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The Crippled Wolf-Stark SI: Ch.72
🕑 Added 2025-07-23 18:39:56 +0000 UTCChapter 72
Daenerys watched as her captors all left her little solar, her betrothed walking out behind them. As he was about to get into the carriage, the boy glanced up towards the balcony one last time, and their eyes met.
She had dreaded meeting with this nephew of hers. For just the very thought of him had her mind reminiscing about her own brother, and how he had been.
But Aegon was nothing like Viserys. The boy was young, polite, and nervous, unlike her own brother, whose violent outbursts haunted her to this day. Viserys was young, angry and brittle. He had grown up in fear of death, with the burden of a three-hundred-year-old dynasty on his shoulders.
Aegon, as he claimed to be, had lived a life of luxury in comparison to being fed and loved by her brother’s leal servant, Lord Connington.
But all this did little to prove his heritage, for the boy had mostly traditional Targaryen features, but that did not make him her nephew.
“Ser Jorah,” she called out, the only person who might be able to help her out of this dilemma.
“Yes, Khaleesi,” he answered dutifully as always, as she asked.
“Do you think he is my brother’s son?” she asked, hoping to get an answer that would soothe her worrying mind.
“I am afraid I cannot say,” she said, and she had feared this, for now indecision fueled her worries.
“But worry not, my lady. There is one person who can,” and her mind whirled towards the name mentioned, but a few hours ago.
“And thankfully for us, he is coming here as we speak....” and as she tried to remember the Prince of Dorne, a knock on the door interrupted her racing mind.
“Who is it?” and before she could say more, the door opened once more as Ser Jorah drew his sword.
“You dare enter the Princess’s chambers without leave?” and now she was facing the doors as well, and saw a fat balding man enter the room, dressed in red robes, flagon in hand, as he reeked of wine and ale.
“Huh, I thought I was supposed to come here,” he whispered in a Westerosi accent, as she saw Ser Jorah frown as he recognized the man.
“You! You are Thoros of Myr,” he whispered, and she had heard that name earlier as well, and the red priests’ eyes narrowed and fear gripped her heart suddenly, as she heard that name.
“And you are the young Bear,” the priest recognised, as he laughed at Ser Jorah stumbling, as his
“But one could say that you are not so young anymore,” and Ser Jorah eased up slightly, though he did not put back his sword as he addressed this fat priest.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, and slowly she saw the slump in his back vanish as those reddish orbs turned towards her, giving them the purpose of their visit.
“Truth is that I have come to meet you, Princess Daenerys...”
0000
CREGAN STARK
Sansa’s Wedding was the first grand celebration after the War of the Five Kings. It was a show of might by the Crown as he gathered all of the Seven Lord Paramounts in the capital, and had them witness the might and riches of the Crown.
The Capital was being built anew, its streets no longer a crooked sprawl. The new Gold Cloaks now patrolled the city, all of them now properly trained and armed like an army.
His army remained stationed at Duskendale, though the whispers of their power and discipline must have reached the ears of all the lords gathered in the Hall. This wedding was both a celebration and a demonstration of strength for both his allies and his enemies.
“Well, you seem rather jovial, my Queen,” he whispered as they stood just below the altar, separated from the rest of the Lords and Ladies by their Kingsguard, as they waited for the arrival of the Bride.
“I have good reason to be,” Myrcella whispered, and she wore a loose, green and golden dress to accommodate for her bulging belly, as he raised a brow.
“It reminds me of our own marriage,” she whispered softly, and Myrcella Baratheon was a stronger woman than he had expected, having held the realm together as Queen through her own efforts. While men ruled the realm, the women ruled the men—the weak men.
And as Queen, she ruled over all the women, gathering them to her side as she slowly but surely gathered allies and helped broker alliances.
“Our wedding was nothing so grand,” he answered, and she shrugged.
“It was grand enough for me,” and while both of them had their disagreements, they had the ability and the maturity to resolve them behind closed doors.
“Still, this brings the Reach firmly into the fold,” she whispered, the good sister in her was quickly replaced by the wise and political Queen as he nodded, looking towards the Tyrells standing to his left.
“Yes,” and Myrcella grabbed her hand.
“That leaves only Dorne,” she whispered, for with that the Seven Kingdoms would be whole once more.
“Do you really think it wise to trust the Dornish?” she questioned, and he did not really trust anyone. Sadly, not even her, but he trusted their pragmatism, their instincts for politics and survival, for all those who had gathered here today.
“No, one can hardly trust the Dornish when you are wed to them,” for they had betrayed even Rhaegar, and he was kin.
“But still, I did not expect this from you,” he began as he looked at her.
“I thought you and Lady Arianne had become friends,” and they had, after all the Dornish Princess had spent the last five years in this very castle as a hostage for the Crown.
“Someone told me that a King can have no friends, he has only allies and enemies,” and now she was throwing back his own words at him.
“He must have been quite a wise man,” he repeated, trying to hold back a chuckle.
“He is,” Myrcella nodded, “but he often spends too much time worrying about making allies and ignoring his precious little wife,” and her censure was valid for he was at fault here.
Ruling the realm and preparing it against not one but two potent enemies was not an easy task for any man, let alone a young, untested King. There had been a thousand hurdles in his way, and getting past them had required much work.
And that work had forced him to push aside his family, and though he was not distant, one could argue that he was quite distracted.
“You remember the promise I made,” he whispered back to her, his grip tightening over her hand, as the herald blew the horns, and the gates to the Sept opened, as all eyes turned towards the bride-to-be.
“I do. The wars...” and this was not the first time Myrcella had brought his inattentiveness to his attention, and so a year ago, he had made a promise to her as he had revealed to her the dangers that lingered in the true North.
“Yes,” he answered as he saw Sansa walk into the Hall with their father beside her, holding her arm. She wore the grey and blues of her heritage, all decorated with a shining silver thread that reflected the sunlight, making her dress glisten like a pearl.
“After the wars, I am all yours,” he whispered back to her as Myrcella gasped slowly.
“She looks so beautiful,” and she really did, as she slowly looked up and met his gaze, nodding as her father led her to the altar, and the rest of his family stood to his right, all of them except for one singular face who had chosen to stay behind at Winterfell for as per tradition ‘There must always be a Stark at Winterfell’.
“And you are wrong, my lord husband,” Myrcella suddenly added as the Septon stepped forward to say the vows, as he looked into his wife’s emerald gaze.
“War or not, you are mine today and always....” and he smiled as he whispered a small response as he gently pecked her lips.
“As you say, my Queen...”
0000
DORAN MARTELL
Doran was not blind to the dance that the King was playing. The Royal Wedding was a show of opulence and wealth. It was an assurance to their allies and a warning to their enemies that if you rise against the Crown, then you will be rising up against all this wealth and power.
‘The Crone,’ as people called him, was truly a miracle worker, for in half a decade, he had taken a weak and frail throne and turned it into one of the most powerful and imposing state in perhaps fifty years.
Full coffers, steady alliances, and a battle-ready army under the command of a respected general. How many other Kings could boast of accomplishing all that, let alone doing so in but five years?
Doran was wheeled by his brother through the still and turning Halls as the King led them to their most needed prize.
“I apologise for bringing you away from the celebrations, but I think that you would much prefer this over the celebrations there,” the King added, as he reached the Cells underneath the castle, and the Hall was empty except for three people.
One of them was a thin old man with greying hair and sharp black eyes. He wore a cloak similar to that of Maesters, and though Doran was seeing him for the first time, he knew him by reputation.
It was well known that the King kept the council of a learned man, who had once been expelled from the Citadel —a man credited with much of the change that had transformed the world of today.
“Qyburn,” the King called out, confirming his suspicion as the man stepped forward.
“Yes, your grace,” the man bowed, and his words carried reverence as the young King looked at the two men chained there, their heads covered by cloaks.
“Are they ready?” he asked, making him frown.
“Yes, they are,” and with that, the King turned towards him and Oberyn, whose fists had turned white as the King addressed them both.
“You chose to betray the Crown because of a perceived injustice,” and it was Oberyn.
“Not perceived,” his brother cut in daringly.
“What happened to Elia was real,” and the mention of his sister made even Doran’s lips thin, as the King sighed.
“As was your treason,” and his voice grew sharper, as those eyes narrowed.
“Do you really wish to haggle over words, Lord Oberyn?” and he raised his hand, stopping Oberyn from making another mistake.
“Our crimes were against a different King,” he defended themselves, even though Dorne had already paid a heavy price for it, as both he and Doran had lost their children as hostages, and with his secret revealed, his daughter had refused to see him at all.
And that all was beyond the sheer tons of gold and silver and sand and glass that the King had demanded of their House.
“They were crimes nonetheless, Prince Doran, and while I have been merciful to you and your kin once but if I ever get even a whiff of treason from you, your family or your people, you will find my cruelty to be swift and damning,” and the truth was that even if he so desired Dorne could not support a rebellion.
Not anymore.
The Stormlands held absolute loyalty to the throne because of the Queen’s heritage, and were ruled by Shireen Baratheon and now even the Reach had become kin to the Crown through marriage, taking away their only possible allies.
If they were to attempt any misadventure, then the Royal Army would invade their land within a few days, while the Navy would attack their shores and Dorne would find itself surrounded by all sides.
“You have one night,” the King declared, as he made to leave the dungeons.
“The two of them cannot speak, nor can they write,” and that was smart of him, and he saw Oberyn’s eyes narrow at his words.
“But they can scream,” the King added as he stood in front of him.
“Qyburn will stay with you to monitor you. Their lives are yours till dawn, after that they belong to the Stranger,” and with that, the King walked past them, before he stopped at the door.
“If the thought of betrayal ever crosses your mind,” Doran saw him glance back as he offered them one last threat.
“Then remember that I will do unto you and all your kin exactly what you do to these two men,” and with that, he left as Oberyn stepped forward, his steps measured and his breaths heavy.
His brother had been holding himself back, and if Doran could walk himself, he would have joined him. As Oberyn reached the two bound men, he slowly reached for the sacks covering their heads and removed them in one motion.
And Doran’s heart stilled as he saw those faces, and how many times had they haunted his sleep as Elia’s screams tore at his heart.
“How long have I waited for this day?” Oberyn’s voice shook as a tear fell down his face.
“How long have I cried over Elia’s screams?” and the two slowly woke from their slumber as their eyes widened at the sight of Oberyn as they began to struggle.
“GUGHHH!” “GUGHHH!” The chains shook as the mountain tried to break free.
“It is such a shame that you cannot speak, but it matters little,” and Oberyn slowly reached for the mountain’s head, and caressed it like a snake coiling around its prey.
“After all, you can still scream for me...”
.
.
.
In the throne room, the lords and ladies feasted and danced, and the King took to the floor as well. Amidst the swirling feasts and dances, a father and son met for the first time in five years, as Tywin Lannister came upon his youngest talking and hosting the King’s guests.
Such was the tension in the air that the lords surrounding them all left as father and son stared into each other’s eyes, neither acknowledging the other's existence.
“Have you grown so bold to ignore even your own father?” the Lord of the West thundered as the little Lord smirked and drowned his cup of wine, before answering himself.
“Funny, for I have no father...”
“...at least not one worth speaking to.”
0000
Comments
Radiant Tiefling
Thank you for the chapter.
Skulldragon7
‘The Crone,’ as people called her, was truly a miracle worker, for in half a decade, she had taken a weak and frail throne and turned it into one of the most powerful and imposing states in perhaps fifty years. If we are refering to Cregan as the crone in this paragraph then I think the her and the she would need to be him and he respectively. Of course if this is refering character of the crone then it is correct as is.
