[170] The Price of Pride

Chapter 170: The Price of Pride

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The morning sun cast long shadows across Winterfell's courtyard, where Catelyn Stark knelt in fresh snow, her hands steadying little Eddard as he took wobbling steps toward his sister. The boy, barely two namedays old, giggled with each uncertain movement, his chubby fingers gripping hers with surprising strength.

"Look at you, my brave wolf," she cooed, her voice warm despite the chill that seemed to seep deeper into her bones with each passing winter. "Just like your father at that age."

Lyanna, four years old and already showing her mother's Volantene features mixed with Stark solemnity, clapped her hands. "Grandmother, he's doing it! Eddie's walking!"

Such simple joys, Catelyn thought, watching her grandchildren play. In times like these, we must treasure them.

The last few years had aged her in ways that had nothing to do with time. The knowledge of what approached from beyond the Wall sat in her chest like a stone. Jon's arrival with the wildlings had only confirmed what the ravens whispered.

Winter was here, and it brought death itself.

Little Eddard tumbled into the snow with a delighted squeal, and Catelyn scooped him up, pressing kisses to his cold-reddened cheeks. The boy smelled of milk and innocence, of everything worth protecting in this world.

Then the shadow fell.

It swept across the courtyard like nightfall compressed into a heartbeat. Lyanna screamed, not in fear but in wonder, pointing skyward with the uninhibited excitement only children possessed. "Dragon! Grandmother, dragon!"

Catelyn's blood turned to ice water. She clutched Eddard tighter, her body moving instinctively to shield both children as the impossible beast descended.

Rhaegal had grown.

When she'd last seen the jade dragon, he'd been large as a house. Now he dwarfed the great hall itself, each wing capable of sheltering a hundred men from rain. Scales that once gleamed like emeralds now held depths of color that shifted between jade and shadow, each one the size of a shield. His eyes burned with intelligence that made her skin crawl, not the cunning of an animal but something far older, far more terrible.

The dragon landed with surprising delicacy for something so massive, his claws finding purchase in the ancient stones without destroying them. Steam rose from his nostrils in the cold air, creating writhing phantoms that danced and died in the morning light.

And sliding down from that monstrous back, moving with the liquid grace of a predator perfectly at ease, came the Dragon King.

Viserys Targaryen looked exactly as he had years ago, yet completely different.

The same silver-white hair, now worn longer, braided in a style that recalled Old Valyria. The same violet eyes with their vertical pupils that marked him as something beyond human. But he was larger now, for one. Taller and bulkier. Where before he'd carried himself with the arrogance of new power, now he moved with the casual confidence of someone who'd grown so far beyond his enemies that even considering them took effort.

He wore black leather that seemed to drink light, scaled in patterns that matched his dragon's hide. No crown adorned his head. He didn't need one. Power radiated from him like heat from a forge.

His eyes found hers across the courtyard, and his lips curved in that smirk that haunted her dreams. The same expression he'd worn that night, when he'd...

"Lady Catelyn." His voice carried despite the distance, those strange harmonics making her teeth ache. "Has it been two years already since Sansa and I last visited? You’re still as lovely as I remember. Motherhood and grandmotherhood suit you well."

She found her voice, though it came out steadier than she felt. "Your Grace. We weren't expecting you."

"No?" He strode toward her with that inhuman grace, and she fought the urge to step back. "Your son sent a rather urgent raven. Something about the end of the world? I do apologize for not bringing Sansa. I came in rather a rush, and she's busy with her latest project. Something about establishing a dozen schools for smallfolk children. You'd be proud."

The casual mention of her daughter, delivered with that knowing smile, made her jaw clench. He knew exactly what memories he was evoking. At least, the way Sansa had looked at him during that last visit meant that the girl was happy with her marriage.

"Uncle Dragon!"

Before Catelyn could stop her, Lyanna had broken free and run toward Viserys with the fearlessness of a child who'd only heard stories of dragons, never seen their terrible reality. The king's expression shifted, something almost human flickering across his features as the little girl attached herself to his leg.

"Hasn’t it been a while, little wolf?" He crouched down, bringing himself to the child's level.

"You remember Lyanna!” the little girl chimed. She was named after her aunt who had involuntarily brought down the previous Targaryen regime. The girl's honesty was devastating in its innocence. "Is that really your dragon? Can I touch him?"

Last time they had come on Viserion’s back, so Lyanna didn’t remember. Plus, she was just two back then. It wasn’t unusual for her to forget.

"Perhaps later, if your father agrees." Viserys glanced up at Catelyn, and she saw amusement dancing in those impossible purple eyes. "Your grandmother looks ready to snatch you away from the big bad dragon."

"Mm? You're not bad," Lyanna declared with the certainty of childhood. "Bad people don't smile like that."

Oh, sweet child, Catelyn thought. If only you knew what that smile hides.

The doors to the great hall burst open, saving them from further conversation. Robb emerged with Jon at his side, both still adjusting sword belts, clearly having armed themselves the moment the dragon was spotted. Behind them came the lords who'd remained after hearing Jon's testimony. Greatjon Umber, Maege Mormont, Galbart Glover, and others whose faces bore the grim determination of men preparing for war.

"Your Grace," Robb said, offering a bow precisely calibrated to show respect without subservience. The King in the North to the Dragon King, acknowledgment between equals that fooled no one. "Thank you for answering our call so quickly."

"How could I not?" Viserys rose from his crouch, gently disentangling himself from Lyanna's grip. "Though I confess, your letter was somewhat... dramatic, brother-in-law.”

“Was it?”

“The dead rising, walls of ice falling, armies of winter marching south. One might think you'd been drinking too much of that swill you northerners call ale."

Jon stepped forward, and Catelyn saw her late husband's brooding intensity in his dark eyes. "You know it's true. You've known for years. Why else send the dragonglass?"

"Ah, the famous Jon Snow." Viserys studied him with the interest of a maester examining a particularly fascinating specimen. "The bastard who became Lord Commander,  and now the King of the Wildlings. You interest me somewhat."

"Your Grace," Jon's voice carried barely controlled anger, "with respect, this isn't a jest. The Night King's army numbers in the hundreds of thousands. Every person who falls rises to fight for them. If we don't stand together..."

"Then the North falls," Viserys finished, his tone shifting to something almost bored. "Yes, yes, I've heard this song before. Fire and ice, living and dead, called the great war for the dawn. The Red Priestess was moaning last night about it, too. Very poetic."

"...Then you'll help us?" Robb asked, hope creeping into his voice.

Viserys laughed, and the sound made several men reach for their swords before remembering who they faced. "Help? Oh, Your Grace, you misunderstand. I'm here to tell you to fight your best. Give them everything you have. Every sword, every spear, every drop of northern blood you can muster."

The silence that followed could have choked a giant. Catelyn saw the confusion on Robb's face morph into something darker.

"You're not going to fight?" Jon's voice cracked like ice breaking. "You have three dragons! You have the power to..."

"To what? Risk my children against an enemy I've never properly studied?" Viserys examined his nails with theatrical casualness. "My dragons aren't immortal, Lord Snow. Neither am I, despite what the stories say. I'd much rather observe how this enemy fights, learn their weaknesses, before I commit my forces."

"Observe?" Greatjon Umber couldn't contain himself. "You'd watch us die for your education?"

“Watch your tone, Lord Umber. Recall who you speak to.” He said, and those vertical pupils contracted to slits. Men paused at his gaze. "Would you charge blindly into battle without scouting the enemy first? Or has northern strategy devolved to 'hit it with an axe and hope for the best'? I’m a king. Not of the North, but of the rest of the Kingdoms. Is it wrong to put my kingdom’s interest before you guys?"

"People will die," Robb said quietly, his king's voice carrying the weight of responsibility. "Thousands. Tens of thousands."

"Exactly. That’s not a great number, is it? The North is barren compared to the other lands." Viserys waved a dismissive hand. "What, perhaps a million souls in total? The losses will be manageable."

Manageable. The word hung in the air like a curse. Catelyn felt rage building in her chest, hot and pure. This creature who'd taken everything, who'd used her in ways that still made her wake gasping in the night, now spoke of northern lives like counting coins.

"Unless," Viserys continued, his voice carrying a different note now, silk over steel, "the North returns to the fold. Bend the knee, Lord Stark becomes Lord Stark again instead of playing at king, and my dragons fight from day one."

The trap revealed itself with elegant simplicity. Submit or die. The choice every Targaryen had offered since Aegon first landed.

"You bastard," Jon growled, hand moving to Longclaw's hilt.

"Technically legitimate, actually. My parents were married." Viserys grinned, showing teeth that seemed sharper than they should be. "But I understand the sentiment."

He moved then, faster than human eyes could properly follow, and suddenly he stood before Robb's children. His hand settled on little Eddard's head, still in Catelyn's arms, gentle as a father's touch.

"Such beautiful children," he murmured, and Catelyn's heart stopped. "The future of House Stark. Would be a shame if that future ended in ice and darkness."

"Don't you dare threaten..."

"Threaten?" He looked genuinely puzzled. "Lady Catelyn, I'm offering salvation. Your people’s pride or your family's survival. Seems a simple choice to me."

His fingers ruffled Eddard's dark hair, and the boy laughed, reaching for the strange man with silver hair. The innocence of it made Catelyn want to scream.

"Think about it," Viserys said, stepping back. "You have, oh, let's say three days before the dead reach Winterfell's gates? Should be enough time to decide whether northern independence is worth northern extinction."

He turned, his cloak swirling like liquid night, and walked back toward Rhaegal. The dragon lowered his massive head, and Viserys mounted with that boneless grace that marked him as something other than human.

"Oh, and Catelyn?" He looked back, and his smile held memories she'd tried so hard to bury. "You look tired. You should rest more. Sansa and I both will be saddened to see you growing old."

The implications in those words, the promise and threat intertwined, made her skin crawl. He knew she still dreamed of that night, that she hoped to live it again. He knew and enjoyed the knowledge.

Rhaegal's wings unfurled, casting the courtyard into shadow once more. With a sound like thunder, the dragon launched skyward, taking the Dragon King away as suddenly as he'd come.

The silence he left behind felt heavier than mountains.

"Seven hells," Greatjon finally muttered. "That's our salvation?"

"That's our damnation," Jon corrected, his face grim. "Either way, we pay his price."

Catelyn looked down at her grandchildren, at little Eddard still reaching toward the sky where the dragon had vanished, at Lyanna asking excitedly when the uncle dragon would come back.

What choice do we have? she thought, remembering those violet eyes, that cruel smile, the casual way he'd weighed their lives against Robb's crown. What choice did we ever have against dragons?

****

The familiar scent of King's Landing hit me before Rhaegal's claws touched stone. It was fine flowers, smoke, and the peculiar sweetness of too many bodies pressed too close together.

Home sweet home.

The dragon settled onto the courtyard with surprising delicacy, probably sensing my mood. Even monsters knew when to tread carefully.

I'd barely dismounted when a flash of auburn caught my eye. Sansa rushed across the stones, her blue skirts hiked up in a way that would've scandalized her old septa. The panic in her Tully-blue eyes told me everything I needed to know about what she'd heard.

"D-did you see Robb's letter?" The words tumbled out before she'd even reached me, breathless from running. "I heard you went to Winterfell. What did you talk about?"

I kept walking toward the keep's entrance, letting my longer stride force her to half-jog beside me. "I asked them to kneel."

The sharp intake of breath beside me was almost musical. Sansa stopped dead for exactly three heartbeats before her footsteps resumed, faster now, angrier.

"You asked them to– Viserys! Really?! Come on, that's my brother! My family! How could you use the White Walkers as leverage against–"

"Would you prefer I let them die nobly?" I didn't slow my pace, guards scrambling to open doors ahead of us. "Very Stark-like, dying for honor. Your father would approve."

"I… Viserys! That's not fair!"

"Fair?" I let amusement color my voice. "Your brother crowns himself, breaks from my protection, then expects me to rush north with dragons the moment things get difficult? That's your definition of fair?"

Her hand caught my arm, surprisingly strong for such delicate fingers. "They're facing the apocalypse! We are too!"

"So dramatic. It's an army of corpses, not the void itself." I finally stopped, turning to face her properly. The corridor stretched empty around us, servants having mysteriously vanished at our approach. Smart of them. "Besides, they have three days to decide. Plenty of time for northern stubbornness to wrestle with northern survival instincts."

"T-three days?" Horror painted itself across her features. "The dead will reach Winterfell in three days?"

"Give or take. Depends on whether they stop to recruit more villages along the way." I resumed walking, enjoying how her moral outrage battled with practical concern. "Don't look so stricken. Your brother's not stupid, just proud. He'll kneel."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because he has children now. Amazing how tiny humans make even kings reconsider their priorities."

****

A couple hours later, I was in the chair of my solar and let out a sigh. The papers in my hand weren’t important. I was rather busy thinking about the game's next moves.

I relaxed into my chair, putting the accumulated paperwork across the mahogany surface while trying to focus on trade agreements that suddenly seemed pointless when ice zombies marched south.

A wet, warm sensation around my cock dragged my attention downward. It reminded me that I wasn’t the only one working here.

"Comfortable down there?" I asked the space beneath my desk.

Ros pulled back just enough to speak, her lips swollen and glistening. "You've been busy with others these days. Girl gets lonely." She punctuated the statement by swirling her tongue around my tip in a way that made my breath catch.

"Careful now. That almost sounds like sentiment. Wouldn’t it be scandalous to fall for your King?"

"Oh, please, I’m not in the mood for silly banters. I just need this down my throat…" She took me deep again, her throat working in ways that would've made her fortune in any pleasure house from here to Yi Ti. Not that she needed to work brothels anymore. My Mistress of Whispers had found far more interesting uses for her talents.

I tried to focus on the parchment before me. Something about grain shipments from the Reach. But the words swam as Ros demonstrated why she'd been worth elevating from whore to spymaster. Her technique had only improved with years of exclusive practice.

A soft hum escaped me as she did something especially creative with her tongue.

She withdrew slightly, green eyes studying me with unusual intensity. "You're bothered. The documents shouldn't be that complicated."

The laugh that bubbled up held genuine mirth. "Haven't read a single line yet."

A frown creased her brow, an oddly endearing expression while my cock rested against her cheek. "Are you… nervous, maybe? The White Walkers do sound crazy."

"Nervous about corpses?" I threaded fingers through her red hair, copper bright in the afternoon sun. "Sweet girl. I’m not. Just considering how to handle Sansa's inevitable tantrum about the North."

She gave me a look that said volumes about what she thought of my family management skills, then returned to her task with renewed vigor. Despite her previous profession, this woman had always been competitive, even if she hid it well. As if to say, ‘you’re thinking about another while I’m doing my best to please you?’

In hindsight, it was a rude thing to do, indeed.

Three knocks echoed through the door. Formal. Precise. Maester-like.

"Enter," I called, not bothering to adjust my position. It wasn’t someone important anyway. Even if they were, they’d learn that the Dragon King's schedule bent for no one.

Samwell Tarly shuffled in, chains clinking with each movement. The Citadel's little joke. Sending me their disappointment when I'd demanded youth over tradition after firing that old fucker. They had no idea they'd handed me one of the few genuinely brilliant minds in their entire organization.

"Uh… Your Grace." He kept his eyes carefully averted from my desk, though the flush creeping up his neck said he knew exactly what was happening below it. "Another raven arrived from Winterfell."

His fingers trembled slightly as he extended the small scroll. Interesting. That hesitation spoke a lot. He’d not only come here to hand over that parchment, but also say something.

Before he could make such a mistake, I should at least warn him.

"Going to advocate for your friend Jon Snow, Samwell?" The mana flowed through me like warm honey, invisible threads wrapping around the parchment and pulling it from his grip without my hand moving an inch. His eyes widened. He'd never seen me do that before. "Don't. I'm aware of your friendship, but don't try to manipulate me, Maester."

Sam swallowed hard. "I wouldn't presume…"

"Good." The seal broke with a thought, another little mana trick I'd been perfecting. The words inside made my lips curve into something predatory.

I, Robb of House Stark, do hereby acknowledge Viserys of House Targaryen as my rightful king and...

I didn’t bother reading more. My free hand found Ros's head, fingers tightening as satisfaction rolled through me in waves. The groan that escaped held layers. Pleasure, triumph, and something darker that made Sam step backward. Ros moaned for me as if sharing my feelings.

"Perfect," I muttered, spending myself down Ros's eager throat while she swallowed with practiced ease.

Victory tasted sweeter when seasoned with submission.

"My sister," I said to Sam, who looked ready to flee. "Have you summoned her from Essos, as I asked?"

"The ravens were sent, Your Grace. Queen Daenerys should receive them within days."

Good. The board was almost set. The North had bent rather than broken, choosing survival over pride. Now came the interesting part. The Targaryens and their dragons, against the White Walkers and their wights.

"That will be all, Maester."

Sam fled with admirable speed for someone his size. The door clicked shut, leaving me alone with Ros, who emerged from beneath the desk looking entirely too pleased with herself, fluid dripping down her lips.

"The North submitted?" she asked, reading my expression with the skill that made her invaluable.

"They always do, eventually." I tucked myself away, already considering the next dozen moves. "Pride makes for beautiful last words but poor shield walls against the undead."

"You could have helped them without the ultimatum."

"Could have." I stood, moving to the window where King's Landing sprawled in all its filthy glory. "But where's the lesson in that? This is the best and easiest time to get the North return under the fold without them getting prideful and resisting. You grew up there, so you’d agree, no? The North needs to remember they're part of something larger. This reminder will last generations."

Ros hopped on my lap, resting her head against my chest, her warmth pressing against me. "Yeah, yeah. You were going to save them anyway."

"...Obviously. Can't rule ashes and ice." I wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. "But they'll remember who saved them. And more importantly, they'll remember the price of defiance."

Sometimes mercy required cruelty first. The North would survive because I allowed it, not because they deserved it.

And that, more than any crown or title, was what made me king.

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