ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 48: The Liberation of the Wolf
POV: Prince Eddard "Ned" Stark (303 AC)
The darkness of the Black Cells is absolute. There is no day, there is no night, only the cold stone, the smell of musty dampness, and the heavy sound of my own breathing. Most men would have gone mad in the first weeks of isolation beneath the Red Keep; others would have succumbed to the cold and hunger before the moon even changed phases. If I remained conscious, if my heart still beat in my chest with the cadence of a Northern warrior, it was thanks to the runic matrixes carved into my flesh.
The deep inscriptions on my skin, imbued with the ancient magic that my nephew Arawyn had brought back to the world, sustained my physical structure against natural decline. They pulsed beneath my epidermis with a mild, constant warmth, the sole source of life amidst that stone grave. Even weak, malnourished, and deprived of sunlight for months, I knew that if a frost-steel sword were placed in my hand at this very moment, I would still be capable of showing the knights of the South the true dread of a Prince of the North in combat.
I fumbled along the damp floor of the cell until I found the piece of rusted iron I had managed to loosen from one of the ancient manacles. With a firm, accustomed movement, I made a clean cut on my left wrist.
"— Come, Snow... eat, —" I murmured in a hoarse whisper.
My direwolf, whose dimensions once terrified the lords of Westeros, dragged himself slowly through the darkness. The animal was debilitated, his white fur losing its luster and his ribs projecting beneath his skin. Neve pressed his warm snout against my arm and began to lick the fresh blood flowing from the wound.
I watched the blood drip, noting with silent concern the unusual delay the cut took to close. In normal times, flesh magic would have stopped the bleeding in a matter of seconds. However, even my capacity for regeneration was weakened by the prolonged lack of nourishment. At the beginning of our imprisonment, Catelyn had made her intention clear to starve us to death in the shadows; we were only saved from a swift death because Lord Hoster Tully, in a final act of honor and dignity before being bedridden by the disease devouring him, personally demanded that at least one daily meal be delivered to me and my wolf.
But for several days now, the meals had ceased completely. I knew what that meant: the Lord of the Riverlands had passed away, or his illness had finally deprived him of any authority over his daughter. We were left to our own devices.
Suddenly, the sepulchral silence of the dungeons was broken.
The sharp, metallic, unmistakable sound of a war clarion echoed from up above, piercing through the layers of rock and earth. Just a few minutes later, the very floor of the cell shook violently beneath my body, accompanied by the muffled roar of a great explosion at the city.
I let out a long sigh, allowing my lips to shape a faint smile in the gloom.
"— It seems our stay in these quarters has come to an end, Snow... —" I commented softly.
It did not take long for the echo of hurried footsteps to resound down the stone staircases leading to the deepest level. For the first time in days, Neve raised his ears and tried to stand up, his yellow eyes gleaming in the dark.
The jailer on duty—a fat, brutish man who served House Tully—appeared in the corridor with a torch in one hand and a drawn dagger in the other. He advanced toward the bars of my cell with features contorted in desperation, clearly intending to use me as a hostage against the forces invading the castle. A grave mistake. Just because I had gone days without a proper meal did not mean I had become incapable of snapping the neck of a worm of his caliber.
However, my physical intervention was not necessary.
As the man took his final steps toward the locks, he stopped abruptly. His boots seemed to collide with an invisible obstacle, becoming stuck to the stone floor as if sinking into hot pitch. In the next second, a dark dust seemed to sprout from every crack in the corridor's masonry.
Thousands of insects, long-legged spiders, poisonous centipedes, and earth scorpions emerged from the darkness, surging up the jailer's legs in a grotesque wave of carapaces and stingers. The man barely had time to let out a stifled cry before being completely covered by the mystical infestation, falling heavily to the ground as the arachnids paralyzed his body.
From the shadows of the corridor, two familiar figures advanced with firm steps.
"— Father! —" Robb's voice echoed through the stone vaults.
My eldest son approached the reinforced iron bars. The young King of the Neck grabbed the thick bars with both hands and, activating the superhuman strength granted by his own combat runes, ripped the cell door from its rock hinges with a crash of tearing metal, throwing the useless structure aside.
Behind him, wearing an ornate military tunic and displaying eyes that still held the silvery glow of his pest-control art, was my youngest son. Tommen had grown, becoming a fully formed young man with broad shoulders and an upright posture that bore little resemblance to the gentle boy of years past.
I wrapped both of them in a tight embrace, smelling the iron, Northern wind, and leather emanating from their armor.
"— It is good to see you, my boys... —" I murmured, resting my hand on Robb's shoulders.
"— You need to be taken to the healing camp immediately, father, —" Robb declared, analyzing my pale features and scarred wrists. "— Your regeneration is slow."
"— No, —" I replied firmly, adjusting my worn leather jerkin and helping Neve stay beside me. "— We are going to the Throne Room right now. This war needs to be ended."
We climbed the deep staircases of the Red Keep and advanced through the reddish stone corridors. Upon entering the Throne Room, I came upon a scene of desolation and gélid triumph that told the exact story of the battle's final minutes.
The base of the hill of swords of the Iron Throne was stained with pools of recent blood. The bodies of Lysa Arryn and Catelyn Tully lay lifeless upon the stone steps. A little further to the side lay the decapitated figure of the man whose expensive robes and slender posture immediately identified him to me as Petyr Baelish—the Master of Coin who had spent his life weaving webs of intrigue for his own benefit.
Seated atop the Iron Throne—which had been entirely covered by a thick layer of twisted, runic ice—was Arawyn. My nephew wore monumental black iron armor, crowned with terrifying spikes and slits where only the gélid glow of his elemental eyes gleamed in the dark. Beside the entrance, the spearmen of Dorne and the guards of the North maintained custody over young Prince Gendry and Lord Stannis Baratheon.
"— Well... it is time to end this, gentlemen, —" Arawyn's voice resounded from behind the iron faceplate, the tone laden with an echo that made the dust on the walls tremble.
Young Gendry took a timid step forward, keeping his head low before the terrifying figure on the frozen throne.
"— Emperor Arawyn... —" the prince asked with a trembling voice. "— May I... may I at least collect the bodies of my kin to grant them a worthy burial?"
Arawyn merely made a vague, disdainful gesture with his dark-clawed gauntlet. The prince nodded to the Crown guards, but the soldiers hesitated, paralyzed by the dread of taking a single step toward the Northern monarch.
"— Pick up those corpses already, you idiots! —" Arawyn barked, his voice echoing with impatience. "— If I wanted to kill any of you right now, you would already be dead on the floor!"
The command broke the knights' paralysis. They rushed forward, collecting the bodies of Catelyn, Lysa, and Baelish. I noticed two guards carefully lifting the body of little Robert Arryn; the boy was unconscious from the sedatives, but his chest rose and fell in faint breathing. I was relieved to see that Arawyn had shown clemency toward the child of the Vale.
Arawyn's iron helm turned in my direction. The green glow through the eye slits fixed upon my weakened features.
"— So, uncle... were your holidays in the dungeons to your liking? —" he asked, his tone seasoned with sharp sarcasm.
"— No, my Emperor, —" I replied with the gravity of a warrior. "— The treatment dispensed by them was not worthy of a Prince of the North."
Arawyn let out a short laugh. It was not a sound of joy, but rather of deep, contained frustration.
"— You had the strength of the runes in your flesh, uncle... you could have drawn your sword and returned to the North without major issues, —" the Emperor declared, leaning back in the chair of ice. "— But no... you preferred to allow yourself to be captured voluntarily to 'avoid conflict', even while accompanied by Ashara, Arya, the Black Guard, and a contingent of veteran Northern soldiers. And it was because of that stubbornness of yours to be diplomatic that this war happened. And I still had to spend weeks listening to some Northern lords say that skipping your line of succession directly to Robb was a mistake."
Robb stepped forward, opening his mouth to intercede in my defense:
"— Emperor, my father only sought to protect—"
A single icy glare from Arawyn was enough to silence the young king mid-sentence. I placed my heavy hand on Robb's shoulder, signaling him to step back. Deep in my chest, I knew Arawyn was entirely right. By surrendering my sword in a naive attempt to avoid bloodshed in the South, I had merely created the perfect scenario for the Empire to be forced to march in an all-out war, costing the lives of thousands of soldiers on the front lines. My traditional honor had caused an even greater slaughter.
The sound of heavy footsteps in the corridors announced the arrival of the alliance's remaining commanders and lords.
Ser Arthur Dayne entered the Throne Room clad in his white armor, approaching me with a look of clinical inspection. The Sword of the Morning placed his gauntlet on my chest and nodded in approval.
"— Your blood still runs steady, Ned, —" Arthur commented with a restrained smile."
Right behind him, escorted by the knights of the West, advanced Jaime and Lord Tywin Lannister. And closing the march of the Northern generals, the monumental figure of Lord Jon Umber flashed a wild grin upon spotting me near the base of the throne.
"— Ned! You old, sly wolf! —" the Greatjon bellowed, his voice drowning out the court's murmurs. "— You were late for all our army strategy meetings, so I was forced to personally come to this disgusting Southern dump to drag you out of bed!"
I let out a genuine laugh, feeling the warmth of my people renew my strength.
"— Well, Lord Umber... it seems not even hiding at the bottom of the Black Cells is enough to rid me of the army's administrative paperwork, —" I joked.
The entourage of prisoners and delegates was led to the center of the hall. The spearmen of Dorne kept Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, chained by the wrists. Beside him, Lord Stannis's family remained in custody, including the red priestess who wore a firm leather gag over her mouth to prevent her imprecations. In the rear, Lord Rodrik Harlaw, his niece Asha, and Lord Paxter Redwyne observed the scene with the composure of victors of the sea.
Before I could analyze the disposition of the troops in the hall, a tall, graceful silhouette broke through the line of Western guards.
*THUD!*
I felt a sharp, painful impact against my chest plate, followed by the unmistakable touch of golden hair I had not seen in long, painful months. Cersei Lannister wrapped her arms around my neck with desperate force, digging her nails into the leather of my jerkin.
"— You foolish wolf... —" she whispered against my neck, her voice choked with a mixture of fury and unrestrained relief.
Cersei elaborated no further, nor did she care about the surprised glances of the Southern lords around us. She merely kept her face hidden against my shoulder, flatly refusing to let go of my body. I embraced her back, smelling the jasmine scent of her hair and letting out a low laugh at her stubbornness.
From the top of the ice structure, Arawyn straightened his posture in his black armor, his iron arms resting upon the frozen swords.
"— Now that everyone is properly gathered in this hall... let us begin what truly matters, —" the Emperor declared.
Arawyn turned his spiked helm toward the Lord of Dragonstone.
"— I imagine you are the man tasked with negotiating the terms of the South's surrender, correct, Lord Stannis? —"
Stannis Baratheon took firm steps until stopping at the base of the frozen throne, his jaw rigid and his teeth clenched in an expression of absolute restraint. Young Prince Gendry stepped forward and positioned himself beside his uncle.
"— Yes, Emperor Arawyn... I speak for the leadership of the Crown's forces, —" Stannis replied, his voice echoing dryly.
"— Excellent, —" Arawyn continued. "— It is a strange situation, you know? You here in the South possess absolutely nothing of territorial value that interests me. Therefore, I will not be as cruel as the late Queen Catelyn imagined. As I said before, I did not march here in search of bureaucratic justice or to annex every inch of infertile Southern land; I marched because you dared to imprison a Prince of my blood, and that is something the Winter Throne does not tolerate. Whoever planned this stupidity is already dead, and your armies have been properly decimated by my vanguards."
The Emperor pointed his gauntlet toward the imaginary map of the continent.
"— Aside from the lands of the river lords who have already sworn direct fealty to the Northern Empire, and the recognized sovereignty of the Iron Islands, the territorial matter of the South will remain unchanged. You will retain control over your remaining provinces. What do you think of these terms, Lord Stannis? And you, Prince Gendry?"
Stannis Baratheon swallowed hard. Even maintaining his wounded pride, the experienced commander understood that, despite Arawyn phrasing it as a polite question, the Northern monarch was issuing an absolute imperial decree from which there was no appeal.
"— I have no objections, Emperor, —" Stannis declared, bowing his head rigidly.
Lord Tywin Lannister took a step forward, his deep voice cutting through the hall's silence:
"— And what of the dynastic agreements previously established between our crowns, Emperor Arawyn? What will become of the blood alliances?"
"— You refer to the betrothal between my cousin Arya and young Prince Gendry? —" Arawyn questioned. "— That will depend exclusively on the will of those involved."
Young Gendry took a step forward, his cheeks flushing instantly under the attention of all the lords of the realm.
"— I... I wouldn't mind honoring the betrothal, Emperor! —" Gendry declared with a quickness that made a few Western captains let out muffled chuckles.
Arawyn uttered an amused sound from behind his helm.
"— I see the young prince replied with admirable readiness... but the fate of this union depends strictly on Arya's answer. Let me ask her directly."
The Emperor closed his eyes behind the iron slits. In the following second, the terrifying image of Arawyn's armor and body underwent a striking mystical distortion before our eyes. The color and rigidity of his body vanished completely; his figure transformed into a mass of liquid water and translucent ice held in the shape of a human body. The one sitting on the Iron Throne was not the Emperor in flesh and bone, but an elemental avatar sustained from afar.
The mass of water kept its eyes closed for a few seconds while Arawyn projected his consciousness through Greensight all the way to Winterfell. When the avatar opened its eyes again, the coloration of armor and flesh returned to the body in the blink of an eye.
"— Right, Prince Gendry... you shall have your princess, —" Arawyn announced. "— However, I will not send another daughter of House Stark to live in the South without proper security precautions."
Arawyn's avatar turned its gaze to young Shireen Baratheon, who remained huddled beside her mother. The fourteen-year-old girl bore the grey, scaly mark of greyscale on the side of her face, maintaining an extremely timid posture at finding herself the center of the court's attention.
"— What do you think of the lands of the North, my lady? —" the Emperor asked with uncommon gentleness.
Stannis Baratheon tensed his neck muscles, starting a protective reaction, but remained silent as he saw his daughter respond.
"— I... I think the North must be a truly magical place, Emperor, —" Shireen whispered with a trembling voice.
"— Then you shall get to know it in person, —" Arawyn decreed. "— Things will work as follows: the South gains a Stark Princess in the form of Arya, and the North receives a Baratheon Princess in the form of Shireen. What do you think of this exchange, Lord Stannis?"
"— Why my daughter, Arawyn? —" Stannis questioned, forgetting formal decorum for a moment.
The Emperor's avatar flashed a cold smile that showed not the slightest offense at the lack of titles.
"— Because I know perfectly well that, with your daughter residing under my protection in Winterfell, you will personally ensure that the foolish lords of the South do not attempt any new conspiracy against my Empire, —" Arawyn explained bluntly. "— At the slightest sign of treason in this capital, you yourself will cut off the conspirators' heads before I ever need to march South. If young Gendry were a spoiled, incompetent boy like Robert or Catelyn were, I would have executed him in this hall myself and placed you on the throne; but the lad has shown an honorable heart and will be a good king for his people."
With the imperial sentence handed down and the agreements sealed, the war negotiations were formally concluded.
Arawyn's avatar rose from the ice structure of the Iron Throne, accompanied by the elemental projection of Winter.
"— Well, my lords... I hope from the bottom of my heart that I never have to set foot in this disgusting city again, —" the Emperor declared, his voice echoing for the last time. "— I don't know if I'll have the patience to resist the temptation of wiping it out of existence a third time if I'm forced to return."
In the next second, hundreds of deep cracks appeared on the surface of the avatar's black armor and on Winter's coat. The elemental structure collapsed in a shower of thousands of pieces of runic ice that dissolved in the air before even hitting the stone floor, leaving the frozen Iron Throne empty at the top of the room.
I was supported by Robb, Jaime, and Cersei, who remained firmly at my side, and led out of the Red Keep premises to the main camp of the Northern forces set up on the outer plains of the city.
As I walked leaning on my son's shoulders, I caught myself reflecting on Arawyn's nature. If my nephew had been present in flesh and bone in that hall, he could have used his magic to restore my vitality and heal my wounds in a matter of seconds—just as he had done years ago when saving my sister Lyanna's life at the Tower of Joy. However, Arawyn simply chose not to do so. He had probably 'forgotten' that detail on purpose.
Upon arriving at the vanguard's medical tent, I was received by Sansa and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.
Sansa approached my bed with an expression of maternal affection, channeling her elemental water magic over my wrists and chest. Streams of purified, restorative water flowed over my skin, closing the slow cuts, cleansing the toxins of malnutrition, and returning a healthy color to my face. On the other side of the bed, Rhaenys used her own variation of vital magic to restore the energy of my direwolf, Snow, who let out a relieved whine as he felt strength return to his muscles.
I lay down upon the soft furs of the camp, feeling my body's warmth fully restore itself. Now, I had only to await the arrival of Arya and Ashara Dayne's entourage in King's Landing. I knew perfectly well that as soon as Ashara stepped into that camp and joined Cersei, the two women would organize a joint reprimand against me for having let myself be captured so stupidly in the Black Cells—a marital scolding that, to my misfortune, would be entirely deserved. But for now, closing my eyes beneath the imperial army's tent, I celebrated being alive and ready to return to my true home in the North, from where I should never have left.