Torrhen Stark, it was a calculated advance into enemy territory, though an enemy whose intentions remained veiled behind courteous summons and the veneer of royal diplomacy. Each league covered, each river crossed, took them further from the stark, familiar certainties of the North and deeper into the complex, shifting political currents of the southern kingdoms.
Their retinue, though modest by the standards of some southern lords, was undeniably Northern. Fifty of Winterfell's finest warriors, their faces grim beneath their steel caps, their bearing erect, their direwolf banners snapping crisply in the autumn air, drew stares in every village and holdfast they passed. They were a physical manifestation of the North's rugged strength, a silent testament to the land that had birthed dragons from its frozen soil.
Cregan, riding beside his father, was a study in barely contained energy. The awe of the dragons was still fresh upon him, but it was now mingled with a fierce, protective pride and a growing impatience to see how these softer southern lands would react to the North's newfound might. He often clashed with the more cautious Edric, who spent much of the journey poring over maps and histories of the regions they traversed, his mind cataloging local customs, noble houses, and potential points of friction. Torrhen allowed these debates, observing his sons, gauging their strengths and weaknesses, knowing that the future of the North would one day rest on their ability to navigate such complexities, with or without the aid of dragons.
As they left the familiar, snow-dusted landscapes of the North behind, crossing the Neck through the heavily fortified causeway of Moat Cailin – its twenty black towers a grim reminder of past invasions repelled and Stark resilience – the land began to change. The air grew milder, the forests less wild, the fields more fertile, tilled by a peasantry whose deference seemed tinged with a nervous curiosity as the Stark procession passed. The Riverlands, scarred by centuries of conflict and most recently by Maegor's brutal campaigns against the Faith, were slowly healing under Jaehaerys's peace, but the memory of war was a palpable presence in the burned-out septs and hastily rebuilt holdfasts.
Here, the whispers about Lord Stark's dragons were more prevalent, more fantastical. They heard tales of ice dragons emerging from glaciers at Winterfell's command, of winged direwolves breathing shadowflame, of Torrhen Stark himself being an ancient sorcerer who had slept beneath the ice for a thousand years. Some tales painted him as a savior, a new champion against the excesses of Targaryen power; others depicted him as a dark sorcerer, a Northern necromancer who had unleashed terrible forces upon the world. Torrhen listened to these wild fabrications, relayed by his scouts or overheard by his men in wayside inns, with an impassive expression. Flamel's memories reminded him that public perception was a fickle, malleable beast, easily swayed by fear and ignorance. The truth, when he chose to reveal it, or rather, the carefully constructed version of it, would need to be potent enough to supplant these grotesque fictions.
In every town and castle where they sought lodging – often the somewhat reluctant hospitality of local river lords who eyed the formidable Northern retinue with wary respect – Torrhen maintained a dignified, almost aloof composure. He offered courteous greetings, paid generously for provisions, and discouraged his men from any boisterous or provocative behavior. He was the Lord Warden of the North, a loyal servant of the Iron Throne, traveling to answer his King's summons. Any hint of arrogance, any suggestion that he considered himself an independent power, would be disastrous. Occlumency was his constant shield, his thoughts a frozen sea beneath a calm surface.
The journey was not without incident. Near the Ruby Ford, where Rhaegar Targaryen would one day meet his doom, a band of broken men, remnants of some disbanded company from Maegor's wars, attempted a half-hearted ambush, hoping for plunder. They were met not by dragonfire, but by the swift, brutal efficiency of Northern steel. Cregan, with a roar of Stark fury, led the charge, his Valyrian blade Icefang reaping a deadly toll. The skirmish was over in minutes, a stark reminder to any watching eyes that the Northmen were warriors to be reckoned with, even without their rumored aerial beasts. Torrhen, observing from the rear, noted Cregan's prowess but also his recklessness, his tendency to plunge headfirst into danger. A valuable trait in a champion, perhaps, but a dangerous one in a future Warden who would need to rely on more than just martial skill.
As they neared the Crownlands, the landscape grew richer, more populous. The roads were better maintained, patrolled by men wearing the stag of Baratheon (Lord Rogar Baratheon, Jaehaerys's Hand, held considerable sway here) or the three-headed dragon of Targaryen. The sense of approaching the heart of royal power was palpable. Torrhen felt the subtle shift in the magical currents of the land as well, a faint, almost imperceptible thrum that Flamel's senses identified as the residual aura of concentrated power, of ancient dragon magic lingering around the Targaryen seat, far weaker than the raw, untamed magic of Asshai or even the deep earth magic of Winterfell, but present nonetheless.
Then, one crisp autumn afternoon, from a high ridge overlooking the Blackwater Rush, they saw it: King's Landing.
Even from miles away, it was an awe-inspiring, if somewhat chaotic, sight. A vast, sprawling city, a teeming anthill of humanity spreading from the shores of Blackwater Bay up the three hills that Aegon the Conqueror had claimed as his own. The sheer scale of it dwarfed any city in the North, even White Harbor. And dominating it all, perched atop Aegon's High Hill like a brooding, crimson predator, was the Red Keep. Its massive walls and drum towers, still relatively new, much of them constructed under Maegor's brutal impetus, radiated an aura of raw, unyielding power. Further east, on the Hill of Rhaenys, Torrhen could just make out the colossal, still-under-construction framework of what he knew, from Ilyrio's reports, was to be the Dragonpit, a testament to the Targaryens' determination to house their living weapons within the heart of their capital. The distant sight of a single, bronze-scaled dragon – likely Vermithor, Jaehaerys's own mount, or perhaps Silverwing, Alysanne's – circling lazily in the sky above the city sent a jolt through the Northern retinue, a visceral reminder of the power they were here to confront.
Cregan stared, his usual bravado momentarily replaced by a look of grim respect. "So, this is the den of the dragons," he muttered. Edric, beside him, was furiously sketching the skyline in a small, leather-bound notebook, his scholarly curiosity overcoming any apprehension.
Torrhen said nothing, his gaze sweeping over the city, the fortress, the distant, circling dragon. He was assessing, calculating, Flamel's memories overlaying the scene with images of other great capitals, other centers of imperial power – Rome, Constantinople, even the mythical grandeur of Valyria itself as depicted in ancient texts. King's Landing was newer, cruder perhaps, but it pulsed with a vibrant, dangerous energy.
Their arrival at the city gates – the Dragon Gate, appropriately enough – was met with a mixture of fear and intense curiosity. The gold-cloaked City Watch, their discipline markedly improved under Jaehaerys's reforms, parted the teeming crowds to allow the Northern procession through. Faces stared from every window, every alleyway, their expressions a mixture of awe at the stern-faced Northmen and a fearful fascination with the lord who was rumored to command dragons of his own. Torrhen rode through the throng with his head held high, his expression unreadable, the direwolf banner of House Stark a stark, monochrome counterpoint to the vibrant, chaotic colours of the southern capital.
A small delegation of royal officials, led by a portly, velvet-clad lordling from some minor Crownlands house and escorted by a dozen stern-faced knights of the Kingsguard, their white cloaks a stark contrast to their gleaming steel, met them just inside the gate. The lordling, clearly flustered by the presence of the infamous 'Dragon Lord of the North', offered a stammering welcome on behalf of His Grace, King Jaehaerys. Torrhen responded with cool, Northern courtesy, his words precise, his demeanor impeccable. He noted the way the Kingsguard knights watched him, their eyes missing nothing, their hands never far from the pommels of their swords. These were Jaehaerys's sworn protectors, men of proven loyalty and martial skill, and Torrhen knew they would be a constant, watchful presence.
They were escorted through the winding, crowded streets of King's Landing – a city that stank of humanity, of ambition, of fear, and faintly, of dragon smoke – towards the Red Keep. The sheer size of the fortress, as they drew closer, was oppressive. Its red stone walls, built with stone quarried from the surrounding hills and, some whispered, magically hardened by Valyrian techniques during Aegon's time, seemed to loom over them, a physical manifestation of Targaryen dominance. Torrhen felt the weight of its history, the echoes of Aegon's conquest, of Maegor's bloody tyranny, and now, of Jaehaerys's attempts to build a lasting peace upon those brutal foundations.
Their accommodations were within the Red Keep itself, a suite of chambers in the newly constructed Guest House, comfortable enough, but clearly chosen to keep them under the Crown's direct observation. Torrhen, upon entering their rooms, immediately began a subtle but thorough assessment. While his men unpacked their meager baggage, he moved through the chambers, his senses, augmented by Flamel's alchemical knowledge and his own heightened awareness, searching for hidden spyholes, for listening tubes, for any sign of magical wards or scrying devices. He found none that were immediately obvious, but he knew the Red Keep had more secrets than any living soul could fathom. That night, before retiring, he would discreetly place some of Flamel's own subtle counter-surveillance charms and alchemical deterrents around their perimeter, just to be safe.
From their windows, they had a commanding view of the city sprawling below, and across Blackwater Bay. They could also see the Dragonpit on Rhaenys's Hill, its massive dome still incomplete, and occasionally, the breathtaking sight of Targaryen dragons taking to the air, their roars a distant, rumbling thunder that served as a constant reminder of who truly ruled this land. Ignis, Terrax, and Nocturne, for all their newfound power, were still young, still a hidden brood. These southern dragons were mature, battle-tested, and numerous.
The first evening in King's Landing was quiet. They were told that their formal audience with King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne was scheduled for the following afternoon. Torrhen used the intervening time for final preparations. He convened his small Northern council – Cregan, Edric, and two of his most trusted household knights, Ser Martyn Cassel (Ser Rodrik's son, as steadfast as his father) and Lord Wyman Manderly's eldest son, Ser Marlon Manderly, a young knight whose diplomatic skills were reputed to be as sharp as his sword.
"Tomorrow, we face the King," Torrhen said, his voice low and steady. "Remember what we discussed. We are here as loyal bannermen, seeking only to inform His Grace of the dire threat we faced, and the unexpected means by which the North defended itself, and by extension, his realm. We express our unwavering loyalty. We offer no provocation. We answer his questions truthfully, but… selectively. The full extent of our… assets… their origins, their ultimate potential, remains a secret of the North, to be guarded with our lives."
He looked at Cregan. "Your temper, son. Control it. There will be those in court who seek to provoke us, to test us. Do not rise to their bait. Your strength lies not just in your sword arm, but in your discipline."
Cregan nodded, his jaw tight. "I understand, Father."
He turned to Edric. "Your role is to observe, to listen. The King's council is said to include men of great learning, like Septon Barth. Note their arguments, their concerns. Understand the currents of thought within this court. Knowledge is our sharpest weapon here."
Edric inclined his head, his eyes thoughtful.
"We are wolves in a den of lions and dragons," Torrhen concluded, his gaze sweeping over them. "We must be cunning, united, and unshakeable. The future of our House, and the peace of our land, depends on what transpires in that audience hall tomorrow."
As night fell over King's Landing, casting the Red Keep in imposing shadow, Torrhen Stark stood by his window, looking out at the distant, flickering lights of the city. He felt the immense pressure, the weight of centuries of Stark leadership, the even greater weight of the arcane knowledge he wielded, and the terrifying potential of the three young lives he had brought into the world. He thought of Ignis, Terrax, and Nocturne, hidden leagues away in their secret Northern valley, their power a slumbering volcano. He had brought their echo here, to the very heart of their ancient rivals' dominion.
He touched the hidden vial of 'Clarity of the Void' he carried, a last resort if his mental fortitude was truly tested. Flamel had faced inquisitors, rival sorcerers, paranoid kings. Torrhen Stark would face a young, wise Dragon King. He closed his eyes, centering himself, his mind becoming a calm, frozen lake, his Occlumency shields impenetrable. He was ready. Tomorrow, the Wolf of the North would meet the Young Dragon on the Iron Throne. And the fate of dragons, and kingdoms, hung in the balance.