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The Crippled Wolf-Stark SI: Ch.52
🕑 Added 2025-05-11 21:21:43 +0000 UTCChapter 52
He had never thought he would ever stand outside these mismatched gates again. The door was half white and half black, one part ebony, the other wierwood. And the walls inside had the depictions of all the known Gods, including his own.
Some time ago, he had never thought that he would be able to live, let alone travel to this foreign land once more, but here he was. In the Halls of the famous House of Black and White, brought here by his friend and master’s necessity.
The pool at the centre of the atrium was as it had been years ago, its water a glimmering black sheen, yet clear enough to reflect his face on its surface. And it had changed since the last time he was here, now adorning a small scar that ran down his neck and jaw.
The cloaked priest stepped up beside him, and his face was the same as it had been years ago, with not a single mark of age showing.
“You are back, yet you are not whole,” he whispered, frowning as he stared at his face through the reflection.
“You have been touched by the gift,” and he had been more touched. He had been embraced, yet let go. Returned to this world for an unknown purpose.
“Has the Priest come her with another name?” the priest asked him.
“No. Not yet,” he answered, turning towards the priest.
“I have come with a question?” one that had seemed awfully strange, and unnecessary until he had set foot on these, and he still wondered how the rumors which had just reached the shores of Braavos, a few days ago, had reached the ruins of Harrenhall months in advance.
But he had always been strange. His little friend, the one who did not believe in his God, yet knew how to invoke.
“Then ask away, priest?” he gulped, and began.
“Does the offer of your gift extend to only humans?” he began, finally turning around to face the man with half white and half red hair.
“Or does it extend to all life, and creatures....”
0000
CREGAN STARK
The celebrations from his victory did not last long, as they heard the news of the battle at Riverrun. Renly Baratheon had truly overestimated his might, and had thought that he could break the defences of Riverrun with his sixty thousand blades.
He had let himself fall a prey to his own hubris, and maybe he had a chance of success if it had been Edmure Tully commanding the defence, but Lord Hoster still lived, and so did his brother, the Blackfish, who was more than a match for Renly’s seasoned advisor, Randall Tarly.
He had run as in fear of the Lannister army coming at him from behind, and was now headed towards his own castle. A desperate maneuver that may have worked if he had just had a few fewer tournies and had ridden at full pace towards Riverrun rather than sauntering on the path like he had already won the war.
Leaving behind Tyrion at Harrenhall had paid dividends. Though he had failed in gathering a substantial host, the man had successfully improved upon the castle’s defences. So now pikes, moats, and traps littered the Northern Gate of Harrenhall, and his own host stood ready, both to defend and attack the castle as needed.
But it was not Renly who worried him. Not anymore, for the stag was now caught in his trap, and was simply delaying its slaughter.
No, what worried him more was the enemy preparing itself for war across the Narrow Sea. An enemy armed with three dragons, and a whole blood-thirsty khalasar. Robert Baratheon had sent no assassins after the two exiled Targaryens, but he had an inkling who had.
And now, with his brother and son dead, Daenerys Stormborn, with her ravaged Slavers’ Bay seeking gold, ships, and men. The Khalasaar at his back was said to be the largest one ever seen, and Drogo had absorbed a few other small khalsaars into his own, ballooning his already impressive forty thousand strong to nearly double that.
“You seem rather troubled for some going to war with such good odds,” asked Tyrion, plopping down on the crates beside him, and Cregan had come out to examine the final preparation.
“Well, odds and preparations do not make war any more palatable. For in war, you could die a thousand different ways, and in your own words, I am still too young for that,” and the little Lannister lord nodded.
“Rightly said, war can be very unpredictable,” and he wore armor as well, made specially for him with the Golden Lannister lion adorning the shoulders and the chest plate.
“Though I have heard our enemy has taken heavy losses at Riverrun,” and Cassius nodded, pocketing the letter in his hand, as he passed to him the other missive he had received just before dawn.
“He has lost around ten to fifteen thousand men. More will definitely flee him on the path,” though that would be a mistake, for the Old Lion marched behind them, slowly and hungrily.
The Lannister army would surely pounce on any deserters with haste, killing them off easily.
“Forty thousand,” and they had a bit more than half that. But the thick walls of Harrenhall stood in between them and Renly’s army.
And he glanced up at those walls, those monstrosities, and his mind could still not fathom how they had been built. But they were so thick that a carriage could ride atop them, and even if the armies of the Stormlands and the Reach somehow managed to get through a rain of arrows, trebuchets, spears, scorpions, and traps. The walls would still stand in their way, leaving them no place to run.
“Is your brother’s army in place?” Tyrion questioned, and that was the last piece of the puzzle, and he nodded.
“Robb’s here,” and so much had happened since he had laid eyes on his siblings, that a part of him wished to mount his horse and ride North with no abandon just so he could feel the warmth of his own kin once more.
“Good. Now, let us pray that there are some sane minds in Renly’s army,” and he prayed the same, for he knew that this was but one of the many wars waiting for them in the future. Wars that would be fought against adversaries and enemies far crueller than Renly Baratheon.
The grass around them was filled with knights and men, each armed to the teeth, as he and Tyrion sat at the back observing the final preparations.
“I have a question for you,” Cregan began, deciding to probe one of Westeros’s most blessed minds to solve his dilemma.
“That is a rarity? I thought you were the kind to have answers,” and Cregan smiled, sighing, he answered.
“I believe this question has no answers,” and so began as he looked into those mismatched eyes, and ignored that crooked nose.
“Let us presume at war,” and Tyrion raised a brow.
“A different war,” he clarified, getting the joke.
“And after that war, you must fight another war, against a new enemy and another one after that,” and that seemed to pique his curiosity.
“So many wars?” and he nodded refusing to be distracted.
“Your second enemy has a rather deadly weapon at their disposal. One that, given time, could turn the tide of war in their favor. But this weapon is also of great importance to you. If you could obtain them, it could turn the tide of the third war in your favor,” and now the little dwarf was rubbing his chin, a frown marring his disfigured face.
“It seems unlike any riddle I have ever heard,” and his gaze narrowed, trying to probe his intention.
“Now the riddle is that you can remove this weapon altogether. Robbing both the second army and yourself of its use, increasing your chances of winning the second war...”
“But diminishing your chances of winning the third one,” and he was quick to figure it out.
“Very interesting, though why don’t you simply steal this secret weapon from the second army?” and he had considered it, yet the task was nearly impossible, and even the assassination was possible for but a short interval.
And he stared at the red comet flying through the clear skies and reminded himself that magic filled the air once more, and the dragons fed on magic more than sheep.
“That is out of the option. Your only two options are to end this weapon, or take a chance and risk your lives...”
“Well, in that case, my answer is rather simple....” But before he could say anymore, the heralds blew their horns, as they both turned towards the gates, as the men began to run rather than walk, and the walls began to be manned and armed.
“Renly’s armies are here...”
0000
EDDARD STARK
He had never thought he would ever witness such chaos again after the Rebellion. No, he had prayed that he may never witness such chaos again, but the Gods had rubbished his prayers. They had made a mockery of them and had forced him to live in another war and another lie.
Jon had made his choice, and so had Cregan, and once more, Eddard was forced into accepting the choices of his blood. Yet he could not carry all these burdens. Not anymore.
He regretted the day he had accepted Robert’s offer of becoming the Hand. Regretted the day he had thrust his second son into this den of deceit and treachery.
The capital had changed his son, changed him into a political enemy, who much like the rest of the people here had the ability to smile, even as he slit your throat from the shadows.
It was shameful, but he could hardly begrudge him for his change, for Cregan thought it necessary for survival. And perhaps it was.
But Eddard was no such man. He grew tired of these games and ploys. He missed his girls, his children, his home, and his wife. Though the last one would never return to him, he still had the opportunity to cherish the rest.
And he planned to take it.
The capital had already poisoned his son in a way, but he had decided that he would ingest no more of it. As soon as the war was over and stability had come to the realm, he intended to resign and leave for Winterfell once more.
He would be abandoning his son, yet Cregan was now a man grown. One who had endured the horrors and tests of war itself. Even here, as he thought of it, his actions until today had most been according to his advice.
It was betrayal, no doubt. But he had no choice. He could stand this stench of treachery and disloyalty no more.
“My lord, they are here,” came the whispers of a servant, and he nodded.
“I will be there,” and so he hardened his heart and pinned the badge once more as he left his solar and headed for the throne room, and the torches were dull and the servants nervous, as he entered the room from the side door, and saw the small retinue waiting for him.
The old knight he recognised rather easily. The man was a smuggler, one who had smuggled onions to Storms’ End during the rebellion, bringing them sustenance when their garnaries and storages had run out.
In many ways, he was the reason that the Rebellion had succeeded in the first place. For if Storms’ End had fallen, then Robert would not have put down his hammer in a second to save the lives of his brothers.
Brothers, who now declared themselves Kings. One of whom, he had defeated and killed in battle himself.
“My lord,” the knight bowed, and the girl beside him followed suit, her bow timid, fearful, somewhat hiding the ugly scar that ran across a side of her face.
Greyscale, he remembered. And the whole realm remembered the tale about how Stannis Baratheon’s only child had gotten afflicted by the fatal disease. The man and his lady wife had searched far and wide for a cure, but none had seemed promising.
Until a priestess from a foreign land had come. A follower of the Red God, and with her touch, the disease had frozen, and the young Lady Shireen Baratheon had survived. Scarred, but alive nonetheless.
“Where is Lady Selyse?” he asked, for the Onion Knight had been sent to Dragonstone to retrieve them both, and the man’s lips thinned, yet it was the girl who spoke up first.
“My mother, she killed herself,” and that caught him by surprise, and the girl looked up hesitantly, clearly afraid of him.
“She could not believe that the Lady Melisandrei had been wrong. That she had led father into a defeat,” and he had rumors about how the Lady of Dragonstone was a staunch follower of this foreign god and priestess.
“Are you going to kill me?” The question broke him out of his stupor, and Eddard was quick to shake his head.
“No, my lady,” he answered, trying to use the tone he used with his own two daughters whenever he was trying to reassure them.
“But my father was a traitor. And I have read what you did to Prince Aegon...” and the Smuggler was quick to halt her words as he grabbed her by the shoulder and lowered his head.
“I apologise on her behalf, my lord. Her words...” but he raised a hand and stopped him, as he sat down himself, shaken by the memories of that wretched day he had long tried to put out of memory.
Crushed babes wrapped in red cloaks. And those laughs. It still haunted him to this day.
“Those were different times, my lady. Different times and different people,” he added, trying to give her a reassuring smile.
Lannister men, he wanted to say. And it pained him to remember that these very men were going to be his kin soon.
“I swear on my honor,” and what a jape that was.
“...as both the Hand of the King, and a Stark, that no harm will come to you. You will be given chambers according to your status. You will be given guards and maids to protect you and help you,” and she seemed a bit relieved hearing that.
“Can I have him?” she suddenly asked, looking towards the Onion Knight who shook his head.
“He can guard me, and I can also teach him to read in that time,” the knight was already on his knees.
“Forgive me, my lord. She is naiv...”
“Yes, if you desire so,” and for the first time, the Lady Shireen smiled, and the knight was clearly surprised by his words.
“Ser Davos can stay with you if you say so,” and she nodded, smiling at him.
“Thank you, my lord,” and after a small discussion about the arrangements with the Old Knight, he sent them away, and just as the darkness had begun to spread, guards rushed into his solar.
“My lord! My lord!”
“What happened?”
“You need to see this....”
.
.
.
And he was taken to one of the rooms on the upper floors, one to which he had confined Theon Greyjoy to punish him for his father’s actions. Yet as he entered the room, he found it empty, as he raged at the guards outside.
“Close the ports and the gates, and scour the city. Find me Theon Greyjoy!”
0000
“It’s too late,” a drunk Renly Baratheon whispered to Loras, as he took another sip of the wine he had called for. Unlike his brother, he had never been much fond of getting drunk, yet he hoped that the vintage could help bring him some of his deceased brother’s courage.
After all, it was a certainty that at dawn tomorrow he would be riding to his death.
“You cannot say that,” Loras tried to reassure him, holding his face as Renly chuckled, trying to capture that face into his memory.
“The war is not over, yet,” but it was. It truly was, and the entire army knew it. They were trapped on all sides, and had nowhere to retreat.
“It is over, Loras. We have lost,” and he chuckled as he took another sip of his wine, yet got only more drunk, finding none of the courage he so sought.
And Loras knew that as well.
“We could run. You, me and my sister. The Riverlands are vast,” and he shook his head.
“I will not run like a coward,” though he was one. He always had been.
“We could bend the knee. The Starks are honorable. Eddard Stark would understand, he would offer us the chance to go to the Wall...” and live a life of celibacy in that frigid cold.
No. Renly had lived a coward’s life, basking in the shadow of Robert’s bravery. But he would not die like a coward.
“I will fight, Loras. I will not flee,” he announced, as he pulled him into his bed, any fear of being seen was erased by the death waiting for him on the battlefield tomorrow.
“What are...”
“I never wanted the throne,” he whispered sweetly to his Loras, taking another mouthful of the wine.
“I just wanted you...”
.
.
.
And as the Sun rose, it was Renly’s Queen who entered his tent. The guards frowned at the sight of her, and just as she entered the tent, a gut-wrenching scream tore through the clearing, and the battle ended even before a single sword was drawn.
0000
Comments
Sula
Thanks for the chapter, but I do have to wonder if you ever improve your dialogues. You've written hundreds of thousands words of stories and yet you still write like this: “It seems unlike any riddle I have ever heard,” and his gaze narrowed, trying to probe his intention. This is not a proper way to write a direct speech. You can't just write "and" after spoken words that end with ",". Either write: “It seems unlike any riddle I have ever heard,” Bob said and his gaze narrowed, trying to probe his intention. or “It seems unlike any riddle I have ever heard.” His gaze narrowed, trying to probe his intention. Furthermore: "his gaze narrowed, trying to probe his intention." => WHO is he? His gaze and his intentions? Use names or other descriptors when it's unclear. “So many wars?” and he nodded refusing to be distracted. => Who is "he"? Tyrion or Cregan? A reporting clause after the direct speech is used to tell the reader who is speaking. DO NOT use it to describe how other character reacted or what they did. Use new line for that if you must. This is proper way to format it: “So many wars?” He nodded refusing to be distracted.
f_2004_nashef
Oh damn... thx for the chapter
StoicPrince
Exceptional chapter! Thank you.
FallenMetalGod
Thank you. I always enjoy the conversations between Cregan and Tyrion. Reading about those two working together while having intelligent conversations during wars was always interesting. I am glad that Shireen is alright and so is Davos. Those two always got the short end of the stick on everything. Great job, and I am curious what happened to Renly and Loras. I can't wait to see what happens next.
Radiant Tiefling
Thank you for the chapter.
