[46] Dragon Among Wolves
—
Catelyn Stark stood in the torchlit tent, her heart pounding and her posture tense like cold steel despite the layers of fur at her shoulders. A hushed ring of Northern lords surrounded her, faces lined with anger. In the center of them all stood Robb Stark, King in the North, jaw tight as he glared at his mother over the long table.
“How could you?” His voice shook, full of fury. “You set Jaime Lannister free—without my counsel, without any of my men around to stop you. Mother… do you realize what you’ve done?”
Catelyn’s stomach churned. She’d imagined this confrontation but not the raw bitterness in her son’s eyes. “I did it for Sansa,” she said, forcing a calm she didn’t feel. “And for Arya too. The Lannisters hold them hostage—”
“And the Kingslayer was our bargaining chip for that! You had no right!” Robb slammed a fist on the table, rattling the metal cups. Several lords shifted uneasily, their fury more than clear. “It’s not just about Sansa or Arya now—it’s the war, the realm itself. You threw away our biggest advantage, our only hostage who truly mattered.”
“I had no choice.” The words felt weak even in her own ears. “I am their mother, Robb. I—”
A tall, grim Northern lord—Lord Roose Bolton—cut her off coldly. “A mother’s love is fine, but an oath is sacred. There are men in this camp who’d hang you for treason, Lady Catelyn, if you weren’t the mother of our King.”
“She risked our entire cause,” another lord spat, knuckles white where he clutched the table edge. Murmurs of agreement rippled.
Catelyn’s cheeks burned. But she stood firm, gaze locked on her son. “I did what I believed was right. Hate me if you must, but—”
A sudden thunderous flapping cut through the heated stillness. The tent walls rippled as if caught in a gust. Soldiers outside began shouting, their voices taut with alarm. The entire assembly froze. Robb’s gaze flicked to the tent flap, his rage temporarily displaced by confusion.
“What in the name of the gods—?” Lord Umber growled, already turning to unbar the tent entrance. Even Catelyn was startled. What could cause such a strong wind?
Robb drew himself up. “Everyone, with me,” he ordered, stepping forward. Catelyn followed close behind, ignoring the sidelong looks that still bristled with condemnation.
They emerged into the twilight of the camp, the sky a smoky purple. Men raced between tents, some brandishing spears or crossbows, while others simply stumbled in awe. Above them, wings glinted golden in the torchlight. Everyone froze on their feet.
A dragon—a golden dragon—hovered overhead, large wings flapping slowly.
Its roar was a thunderous boom that rattled every shield and quickened every heart.
Catelyn felt her stomach turn cold. Had she gone mad? Was she seeing things? But everyone around her also stared in awe at the sky. She’d heard stories of Targaryen dragons from her great-grandfather’s time, but to see one like this—alive, wings beating the air—seemed a nightmare made real. Around her, voices tumbled into panic and she felt her own forehead go cold.
“F-form ranks!” a deep-voiced warrior shouted. “Archers, to the ready!”
“No!” Robb’s shout cut through the din. His eyes narrowed on the creature, and his voice thundered with command. Cat’s head snapped to her son. What was he saying? “Hold your fire—look there!” He pointed at the dragon’s back.
The silhouette of a girl’s cloak flapped in the beast’s slipstream. Catelyn’s heart seized as recognition dawned. It was… “Oh, the Seven, it’s Sansa!”
The massive dragon lowered itself, stirring wind across tents and scattering embers from campfires. Soldiers scrambled back, aiming shaky pikes and trembling bows. Then, in a great rush of air, the beast landed, claws digging into the earth. It folded its wings with a deep, rumbling snort.
Two figures slid down from the dragon’s flank. Everyone stared at the stupidity that they saw. But Cat’s motherly eyes only focused on one figure, who took off her robes to reveal red hair. The first was indeed Sansa, hair disheveled and cloak half undone. Catelyn let out a broken gasp, tears springing to her eyes. She rushed forward without thinking, arms flung wide.
“Sansa!”
Her daughter stumbled into her embrace, sobbing breathlessly as she called, “Mother?! Oh, Mother, it’s you!” Catelyn cradled Sansa’s cheeks, relief and shock tangling in her chest. She drew back only to look Sansa over, her eyes brimming with both joy and pain.
Meanwhile, the second figure—tall, armor-clad, hair silver as moonlight—stood a half-step behind Sansa, watching. Catelyn hadn’t calmed down, but she shot him a glance, feeling her eyes tremble.
He looked uncannily like the portraits of Rhaegar Targaryen, the fallen prince of old. Cat had met the man before, but it’d been almost two decades since. She couldn’t be sure if it was the real deal.
The Northern men leveled a row of blades and spears toward him, forming a circle of steel. Catelyn kissed Sansa’s forehead, then turned to him again, heart still pounding. “W-who is that man—?”
She asked, and instead of responding, Sansa broke from her arms, stepping between the circle of weapons and the silver-haired stranger. “Wait!” she cried, voice shaking as she raised her arms. Her gaze darted anxiously to Robb, who stood near with his sword half-raised. “Robb, tell them to lower their weapons. Please, he saved me! I’d be dead—worse than dead—if it wasn’t for him. He’s not our enemy!”
The men exchanged dark glances, uncertain. Robb’s eyes flickered to Sansa, then the Targaryen look-alike, fury and caution warring on his features. “Sansa, step aside,” he commanded, voice taut. “You don’t know what you’re protecting. If he is truly what our eyes tell us he is… some ghost… some twisted magical shadow, he can’t be trusted!”
“I haven't been bewitched,” she countered, tears on her cheeks. “Trust me, brother. He’s here to— he wants to discuss terms. Political terms. Please, just hear him out. Let him speak.”
Silence clamped down on the camp. Dozens of Northern soldiers watched, knuckles white on spearshafts, as Sansa stood quivering in front of the Targaryen, refusing to move. Catelyn trembled, torn between maternal instincts and dread of the name that was Targaryen.
Robb finally lowered his sword, though not by much. His glare never left the stranger. “No one move, and don’t attack him unless he does first,” he commanded, voice ringing with authority. “We’ll see what this… ghost of Rhaegar wants.”
A hush fell over the camp, broken only by the restless stir of the dragon behind them, its breath a low hiss in the chill night.
****
I sat in the tent’s quiet shadows, cuffs biting into my wrists, as I enjoyed the amusing situation. They dared point weapons at me when a dragon stood behind me. What fools. I’d have killed half of them just to set an example if I wasn’t here for politics.
The makeshift table before me stood mostly empty, save for a flickering oil lamp. Now and then, I heard the soft commotion of footfalls and hushed voices outside—this Northern camp was restless around me, mistrust bleeding through every canvas seam.
I waited, wondering when the Northern Lords would be done with their meeting when the tent flap rustled, and Sansa slipped inside, clutching a small tray of food. Two guards stepped in on her heels, eyes darting warily between her and me. She paused and faced them, lifting her chin with surprising resolve.
“Please, stay outside,” she said quietly. “If he meant me harm, he’d have done so earlier. And if he decides to hurt me now, trust me, I doubt the two of you could stop him.” Her voice caught as she added, “Don’t make me look more pathetic before him, please.”
The guards hesitated as they exchanged silent glances, then bowed their heads in reluctant compliance. They stepped back out, letting the tent flap close. Sansa turned, eyes falling on mine.
She approached, placing the tray of stew and bread on the table. We said nothing for a beat. She eyed the chains circling my wrists, then met my gaze. “You… you have food now,” she murmured. “I thought you might be hungry.”
A small smile tugged at my lips. “I appreciate it,” I said, observing her as she shifted. I thought she might sit across from me for a moment, but with a sudden decision, she dragged the chair around and settled beside me instead. Her eyes lingered on my bound hands.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice wavering. “I never imagined they’d treat you like this—not after you brought me home. On dragon back, no less.”
I let out a soft laugh. “I’ve been thinking the same, actually. It’s amusing, isn’t it? But if you think about it, it’s hardly surprising. I arrived unannounced in their camp with a golden dragon, wearing Rhaegar’s armor. It’d be madness not to chain me.”
“Well…”
I tilted my head, giving her a curious look. “I’m more surprised they let you in here alone,” I raised my bound hands, putting a finger under her chin and raising it. “What if I end up devouring you instead of the food?”
She blushed, eyes flickering away and hands fiddling with the corner of the tray. “I… I insisted. They… Robb is smart enough to know you won’t harm me after bringing me here, I suppose.”
I laughed, pulling my hands back, while my gaze slid to the tent’s entrance. “By the way, what’s Viserion up to? I hope they didn’t try anything stupid with her?”
Sansa let out a quiet laugh. “They tried. Viserion wouldn’t budge. She’s right outside, apparently snoozing… or pretending, because she hisses at anyone who comes too close. Two men got their arms burnt already.”
“She never misses a chance to intimidate fools,” I said, “Besides, she’s probably anxious for me. That’s cute. I’m starting to get fond of her, you see.”
Sansa managed the faintest smile. “I don’t think you’re helpless, even if cuffs. Viserion can speak, she’ll definitely rush in if you call her. And well… I’m here. I won’t let them harm you.”
I gave her a sly look. “Are you worried for me, my lady? You’ve grown fond already? And we have barely spent two nights together….”
A blush kissed her cheeks, and she turned her face aside. “W-what?! Don’t get ahead of yourself, I’m still a proper lady!” She mumbled, but the corner of her mouth curved just a little. “Anyway, you should eat. You haven’t eaten anything since we landed.”
She pointed at the bowl of stew and paused, uncertain, as she noticed my wrists. I lifted them, rattling the chain link. “I’d love to, but my range of motion is somewhat… limited.” I offered an apologetic shrug.
Her cheeks colored deeper. With a determined nod, she scooted closer, picking up a spoonful of stew. Carefully, she lifted it to my lips. Our eyes locked, and despite her obvious embarrassment, she didn’t falter.
I sipped the warm broth, feeling an odd sense of closeness in her gesture. “Thank you,” I said gently after swallowing the first bite.
She nodded, giving me the second spoonful. This time, our gazes clung just a moment longer, and I swore she was swallowing more than just nerves. “You’re welcome,” she whispered, her voice as light as the steam drifting from the bowl.
We’d gotten maybe halfway through the meal when the tent flap flew open. Robb Stark strode in, Catelyn just behind him, followed by a knot of Northern lords. They froze at the sight. Sansa perched beside me, spoon in hand, almost feeding me like a doting nursemaid. Catelyn let out a trembling sigh, and Robb’s eyes flashed with something between fury and mortification.
“Stop this,” Robb growled. “This is embarrassing.”
A slow grin crept onto my face. “Why’s it embarrassing to feed the King of the realm, Lord Stark?” I asked. The room fell silent at that, tension crackling in the dim lamplight.
One of the Northern lords—Roose Bolton, of all people—spoke up, voice cold. “You call yourself king while wearing the armor of a dead man? Enough with the pretending. Let’s hear your true name and claim.”
I rose from the chair, chains rattling. Sansa flinched, but I stood calmly. “I don’t like the disrespect in your tone, Lord Bolton,” I said. “My name…” with a flex of my wrists, the cuffs snapped and tumbled to the ground, and I was free. “Is Viserys Targaryen. Third of my name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”
A chorus of scraping steel echoed as men drew weapons. Sansa scrambled to stand between them and me, her stance half-shielding my figure.
I gave a half-smile, trying not to sound too pompous. “It’s awkward to recite my own titles, but… my father, King Aerys II, named me heir after Rhaegar’s death, however short-lived that might have been. So please, be careful at whom you point your sword.”
Silence seized the tent. They stared, stunned.
I continued calmly, “I’ve come back to Westeros to reclaim the throne that’s mine by right, and yes—I do have a golden dragon to help. I didn’t wear this armor to mock my brother; it’s simply a homage. Rhaegar Targaryen was a fine ruler, even if his character was questionable. People assumed I was his ghost, but that’s on them, not me.”
No one spoke. Robb’s hand lowered an inch on his sword, though caution still shaped his posture. Catelyn’s eyes flicked from Sansa’s smiling form to me, worry etched in every line of her face. Around us, the Northern lords stood tense, jaws clenched, as if bracing for battle.
Whatever comes next, I noted, will reshape the realm. Before a Dragon Rider Targaryen, their so-called King in the North might just be a mere piece on the board.
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