Author's Note:
Hey guys, just wanted to quickly let y'all know im going to keep the previous Q&A chapter up so y'all can go back to it and comment at any time, and so I can read y'all's comments as well. Hope y'all enjoy the chapter!
[Road to the Red Keep, King's Landing, Late 8th Moon, 298 AC]
The morning heat clung to King's Landing like a sickness. Even at dawn, the air stank of smoke, dung, and the endless tide of humanity that washed through the crooked streets. Dorren Snow tugged at the gorget beneath his mail shirt, cursing softly under his breath. The armor was well-forged northern steel, but it had been made for clean air and cold winds, not the sweltering mire of the south.
Shadow padded beside him, the great obsidian black direwolf moving silent as mist despite the cobblestones underfoot, his sapphire blue eyes roaming among the streets. Passersby shrank back into doorways, muttering prayers to the Seven as the beast's eyes fell upon them. Dorren couldn't blame them. Even he, Shadow's chosen, still felt a chill when the wolf's gaze lingered too long.
"You walk like a man being marched to his own grave," came a voice to his right.
Dorren turned to find Domeric Bolton striding easily in silk and leather, his pale face calm, expression unreadable as ever. He carried no mail today, just a sword at his hip.
"Armor wasn't made for this heat," Dorren muttered.
"Nor were wolves." Domeric's eyes flicked down at Shadow. "Yet he does not sweat."
"Shadow was born for this world," Dorren said with more pride than he intended. "The rest of us weren't."
The Bolton gave a faint smile, no doubt amused, yet not cruelly like Bolton's before him.
The two men walked along the inner ward of the Red Keep. Around them, the capital stirred awake. Gold Cloaks loitered at the gates, shifting uneasily whenever their eyes strayed too near the northern banners. Lannister men-at-arms patrolled with more arrogance, their crimson cloaks too bright against the rough stone. Dorren's hand drifted toward the pommel of his sword whenever they passed.
"Easy," Domeric murmured. "Not every look is a threat."
Dorren gave him a sideways glance. "In this city, every look feels like one."
[The Council Room, Red Keep]
By the time they reached the council chambers, the air was thick with sweat and tension. Uncle Ned, newly sporting his Hand pin, along with Alaric, had been summoned to sit with the king's advisors. Dorren, as his captain and newly knighted Winter Knight, was to remain outside with the other guards.
Inside, raised voices already echoed down the corridor.
"…the crown is not a purse to be opened at your whim!" That was Lord Stannis, stern as the stories told.
"And yet it empties all the same, brother," came the slurred growl of King Robert.
Dorren stood stiffly, helm tucked under one arm, Shadow sprawled at his feet like a shadow given flesh. Beside him, two Winter Guardsmen stood silent, faces hidden beneath wolf-shaped helms. On the far side of the corridor lounged a trio of Lannister guards, whispering among themselves.
Their captain, a knight with a scarred cheek, sneered openly at Dorren. "One of the Bastards of Winterfell," he said, voice carrying. "I hear you beat Ser Meryn Trant with a stick and were knighted for it."
Dorren said nothing.
One of the other Lannister men chuckled. "Perhaps the North gives their 'Northern knighthood' to kennel boys now."
Shadow's head lifted. A low growl reverberated through the hall. The laughter died instantly.
Dorren let the silence stretch before answering. "Say that again," he said softly. "And Shadow will have his meal before noon."
The Lannister knight's smirk faltered, though he did not reply.
Ser Desmond leaned near, his whisper colder than Shadow's growl. "You should have let them say it again."
Dorren ignored him, though part of him agreed.
[Later that day, Flea Bottom]
That evening, Alaric sent Dorren into the city. Whispers had reached the Winter Guard that coin was being spread among the taverns of Flea Bottom, coin to stir trouble for northern men. Alaric trusted Dorren to learn the truth.
The streets of Flea Bottom were narrow and foul, lined with leaning wooden hovels that seemed ready to collapse under their own weight. Children barefoot in the mud scattered at the sight of Shadow, shrieking in terror. Dorren could smell rot and piss in every alley.
Inside the Silver Sow, a crooked tavern near the Hook, he found what he sought.
A group of Gold Cloaks sat at a corner table, heads bent together, cups brimming with strong wine. Dorren eased onto a bench nearby, Shadow lying low beneath the table.
"…Lannister gold spends better than any wolf's silver," one guardsman muttered, sliding a pouch across the table.
Another spat. "And all they want's a scuffle? Fool's work. Northern dogs'll gut us."
The first shrugged. "Not all of us. Just the pups. Kill one, or cut him, that'll send the wolf lord back north yelping."
Dorren's knuckles tightened on his cup. He forced himself still, listening.
"Ser Jaime'll see us right," the third said. "Says the Starks are a threat, says they need humbling. We'll do it in the alleys. No ties to the Keep."
Shadow growled, a low rumble only Dorren could feel through the floorboards.
The Gold Cloaks froze, glancing around.
"Quiet, beast," Dorren murmured under his breath. He rose smoothly, leaving a coin on the table, and slipped outside before the guards could mark him.
In the alley, he breathed deep, rage seething beneath his skin. Lannister gold. Always Lannister gold.
He did not make it two streets before trouble found him.
Three shadows detached from the wall, blades glinting in torchlight. Not thieves. Killers. Their boots were too new, their eyes too sharp.
"Pretty wolf," one jeered, stepping into the path. "Pretty wolf, pretty bastard. Your lord sends his pets to the wrong streets."
Shadow bared his fangs.
Dorren drew his sword in one smooth motion. "You've one chance to leave breathing."
They lunged instead.
The first swung low; Dorren caught the strike on his blade and slammed his shoulder forward, breaking the man's nose with a crunch. Shadow leapt, tearing the throat from the second in a spray of blood.
The third hesitated. Just a heartbeat. Long enough for Dorren to drive his sword clean through his gut.
The alley was silent save for Shadow's panting.
Dorren wiped his blade on a corpse's cloak. The killers bore no colors, but their daggers were too fine for common cutthroats. Paid men. Hired knives.
He knelt by the dying man, pressing a boot to his chest. "Who paid you?"
The man spat blood. "Gold."
"Whose?"
The killer smiled weakly before pausing for a moment as if recalling something. "The lion's." Then he went still.
Dorren stood, his stomach churning. He had his answer.
[That evening, The Red Keep]
By the time Dorren returned to the Red Keep, the night was thick with heat. He found Alaric in his solar, Tempest sprawled at his feet, Cinder curled near the hearth despite the warmth.
Alaric looked up from the parchment he was reading. His icy gray eyes narrowed. "You're late."
A silence permeated between the two brothers for a moment longer before a smile crept across Alaric's face as he rose to embrace his baseborn brother.
They soon released from the embrace as Alaric sat back down, motioning for Dorren to do the same.
"I bring word worth the delay." Dorren tossed a bloodied dagger onto the desk. "Three men in Flea Bottom. Sent to provoke us. Lannister coin pays them. They wanted blood in the alleys. Ours."
Alaric's jaw tightened. He lifted the dagger, turning it in his hand. "Proof enough?"
"Their tongues said lion before they died," Dorren said. "That's all the proof we'll ever have."
For a long moment, silence stretched between them. The direwolves stirred uneasily.
At last, Alaric set the dagger down. "Then we'll tread carefully. No fights in the streets. No excuses for Robert to side with lions." His gaze hardened. "But the wolves will not be baited either. Make sure the men know it."
Dorren bowed his head. "As you command, my lord."
As he left the chamber, Shadow at his side, Dorren felt the weight of both his knighthood and his bastard name. He was no true Stark, yet he was sworn to shield them all the same. In this city of gold and knives, that oath might well be the death of him.
But he would not falter.
Not while the wolves still walked.
[The Red Keep, Training Yard, The Next Morning]
The clang of steel rang sharp in the southern sun. Dorren's mail dragged on his shoulders like a forge's weight, sweat slicking his neck beneath the gorget. The yard stank of dust and horse dung, of overripe oranges tossed aside by squires who thought fruit was a game instead of food. Dorren breathed it all in as if it were smoke.
Shadow padded beside him until he gave the silent signal. The direwolf slunk into the shade of the stables, blue eyes gleaming, watching. Always watching.
Across the yard, Smalljon was sparring with Derrick Umber, both great brutes laughing as their blunted longswords cracked together with the force of falling trees. Ser Desmond drilled a pair of younger Greycloaks, his voice precise and merciless, as though he were carving their flaws away with words alone.
And then there was Jaime Lannister.
The Kingslayer moved like silk and steel combined, his golden hair catching the sun as he toyed with a poor Man-at-arms recruit. He fought one-handed, of course, gilded lion on his shield catching every strike, mouth curled in that mocking smile he wore like another piece of armor.
"Your turn, bastard wolf?" Jaime called, his voice smooth as honey poured on a blade.
Dorren stiffened. The eyes of the yard shifted to him. His knuckles whitened on the hilt of his practice sword. "If you'll have it," he answered, his voice calm, though heat burned beneath his skin.
Jaime dismissed his current opponent with a pat on the shoulder and strode toward him, casual as if he were strolling to a feast. "I've heard much of you. Alaric's shadow, the bastard knight of the North." He tilted his head. "They say you beat Ser Meryn Trant half-senseless, if only i were there to witness it," he said, almost trailing off for a second before regaining his composure.
"I beat him until he yielded," Dorren said. "He had no sense to begin with."
A ripple of laughter came from the Winter Guard. Jaime's smile sharpened. "Then let us see if the North breeds better swords than the Kingsguard."
They squared off. The yard fell silent. Dorren set his feet wide, blade before him. Jaime's eyes glittered like sunlight on water, hard, dazzling, impossible to grasp.
The first clash rattled Dorren's bones. Jaime struck fast, faster than any man Dorren had faced, his shield battering forward, blade darting for openings. Dorren parried, rolled, struck back hard enough to numb his own arms.
Jaime laughed, light as summer rain. "Good! You're not entirely wolf pup, then."
Dorren forced the words between clenched teeth. "I'm no pup."
Strike after strike, Dorren gave ground. Jaime's swordplay was artistry, each motion flowing to the next. Dorren's style was Northern steel, blunt, brutal, made to break bone through mail. He could feel the difference: southron grace against winter's fury.
But the yard was watching. And Shadow was watching. He would not be broken.
When Jaime pressed too close, Dorren slammed his shoulder forward. Mail ground against gilded plate, and Jaime stumbled back with a grunt. Dorren swung low, catching Jaime's shin, earning a hiss of pain before the Kingslayer twisted free and smacked Dorren's blade aside.
The fight ended when Jaime hooked Dorren's leg with his shield and sent him crashing into the dirt. The lion stood above him, golden hair radiant, swordpoint at his chest.
"Yield?" Jaime asked lightly.
Dorren met his eyes and spat blood into the dust. "This time."
Jaime laughed again and offered his hand. Dorren ignored it, pushing himself to his feet, shoulders aching but pride intact.
The Winter Guard clapped their shields together, a rumble of approval. Even in defeat, he had stood against the Kingslayer longer than most could boast. Jaime gave him a mocking bow before striding away.
Shadow slunk back to Dorren's side, brushing against his leg. The wolf's low growl said what Dorren would not: this was not finished.
[Tower of the Hand, Later]
Ned Stark's solar was small compared to the gilded chambers of the Red Keep, its only adornments the direwolf banner and a carved chest that smelled faintly of cedar. Dorren stood stiffly inside, helm tucked beneath one arm. Shadow prowled the room's edge, sniffing each corner before settling by the door.
Ned looked weary. The Hand's pin gleamed at his breast, but his face was older than it had been in Winterfell, lined with the weight of the crown's burdens. He regarded Dorren with those calm gray eyes that seemed to see through lies and into marrow.
"Alaric tells me you've been restless," Ned said without preamble.
Dorren blinked. "Restless, Uncle?"
"In the yard. In the streets. Even in the council halls. You stand as if the walls themselves are enemies."
Dorren hesitated. He had not meant to show it. "This city stinks of knives," he said finally. "The Lannisters mean us harm. They pay coin to stir trouble in the streets. Last night, I cut down three of their knives myself."
Ned's jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "Did any live to confess?"
"One," Dorren said. "He spoke of lions before he died. But no proof beyond that."
"Then we must tread carefully. Robert will not hear of Lannister treachery, not when the crown owes the Old Lion as much a debt as it does."
Dorren bit back a curse. "And we do nothing? Wait for their blades to find us?"
Ned's eyes softened. "We wait, because honor demands it. But we watch, and we endure." He paused, then added quietly, "You've done well, Dorren. Alaric was right to knight you. You are as true a Stark as any I've known."
The words struck Dorren harder than Jaime's blows had. He opened his mouth, but no answer came. Bastards were not often called Starks, not even in kindness.
At last, he bowed his head. "Thank you, Uncle."
Ned dismissed him with a nod, already turning back to the endless scrolls of the crown's debts. But Dorren carried those words with him like a hidden blade.
[The Red Keep, Outer Corridors, Dusk]
The heat of the day clung to the stone like grease. Dorren stalked the corridors, Shadow gliding at his side. The torches guttered low, shadows twisting along the walls.
It was then he noticed it, eyes. A boy in a servant's tunic, lingering too long at a corner. A washerwoman passing twice in the same hall. A man in maester's gray pausing to adjust his robes just as Dorren entered.
Spies. Birds.
Shadow stiffened, nose lifting, teeth bared at the empty air. The direwolf's growl echoed down the stone passage, and the "servant" vanished with unnatural swiftness.
Dorren swore softly. The Red Keep itself seemed to listen. Even walls here had ears.
He placed a hand on Shadow's flank, grounding himself. "We'll not be prey," he whispered. The wolf's rumble answered, a promise as old as the pack.
[That Night, Barracks of the Winter Guard]
The barracks smelled of steel oil, sweat, and northern earth still clinging to boots. A jug of Dornish red had been smuggled in, and Smalljon sloshed it into cups with careless cheer.
"To the bastard wolf," he roared, clapping Dorren on the back so hard his teeth rattled. "Knighted by Alaric himself, and already making the lions piss their silks!"
The men laughed, banging cups together. Even Ser Desmond cracked a thin smile.
Dorren raised his cup, the wine sharp on his tongue. "To the Winter Guard," he said. "To the men who keep the pack strong."
They roared in agreement. Derrick Umber began a crude song about lions being mounted by wolves, which earned both laughter and spilled wine. Shadow prowled the room's edge, content to accept scraps of meat tossed his way.
For a few hours, Dorren felt almost at ease. Among these men, he was not a bastard or an outcast. He was a brother of the guard.
[Later, Dorren's Quarters]
Sleep came fitfully. The heat pressed down like a smothering hand, and the city's noises crept even through stone walls. Dorren turned on his pallet, Shadow restless at his side.
Then the dream took him.
He was no longer man, but wolf. Shadow's muscles coiled beneath him as they ran, silent as night, through the twisting alleys of King's Landing. The city stank sharper than ever, blood, fear, gold. And among it all, he smelled lions.
Crimson cloaks moved through the dark, blades ready. He lunged, teeth snapping, tasting iron and screams. Behind him, other howls rose. He turned to see them, Tempest, silver and vast, His eyes like storms; Cinder, fiery and smoldering; Tundra, cold and unyielding. The pack was with him.
Together they tore through lions in the dark, and for a heartbeat, the city belonged to wolves.
Dorren woke with a start, heart pounding, mouth tasting of blood though he had bitten nothing. Shadow lay beside him, head raised, eyes glowing in the torchlight. The wolf's jaws dripped red in the dream, but his muzzle was clean in the waking world.
Dorren sat up, breath ragged. He wanted to dismiss it as a fever dream, a bastard's fancies. But the bond between him and Shadow throbbed in his chest like a second heartbeat.
Something was stirring.
Something older than crowns and gold, older even than walls of stone.
He pressed a hand to Shadow's thick fur, grounding himself. "We'll not be broken," he whispered.
Shadow's eyes answered, ancient and certain.