Lord of the North 2 (Patreon)

Drengyr Eriksson stared out over the battlements, his eyes taking in the view of his capital, the largest and greatest city in the North. Truly, Dol Guldur was a gift of the gods, even if he was the only one who got the joke in the name. A rush of movement down the main road caught his attention, several riders in black were being escorted to the capitol building. Shaking his head, dispelling memories of a life that didn’t matter anymore, he turned around and made his way to the throne room.

Reaching the throne, he sat down in it, relaxing in the oversized and overly elaborate chair, just before the doors slammed open. Four men in black, Crows the locals called them, were hauled in with iron grips on their shoulders. They were forced to their knees, the men doing so drawing a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction in the act.

Drengyr rolled his eyes as he stood, saying “Unhand them, and bring bread and salt. That is your custom, yes?”

The Crows looked at each other askew as a loaf of rye bread and a bowl of salt were brought in. Hesitantly, the Crows each tore off a hunk of bread, dipped it in the salt, and ate it. The bread and bowl were brought to Drengyr, and he took the rest of the loaf and dipped it in the salt before taking his helmet off and tearing a bite off.

He’d barely gotten a second bite out when one of the Crows blurted out, “Crone’s teats, how the fuck are you so pretty?”

One could be forgiven for thinking that the flickering of the candles and hearthfires were the result of all but five people in the room sucking in a breath simultaneously. Drengyr swallowed the mouthful of bread, set the rest of the loaf aside, and stood up. Stepping down from the dias, There was an audible gulping sound from the Crows as he loomed over them.

“You are quite lucky you already had bread and salt,” the King of the North said. “And that I have business to discuss with your Lord Commander and whomever it is that’s in charge south of the wall.”

“And the nature of that business is?” one of the asked, not the one who made the foolish mistake of calling Drengyr pretty.

“Trade and establishing formal relations, of course,” Drengyr said as he turned around and returned to his throne. “If I wanted war, your wall wouldn’t stop me. The king of the White Walkers was a simple exercise, what makes you think anything your people have can give me a good fight?”

The Crows looked at each other, something about his declaration seeming to unsettle them, but Drengyr didn’t really care. Besides, he would certainly be able to punish the blowhard who couldn’t keep his mouth shut, even without killing him. Drengyr grinned as he put his helmet back on, he had a most entertaining idea.

Turning back to the Crows, he told them, “It is late, you can set back to your Wall tomorrow. Be sure to inform your Lord Commander that I will be arriving the day of the next full moon.

“But you,” Drengyr pointed towards the blabbermouth. “You will need to receive a punishment. Do not worry, it won’t hurt a bit.”

A few of the men lining the room grabbed the Crow in question, pulling him out from the group as Drengyr opened a leather pouch on his belt. The Crows protested, only to pause in confusion as he pulled out a number of brushes, chisels, and paints. The struggling resumed when the ones restraining the Crow began to tear off his clothes, as Drengyr looked the man up and down before clicking his tongue.

Taking one of the brushes, he dipped it into one of the paints as he looked the now bare chested Crow up and down. After considering for a moment, he walked up, and ran the brush across the Crow’s face, beard disappearing where the brush passed. The Crow’s eye widened as he let out a gasp, but Drengyr ignored him as he continued “painting”.

The other Crows watched, wide eyed and in shocked, confused horror, as Drengyr turned their fellow from a rough, scraggly looking man into a voluptuous, curvy, beautiful blonde woman. Their confusing cocktail of emotions wasn’t helped by the noises made as the Crow had their body turn from a he to a she. Sounds that were most frequently heard in brothels. It was a very vague memory, but Drengyr figured that the term ‘whyboner’ was rather appropriate to describe the Crows as they were escorted to rooms to stay the night.

Drengyr chuckled as the formerly male Crow was led to the giants (they had a thing for blondes). The next few years were going to be entertaining, especially when Drengyr arrived at the meeting atop Nidhoggr.

[center]Five Years Later[/center]

Sir Dromen Whent kept his irritation off his face as he stood outside the gates of Harrenhall. His father had bought into the ridiculous rumors that the King of the Wildlings had a dragon and was coming to the Crown Prince’s tourney. The mere idea of the Wildlings being able to stop fucking their trees long enough to form a kingdom was laughable, but here he was, being told to wait for a giant that made the Mountain look small who rode a dragon, shot fireballs from his eyes and bolts of lightning from his arse.

The smallfolk moving around him changed, something about the air about them catching his attention. He glanced over, seeing them pointing at something in the distance. Probably some carriage used by a well off house, he followed where they were pointing, only for his jaw to drop. There, in the distance, was something that could only be a dragon, flying over the countryside. It didn’t make sense, the dragons had died out years and years ago.

“The Hells?” Sir Dromen muttered, trying to understand what he was seeing. He was seeing a dragon, that much was obvious, but it was more than that. The dragon looked like it was carrying something under it, and if he didn’t know better he’d say that it had two heads.

The dragon drew closer, and he could see that it was carrying a wooden crate that was the size of six royal carriages combined. The two heads… it looked like it had a single head that had been cut vertically down the middle, with the insides then healing over. That couldn’t possibly work! How did you heal an injury that way?!

He felt himself shaking as he stared, his mind unable to comprehend what he was witnessing. A dragon, flying over the countryside, with a crate underneath it. What kind of fool would think that was a good idea? Was there any sane person alive that wouldn't run away screaming if they saw this? And why was it flying over Harrenhal? Couldn't it have gone somewhere else?

The dragon flew low, over the countryside, dropping the crate on the grass. The front of the crate fell open, and fifteen armored knights on horseback rode out. From the back of the dragon, an armored figure that Sir Dromen had initially missed leapt off the back of the dragon, landing in front of the knights in a crouch. The armored figure stood up, his height…

“By the Seven,” Sir Dromen muttered. The King of the Wildlings was as tall as the rumors said. At least nine feet tall, the King of the Wildlings was clad in plate mail, which he wore over a chain shirt that had a star motif worked into it. He had a massive greatsword on his back, a battle ax on his left hip, and a sword on his right. He was wearing a helm, and the visor was closed. As he stepped forward, Sir Dromen noticed that he had a set of horns growing from the top of his helmet.

The King of the Wildlings spoke, his voice deep, resonating throughout the courtyard, “We have reached Harrenhall, yes?”

“Uh, yes?” Ser Dromen answered, slightly hesitantly, as he was still trying to process the sheer insanity of his arrival.

It was only because of the angle that Ser Dromen was able to see the grin under the King of the Wildlings’ helmet. The grin sent shivers down his spine as the giant of a man and his knights passed through the gates. And Ser Dromen had thought that Lord Tywin’s arrival had been intimidating, he’d never say it aloud but he’d rather have to deal with Tywin Lannister a thousand times before being forced to greet the King of the Wildlings again.

It was only after the Wildling entourage had passed into Harrenhal that Ser Dromen realized that the star on their attire wasn’t that of the Seven Pointed Star, but an eight pointed star. Since when did the Wildlings worship anything but their trees?

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It was amusing, the reactions the people of the South had to Drengyr and his knights, the man mused as he and his knights were led to the stables. Lord Rickard hadn’t been lying when he said that the people of the South wouldn’t know how to respond if he decided to make an appearance. Gookthicc had certainly proven her worth a dozen times over in the negotiations with the Starks over the last few years.

Drengyr pushed those memories aside, to focus on the here and now. A glance around through his helmet let him take note of the nobles that were trying and failing to be subtle in observing him and the knights that had come with him. It was ironic that he could only trust the most prideful and arrogant among his cavalry forces on this trip, as they were the ones who had taken to his alternate means of reacting to insults. The other half of his knights would react with violence the moment one of the southern folk so much as failed to move out of the way fast enough.

It took a special kind of snobbery and arrogance to turn instant violence to cool, stoic detachment with a single suggestion: that to ignore their lessers would be a greater insult than slaying them. Diplomacy was such a pain in the ass. Still, from what Stark had said, there was an archery contest, a “grand” melee, and a joust as the main events. Drengyr himself would not be competing in the joust, not only were all of his knights better than him, but he was pretty sure no one had any horses that were large enough for him.

The archery and melee on the other hand, had some potential. More than that, this entire tournament gave him opportunities to network and forge trade agreements. But the real reason that Drengyr was secretly eager to come had nothing to do with the tournament itself. He had vague memories from his first life, of King Aerys arriving during the tournament. Being a king was necessary, but boring. From everything he’d heard about the man, Drengyr figured it was a given that the man would give him an excuse for a war. He hadn’t fought in a war for twenty five years, he’d been experiencing withdrawal symptoms!

“Your Grace! It’s good to see you again,” a familiar, feminine voice pulled him from his warmongering thoughts.

Turning and looking down, smiling at the fifteen year old noble girl, “Hello Little Lyanna.”

She glared at Drengyr, “The only reason you get to call me that is because I barely reach your belt. More to the point, is that any way to greet your betrothed?”

He chuckled, reaching down and scooping her up with a single arm, his hand cupping her rear and giving it a firm squeeze. She gave a slight jump in his hand, and glared at him.

He ignored her glare and instead asked, “Anything I should be aware of?”

“The King and Queen arrived this morning, it caused nearly as much a stir as your arrival did. Father said that it was possible that His Grace would take it as an insult or a sign that you were plotting against him,” Lyanna answered, her glare fading as she instead leaned her head against his chest. Drengyr was, but he wasn’t going to say that aloud.

Lord Tzeentch would punish him if he were such a sloppy schemer to do that.