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Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Dragon and the Young Wolf
The command tent was filled with the low hum of conversation.
Lord Medger Cerwyn, Lord Halys Hornwood, Harrion Karstark, Robett Glover, and Ser Wylis Manderly sat around the large wooden war table, drinking, discussing, laughing in good spirits after their decisive victory over Tywin Lannister's army.
Waiting for their king.
Ned Stark remained silent, hands clasped before him, listening but not joining in.
Even now, after all these years, he found little joy in war.
He had felt pride, yes, when their strategy had worked flawlessly, when the Lannisters had scattered like frightened sheep before their northern charge, when his men had fought and bled and won.
But war was war, and Ned knew that every victory came at a price.
Then, suddenly—
The tent fell silent.
Not because Ned spoke. Not because someone raised a hand.
But because they all felt it.
A shift in the air.
A presence.
As though something primal and ancient had entered their midst.
The entrance to the command tent parted—
And Daeron Targaryen walked inside.
Ned turned his head, taking in his nephew.
Daeron had bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, but even in simple black leathers, he looked every inch the warrior king of legends.
His Stark coloring—raven-black curls, storm-gray eyes, and a face carved from northern stone—clashed beautifully with the otherworldly beauty of his Valyrian heritage.
He moved with lethal grace, like a wolf gliding through the snow, yet carried himself with the weight of a dragon.
At his side, Ghost walked in silent vigilance, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light.
And behind him, Ser Arthur Dayne, the legendary Sword of the Morning, followed with quiet deference, standing as a silent guardian.
But it wasn't just their king's physical presence that gripped the northern lords in awed silence.
It was what he had done.
They had all seen it.
They had all witnessed it.
The dragon that had descended upon the battlefield, burning the Lannisters with fire and fury.
The beast that had turned the tide of war in mere minutes.
And here stood its master.
The Dragon.
No one slouched now. No one dared to show even a hint of laxness.
The presence of Daeron Targaryen demanded respect—and just a hint of fear.
Daeron moved to his seat, running a hand through Ghost's thick fur as he sat down.
Ser Arthur took his place behind him, standing like a shadow.
It was Ser Wylis Manderly who broke the silence first.
He cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his chair.
"Your Grace," Wylis began carefully, "we… must ask. The dragon. What do we do about it?"
The other lords turned their eyes toward Daeron, waiting.
It was the unspoken question on all their minds.
What did this mean for the North?
For the first time in history, a Stark-blooded king commanded a dragon.
It was both a gift and a curse.
Daeron exhaled softly, fingers still in Ghost's fur.
"You don't have to do anything," he said, voice calm but firm.
"The dragon, Lyrax is mine."
There was a finality in his words that left no room for argument.
The message was clear—Lyrax was no threat to the North.
Unless Daeron willed it.
The lords nodded, some in acceptance, some still uneasy—but none dared question further.
Then Daeron leaned forward slightly.
"I received a raven from Riverrun a short while ago."
At that, all ears perked up.
Daeron's lips curled ever so slightly.
"Our strategy worked."
The tension in the tent shattered as the northern lords erupted into cheers and exclamations.
Robett Glover slammed his fist against the table. "He did it, then? He relieved Riverrun?"
Daeron nodded, his gray eyes gleaming with something akin to pride.
"Robb took the fight to Ser Jaime Lannister."
The lords leaned in, eager to hear the tale.
Daeron continued.
"After separating at the Twins, Robb and his riders marched hard for Riverrun, Ser Brynden eliminating Lannister outriders along the way."
He paused, letting them take in the words.
"Once he reached the Whispering Wood, he set a trap. Jaime took the bait."
The lords exchanged grins and nods—as they heard about what happened in the Whispering Wood.
And now, their Young wolf had claimed his own victory there.
Harrion Karstark leaned forward, eager.
"And what of Jaime Lannister?" he asked, voice sharp with interest. "Who took him down?"
Daeron smirked.
"In a last-ditch attempt to turn the battle, Jaime charged straight at Robb."
The tent fell silent.
Ned stiffened, heart clenching at the thought of his son face-to-face with the Kingslayer.
Daeron let the moment stretch before delivering the answer.
"But before he could reach my brother…"
He leaned back slightly.
"Ser Walder took him down."
A beat of silence—
Then roaring laughter filled the tent.
The image was too glorious—the towering northern knight slamming the Kingslayer into the dirt.
"By the gods, I wish I'd seen it!" boomed Lord Medger Cerwyn.
"Serves the Kingslayer right!" Robett Glover chuckled.
Even Harrion Karstark grinned.
"Ser Walder," he said, shaking his head in amusement, "is a bloody nightmare."
As the laughter died down, Daeron raised his goblet of wine.
A toast.
"To my brother, Robb Stark."
He met their gazes.
"The Young Wolf."
The lords rose to their feet, cups raised high.
"The Young Wolf!" they echoed, voices thundering.
Ned watched, his heart swelling with pride for both of his sons—one born of his blood, the other raised as his own.
Then, Ned lifted his own cup.
"To Daeron Targaryen."
Silence fell.
Ned held his nephew's gaze.
"The Dragon."
And just like that, the room exploded with cheers.
"The Dragon!"
"The Dragon!"
"The Dragon!"
As the chants echoed into the night, Ned watched his nephew—
A Stark-blooded dragon.
A warrior king of legend.
And for the first time, Ned knew—
The realm would never be the same again.