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The Crippled Wolf-Stark SI: Ch.81
🕑 Added 2025-08-24 19:40:20 +0000 UTCChapter 81
VARYS
Marrying off Daenerys Targaryen to Euron Greyjoy was a bold move. The girl was no longer as young and naive as she had been when they had wed her off to that barbarian Drogo, and had begun to learn the game.
She was a novice still, but Varys had seen the emotions vanish from her eyes, watched as her words turned into half-truths and lies, as she closed herself off to him and Illyrio, growing suspicious of their actions.
Her suspicions mattered little, for she also understood that she was only alive because of them, that she lived and ate and dressed at their behest, and that if she were to push against them, raise questions, she would find herself dead or worse yet, sold off to the highest bidder.
Even now, as the boy Prince Aegon paced in front of him and Illyrio in frustration and rage, he could see the young Princess’s palms all over it.
“How can you do this?” the young boy raged at Illyrio, and for the first time since they had joined hands with the former lord of Griffin Roost, Varys saw in his eyes doubt as the boy continued at Illyrio.
“How could you decide to marry her to that monster?” and he wondered how exactly the boy had learned of their plans to marry off Daenerys to Euron Greyjoy.
“Who told you that?” Varys asked the boy, whose lips thinned at the question.
“It doesn’t matter who told me,” he lashed out.
“It matters, my boy,” Illyrio added in a soft tone, and the young Prince bit his lip as Varys asked again.
“Was it the Princess?” he asked, and the slight twitch of his eyes was answer enough.
“It doesn’t matter who told me. You are trying to marry her off to that barbarian,” he asked again, and of course they were trying to marry her off.
Euron himself was in the city and was heading to the manse right now so that they may reach an understanding about their alliance, for both him and Illyrio were running out of time, as the Iron Bank continued to pressurise their allies.
“Yours is a great purpose, my boy. A great and perilous purpose and sacrifice must be made so that we can restore you to your rightful place,” and the boy shook his head.
“But she doesn’t want to marry him. She was supposed to marry me. She loves me!” he nearly screamed, and never had the boy talked back at them like this, but it seemed like he had underestimated the girl and her abilities.
“If she loves you, truly loves you, then she should be happy to be of use to you,” Varys suggested, and saw rage burn in those amethyst eyes.
“She does not want to marry him. She loves me, and will marry me,” and if only he could see the way she gazed at him, he wondered if this was more than just the girl’s work.
“My boy...”
“I am not your boy!” and those words took aback Illyrio, as the boy’s voice rang through the room.
“I am your Prince. Your King and you will heed my words,” and he had to give her credit, for in but a few moons, the young princess had made a man out of the boy who had gained the courage to stand against them.
Illyrio was taken aback by those words, and Varys could see the betrayal and shock in his eyes as he tried again.
“You do not understand the gravity of the situation, my bo...”
“He told you, didn’t he?” and it was the Lord of Griffin Roost who spoke up now, as he joined the young Prince.
“He is not your boy. He is the Prince,” and the man’s eyes narrowed as he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“And you will listen to him,” and he knew of their plans. Was this betrayal, he wondered? Varys knew that he had to intervene, for this could get out of hand.
“Then so be it, my Prince,” he spoke up as he rose from the chair.
“But Greyjoy is set to arrive any second now,” he added.
“We shall try to convince him to change his price,” and that was all they could do.
“He is coming now,” Aegon asked in surprise, and he nodded.
“Yes,” Illyrio added, anger and frustration barely kept hidden in that tone.
“Then let me join you,” the boy Prince offered enthusiastically.
“No...”
“Let me try to convince him. I can offer him other things, lands, knighthoods, a place on my council,” and yet to a man like Euron Greyjoy none of that held much value at all.
“Perhaps later,” and the late Lord of Griffin Roost had the sense to dissuade the boy from the notion, but his mind was made as suddenly there was a knock on the door as a servant entered the room.
“My lord, we tried to stop hi...” yet before the girl could say more, another person stepped into the room, as the smell of sea and salt entered his nostrils, and Euron Greyjoy walked into the room, his hair black like raven, matching the color of the eyepatch that covered one of his eyes.
He wore a thick red doublet, along with black trousers, and the sea clung to him like everything as the man twisted his face to look at the room.
“You have gotten a taste for finer things, you little merchant,” his voice was jovial and fun, yet the whole room was on edge just because of his mere presence, before his sole blue eye landed on Aegon, as his blue lips broke into a smile.
“You must be the Prince I have heard so much about,” and even Aegon could sense the wrongness from the man, as Jon Connington stepped forward and put himself between the Greyjoy and the boy.
“Sit,” he ordered, and the Crow’s Eye did not react, as Illyrio quickly broke out of his stupor.
“Sit. Sit, we were just talking about you,” he began, and he raised a brow as he sat down on the largest sofa and reached for the bowl of fruit all by himself, and began to pick out a few grapes for himself.
“Is that so?” he asked, and that was the charisma that fooled his men, yet Varys saw madness in that gaze, as Illyrio began.
“Yes, we believe that we can reach an accord that. After all, we share a common enemy,” and the man laughed in their faces.
“Do you know what I smell in the air?” the Crow Eye began, laughing as Varys frowned.
“Smell?” Illyrio asked, and the man nodded.
“Yes, smell. They call me the Crow’s Eye, but the truth is that a sailor’s nose is even more important than his eye,” and the juices of the grape dripped down his beard, as the man continued grandly.
“It is said that a sailor could smell a storm that is a day away,” and Varys wondered what he was trying to say.
“And do you know what I smell in this manse?” he began with a smile.
“What?”
“Death...” he answered, the smile vanishing from his face in the blink of an eye.
“...And Betrayal!”
BOOOOM! BOOOM! BOOOM!
0000
EDDARD STARK
Five years Eddard had spent in the capital. In that castle filled with lies and plots at every corner, with the burden of a thousand lies and a thousand thousand lives on his shoulder.
Each day that he had served his son, he had served so while breaking a dozen promises and a dozen or so oaths, yet now he was free of those burdens—or at least free of some of those burdens.
The ride from the Moat to Winterfell had brought in just how much his own home had changed since his last visit. New roads had sprung up over land, connecting the Moat and White Harbor and other major settlements of the North, and with the roads have come new towns and inns, and a budding population.
He had not seen so many kids running around Winterfell, as the lack of famine and war left people with little enjoyment, and with the King’s continuous support for healers, the North had more children than ever.
Winterfell itself had changed as well, and all the broken towers and garneries had been repaired, and the castle now looked more majestic and powerful than it had in perhaps a thousand years. Its thick walls were manned by armed guards who all bowed to him, as he jumped off his Horse, as Robert had years ago—starting the tale that had resulted in his own death.
Jon and the rest of the castle all bowed to him as he walked forward, whispering his own words.
“Winterfell is yours,” and he had not seen his neph—son in half a decade, and the years had turned him into a man just like Robb, as he motioned for him to stand.
“Rise,” and Jon rose at his words, and Winterfell followed the Stark, as he looked him in the eye, and saw in them the steel and pride of the Starks, and though faint, he could see a glimpse of Lyanna in that gaze, as he wrapped his arms around his son.
“How have you been?” he asked, as the crowd around them began to chipper as Jon’s arms wrapped around his own back.
“Well, father,” and he spoke those words with no hesitation now, as he slapped his back and pushed him apart and glanced towards the man standing beside him.
“Ser Rodrick,” and Jon may have been the Stark at Winterfell, but the Starks had all depended upon him greatly in the last half a decade to see them through these tumultuous times.
“It is good to have you back in the North, my lord,” the aged knight spoke, and the years had made his hair thinner and whiter as Eddard shook his hand, as Robb hugged his brother along with Bran and Rickon.
“It is good to be home,” for changed and different as it was, that was what Winterfell was to him.
Home.
The castle cheered, on as Rodrik led him through his own Halls, which had begun to fade into a lost memory by now as he informed him about the situation in the North.
“I sent the missives to the Lords today. They shall begin arriving in a week,” and he hoped to have finished his negotiations with the Freemen by then, for though he was now out of the capital, that did not mean that the burdens of duty had left his shoulders.
But these burdens were different. Easier. Simpler. Involving a lot less lies and treachery.
“Good, that will give me enough time to hammer out terms with our guest,” and most of the terms had already been settled, and he just needed to sit down with him and put his stamp on them.
“And Rodrick, in my retinue, there is a carriage at the end with two large boxes on it. Make sure that they are well guarded and carried to the dungeon as is,” and those eyes narrowed as the man asked.
“Are they...”
“Yes,” he did not let him finish, for he wanted no mention of those ungodly things in front of him.
“I will see to it,” and he would. He surely would.
“How was Lady Sansa’s wedding?” Ser Rodrick asked in the end, as they reached his room, and he smiled as he remembered his daughter’s smile and how beautiful she had looked.
“It was as grand as she had hoped,” and Sansa had always wanted to be a Princess, and now she was one.
“That is good,” and Eddard gave him a stiff smile.
“She asked of you,” and the older knight gave him a stiff smile.
“Yes, I received her letter as well. I wish I could have been there, but duty compelled me to stay,” and Rodrick Casell was not the kind of man to deny his calling.
Still, even from such a distance, Sansa had learned to play the game, just like her twin. Half the Royal Court danced to her tune, and the other half to the tune of the Queen and while he was not fond of such trickery, it eased his mind knowing that his children had grown up so much.
“Sometimes it feels just like yesterday when they were children, playing around in these very Halls,” and indeed, it did.
But they were not children any longer. They had become men and women, just as they had become old and weak.
“Aye, we have grown old, you and I,” and many of their peers were now long dead.
“But we can’t choose our graves just yet,” he added as he slapped the man on the shoulder.
“I fear that we have one last war to fight before we can do that,” and his face tightened at his words, as the steward of Winterfell nodded.
“Aye! One last war indeed,” and with that Eddard walked in through the door, and found himself in the Lord’s room, and as the door closed behind him, he slowly walked upto the bed and a there on the table beside the bed lay a half woven Seven Pointed Star—a memory of a woman that had once shared his home and worries.
A woman who would share her warmth with him no more.
“You were right,” he whispered as he looked at the half-woven star and remembered her last words.
“I never should have left...”
.
.
.
Daenerys heard the explosion behind her. She felt the waves and the chaos they created as she floated away on the ship. The mansion of Illyrio and Varys was burnt to the ground, and a great flame rose so high that it engulfed the clouds. Yet, unlike the fire she had seen before, this one was green.
“Wildfyre,” Ser Jorah gasped from her side as he stood beside her on the deck of the ship, as she sold her claim to the throne for a simpler life.
“What?” she asked, and it was Ser Jorah.
“That fire, it is green,” he pointed towards the raging flames, and she had heard about it before, for this was what her own father had used to burn down his enemies.
“The fire burns so hot that it can melt...”
“Stone, steel, and bone...”
0000
Comments
FallenMetalGod
Thank you, and that is one way to deal with one's problems all in one place. I have to say that it is imposing, the ruthlessness that was needed. It seems like Eddard is back in the North and is ready to face the Long Night. Great job as always, and I can't wait to see how things play out.
SilasDrekken
Hi Euron, bye Euron.
Radiant Tiefling
Thank you for the chapter.
