A Wolf Among Dragons
"A man who does not prepare his walls before the storm is not a fool—he is a corpse waiting for burial." — Northern saying
(Third POV)
A week after receiving the royal summons, House Stark departed for King's Landing. Lord Rickon Stark, his wife, and their heir, Alaric, left Winterfell, entrusting the keep to Bennard Stark, Rickon's younger brother, him being Stark of winterfell. Due to their large party and the logistics involved, it had taken them the full week to prepare their departure.
During the journey, Rickon Stark shared knowledge with his son about every holding under their banner, pointing out which roads led to which lord's lands. But the true education began when they reached Moat Cailin, the ancient fortress that had once withstood entire Andal armies.
"Moat Cailin," Rickon said solemnly, gesturing to the ruins before them. "Look, Alaric. Once a mighty castle—now in ruin. This very stronghold held back the Andals thrice when they came from the south. Thrice they attacked us, and thrice they were repelled here. And now… only three towers remain of what was once two-and-ten."
"Father," Alaric asked, frowning thoughtfully, "why was it never rebuilt? Surely its position warrants restoration."
Rickon sighed. "Many tried. But the bogs make hauling stone near impossible. The winters are harsh, coins low and after Aegon's Conquest, its importance diminished. Peace made it unnecessary."
They rode on in silence after that. Once they crossed the Neck, the air grew warmer. Warm enough for them to shed their fur cloaks. The further south they traveled, the warmer it became. The trees thinned; more people appeared along the roads. The South was the North's opposite in every way: more people, more food, even the weather was gentler.
It took nearly a moon's turn to reach King's Landing. The city buzzed with festival cheer; nobles from every corner of the realm had gathered for the celebration. Even sellswords from distant Essos had come for the tourney.
(Alaric Stark POV)
It was strange being here. In my past life, I'd only ever seen King's Landing on a television screen. Now… I was standing in it. It felt surreal. I really had been born here, in this world. Seeing is believing, they say—and now that I was here, reality had finally settled in.
But strangely… I wasn't nervous. I wasn't panicking. I wasn't afraid.
When Rob told me I was being sent to Planetos, I'd been a nervous wreck. But now? That fear was gone. Curious. Looks like my templates weren't just for show. With their help, I'm sure I could accomplish anything.
But… should I?
If someone else were in my position, they'd probably start plotting to overthrow the Targaryens, to put themselves on the Iron Throne. But I don't want that. Like Cersei Lannister said: "When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die." I'm certain I could win if I played—but I have no need for that throne.
It'd take years. Bloodshed. Manipulations. And once I started, I won't be able to stop. My whole life would revolve around it. No trustworthy allies. A suffocating existence. I refuse to live like that.
Imagine: raising a snake, nurturing it… only for it to sink its fangs into you the moment you let down your guard. And believe me—it will bite. And it won't let go until you're dead. Because your survival threatens it and the people of Westeros are nothing more than snake who won't hesitate to bite the hand that fed them.
No, thank you. My condolences to those living that life.
A loud roar jolted me from my musings. I looked up—and saw a dragon. Bigger than a city itself, flying overhead.
"It's fantastic," I whispered.
"That's Vhagar," my father said, watching the sky. "Prince Baelon's dragon. Looks like the Prince is arriving from somewhere."
So that was Vhagar. About the same size as Daenerys's dragons, or maybe I am mistaken, from where I am standing every dragon is of same size.
We sat astride our horses when the gate guards waved us forward. Looks like the city was on high alert—no surprise, with nobles from all over the Seven Kingdoms gathered here. King's Landing looked just as I'd imagined: beautiful from the outside… not so much inside.
It smelled awful. Children begged for alms in the streets. Buildings were crooked, built without symmetry or plan. It seemed the Targaryens had only cared about the outer walls, shaped like the Seven-Pointed Star after the Faith… and then forgot the rest.
But from a distance, the Red Keep glistened red beneath the sun. Beautiful. They said Maegor the Cruel built it, riddled with secret passages. My knowledge of the show confirmed that. I wondered if any current nobles or spymasters still used them.
We reached the gates of the Red Keep. A servant came to greet us. Judging by his awkward bow, it was clearly his first time greeting a lord. Odd. My father is a Lord Paramount of the North. Even if the King himself couldn't greet us, he should have sent his Hand or at least a lord of similar standing. Common sense, really.
But instead… they sent someone they must've plucked off the courtyard.
"Lord Stark, welcome t'King's Landing," the servant said nervously. "M'lord Hand—Septon Barth—sent me to greet ye, beggin' pardon. He was… occupied."
Before we could enter, I asked him, "What's your name?"
"Alyn, milord."
Alyn. No noble name. Judging by his speech, illiterate. So… not only did they fail to send a noble to greet us, they sent someone who didn't even know how to properly greet a Lord Paramount.
If we'd been a lesser southern house this man would've lost his head for such an insult. And no one would have cared. Guest right wouldn't even have applied yet.
"Well, Alyn," I said quietly, "aren't you forgetting something?"
He blinked at me. "M-milord?"
"Bread and salt?"
His face drained of color. "Forgive me, milord! I weren't told—please forgive me! I'll fetch some right away!"
He dropped to his knees. Pathetic. They hadn't even taught him the basics of guest right.
"Then what are you waiting for?" I snapped. "Go. Do your duty."
He fled.
So. Septon Barth had sent him. This Septon Barth didn't seem as trustworthy as his reputation suggested. The real question was: why?
I hated not knowing things. This wasn't the show, where I at least had some knowledge of the game. Here… I had nothing. No information. No connections.
That had to change. Quickly.
Otherwise, I'd end up like another Ned Stark—trusting Littlefinger of all people.
I needed knowledge. Not just of King's Landing. Of Westeros. Essos. Everywhere.
Lelouch inside me was screaming at how blind I was walking into this.
Eventually, another man approached with the bread and salt. This one wore finer clothes, with a sigil: a yellow pall on a green field. House Hayford. A minor Crownlands house.
"Forgive us for the wait, Lord Stark," he said smoothly. "Please—take bread and salt."
Throughout this charade, my father and mother said nothing. Father simply accepted the bread and salt, shared it with me and Mother, and walked inside.
I didn't like it.
I didn't like how this minor noble brushed off the insult with no proper apology.
I didn't like how everyone around us wore gloating smiles, like we were jesters.
"Did you see the dress she was wearin'?" one lady with a long nose sneered. "Looked like rags fit for a peasant."
"Well, what'd you expect from these northerners?" another woman scoffed, laughing.
The others joined in.
I could hear them. So could my parents. But their expressions didn't shift.
I didn't like this.
The way these nobles insulted a Great House, without consequence.
The way my parents endured their mockery in silence.
The way they laughed—right to their faces.
I didn't like this. Not one bit.