Chapter 29 – "Hunting With the Old Gods"
The whispers had grown louder. Ever since Cregan Stark entered King's Landing—unbent, unimpressed, and uninvited to Southern games—the Red Keep had echoed with muttered names and veiled jests. With the tourney still fresh and a young girl from the North declaring herself Queen of Love and Beauty before a roaring crowd, the Southern court turned its gaze northward.
And for the first time in years, it was not blinking.
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Politics Beneath the Red Keep
Lord Petyr Baelish paced a narrow corridor in Maegor's Holdfast, fingers interlaced, eyes gleaming cold and sharp.
He had laughed—smiling easily as ever—when Cregan Stark dismantled his ledgers before the small council. Outwardly, he played the jester, letting the nobles cackle at his expense.
Inwardly, he seethed.
"That northern brute," he whispered to himself, "wears a wolf's skin and pretends it's velvet. Talks like a soldier, argues like a merchant… and they love him for it."
Cregan had publicly called out three inconsistencies in Baelish's port tariffs—simple enough to explain if one had time and subtlety. Instead, Stark, in that blunt northern way, had offered to "collect the taxes himself if the capital was too disorganized."
The court had laughed.
The laughter had burned.
Now Baelish sowed seeds in every ear that would listen. Tales of strange steel forged in hidden forges. Of wolves trained for war. Of an army brewing beneath the snows. He didn't need to be believed—only remembered.
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In the Council Chambers
"Marriage proposals?" Cregan echoed, frowning as he accepted a parchment from Ned.
"A dozen," his older brother said, exhausted. "Tyrells, Redwynes, knightly houses from the Vale—even one from Dorne."
"Did one send a goat with a ribbon? Because that'd tempt me more than a southern lady afraid of snow."
Jon Arryn cleared his throat delicately. "These are… serious offers."
Cregan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "They want trade, influence, or heirs with my steel in their veins. Not me."
"And what would you want in a match?" Jon asked.
"Someone who doesn't faint when Kael howls or ask if Winterfell has a ballroom."
At the hearth, Shadow stretched and yawned, baring rows of white teeth.
"See?" Cregan nodded toward his direwolf. "He agrees."
Ned pinched the bridge of his nose. "Cregan. You are not a sellsword. You are the son of a great house."
"Then let me choose like one. I'll wed when I want, and not for the benefit of some southern hall filled with lace and whispers."
Robb chuckled. "Besides, who could tame him?"
"Exactly," Cregan said, tossing a candied nut toward Shadow, who caught it mid-air.
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The Wildflower Queen
Lyanna Stark was a storm in a gown. Unapologetic and untamed.
She'd escaped her minder again, this time leading a dozen noble children in a "wolf hunt" through the royal gardens. When the Queen's steward found her, she was perched atop a stone lion, wildflowers in her curls and a stick in hand like a scepter.
"I am Lyanna of the North," she declared, "and I claim this beast in the name of House Stark!"
Later, she stormed into court with a small sparrow nesting in her braid.
"This is Lord Peckington. He advises me on roof affairs."
Robert Baratheon laughed so hard he spat wine across the floor.
Cersei did not.
The Queen assigned Septa Doreah to keep the child "under control." The next morning, the septa was found tied to a chair, giggling and smeared with berry paste.
None confessed.
Everyone knew.
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Varys Watched
From a balcony shaded in silk, the Spider sipped wine and observed.
"They are wolves, yes," he murmured. "But not quiet ones. They howl. And worse… people listen."
"They're turning heads," mused Pycelle from beside him.
"They're turning the wind," Varys replied.
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The Hunt
Cregan arrived late.
Riding a massive black stallion, his cloak of snow wolf fur trailing behind, a falcon perched on one shoulder. Shadow padded alongside, a dark sentinel.
He looked like a god of the old stories—something carved from frost and fury.
Robert beamed. "Gods, Ned! Did you bring the Old Gods with you too?"
During the hunt, Cregan tracked a wild boar through tangled brush, speared it alone, and carried it back across his shoulders.
"Southern dogs would've missed it," he muttered to a Reach lord.
Robb, watching nearby, shook his head. "He's getting worse."
Yet by evening, Robert had clapped Cregan's back hard enough to rattle bone.
"You'll stay, wolf," the king declared. "I'll give you land, coin, a hall. Anything."
"I'll take trees," Cregan replied. "And the right to keep my boots muddy."
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Letters and Lemons
Three more proposals arrived that evening.
House Tarly. House Redwyne. And a curious, perfumed scroll from a Dornish noblewoman:
> "You intrigue me, northern wolf. Come to Sunspear, and I will teach you the language of sun and sand."
Cregan blinked. "Is that a euphemism?"
He read it aloud over breakfast. Lyanna gagged dramatically into her porridge.
"She wants you to write poetry in your armor," Robb said.
"She wants you to lie on a lemon-scented pillow," Lyanna added.
"She's mad," Cregan muttered. "I'd rather teach Shadow the Seven."
Shadow growled at a lemon tart in response.
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Whispers in the Hall
At the feast that night, lords whispered under banners of stag and lion.
"Do you think the Starks mean to rise again?"
"Do they ever truly fall?"
"Steel. Wolves. Business. Is that not war in another name?"
Lord Tarly raised a goblet. "At least they know how to fight."
Cersei fumed. Jaime smiled wryly. Pycelle coughed and warned about "Northern ambition."
But the people—they whispered tales of wolves and wilderness, of the boy who crowned himself with blood and blades.
And somewhere in the shadows, Baelish smiled.
Too sweet. Too dangerous.
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Atop the Red Keep
Littlefinger watched the courtyard below, where Cregan sparred with two goldcloaks, each one dropped by a lazy swipe of his sword.
He stood tall. Laughing. Unapologetic.
The court adored him. The king liked him. Even the gods seemed to have taken his side.
"You'll trip," Baelish whispered. "And I'll be waiting to catch your fall."
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