Chapter 23 – "The Wolf Enters the Lists"
The day of the tourney dawned bright and loud in King's Landing. Banners flapped in the wind. Trumpets sang from the battlements. Nobles from across Westeros packed into the stands, dressed in silks and brocades, their chatter a constant hum. The lists had been erected near the Dragonpit, banners from every Great House on display.
And among them, the wolf.
Northern soldiers in black and grey lined the stands near their lords. Shadow, the black direwolf, sat beside the Stark pavilion, his red eyes watching the commotion with silent intensity. Lady Lyanna Stark of Winterfell — Robb's precocious daughter — stood tall on the railing, her braid swinging behind her like a banner of its own.
"I am the Queen of Love and Beauty!" she declared, hands on her hips.
The declaration startled a few nobles nearby. Ser Hobber Redwyne choked on his wine. A Dornish knight laughed aloud.
"She hasn't even seen the tilts," his companion said.
"She doesn't need to," Robb muttered nearby, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "She's already decided the outcome."
"She has wolf blood," Ned said,
Lyanna pointed directly at her uncle. "Uncle Cregan is going to win! You all can go home!"
Chuckles rippled through the crowd.
In the royal box, Robert Baratheon burst into laughter. "That girl's got fire, Ned!"
"She's her uncle's niece," Ned said dryly, watching the field.
Jaime Lannister, lounging nearby in gold, smirked. "We'll see if Northern steel holds up in southern sun."
Cersei sipped her wine, gaze narrowed.
---
The tournament began with ceremony and fanfare. Noble knights rode forth on powerful destriers, colors bright and shields polished. The crowd cheered loudly for the golden lions and flowering knights.
But when Cregan Stark rode forth in black steel, the crowd fell oddly quiet.
He wore no plumes, no sigils on his armor, only a faint etched wolf on his chest. His helm was shaped like a snarling wolf's head, its eyes set with onyx. He carried a long black lance and rode a dark stallion with a silver mane.
Littlefinger leaned in to Varys, smirking. "I'll wager hundred gold dragons he's unhorsed in the first tilt."
"Careful," Varys whispered. "Wolves bite."
"I'll match that," Robb said from behind, voice cold. "And raise another he finishes the day unbeaten."
Littlefinger turned, surprised, but quickly recovered. "Such faith in your brother?"
"I've seen what he can do."
---
The early matches were brutal.
Cregan rode against Ser Lyle Crakehall first. The knight was powerful, well-armored. But Cregan's lance hit square, shattering the shield and sending Ser Lyle flying.
Then came Ser Harwin from crownlands, then Ser Emmon Frey. Each fell, battered by speed and brutal precision. Cregan didn't wave or pose. He rode back in silence each time, face unreadable behind the wolf helm.
When he passed the Stark seats, Lyanna blew kisses. "You're the best! Smash them all!"
The crowd began to murmur — first amusement, then awe. Whispers of the Northern champion spread.
"By the Seven," a Lannister bannerman muttered, "he rides like a shadow with teeth."
---
In the break between rounds, Cregan removed his helm. Sweat clung to his brow, and a bruise was blooming along his jaw from one fierce strike.
Robb handed him a flask. "Still feel like proving a point?"
Cregan took a swig and grinned. "Always."
Lyanna climbed onto his knee. "I told them! You're going to win!"
He ruffled her hair. "You're my good luck charm, pup."
She beamed.
---
Cregan's next opponent was Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard. A knight known for his discipline and skill. Their bout was hard-fought — both breaking lances twice before Cregan unhorsed him with a third, bone-jarring pass.
Cheers thundered across the field. Even some southern lords stood to applaud.
The list narrowed. Names whispered through the crowd — Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Gregor Clegane, Ser Loras Tyrell, and now Cregan Stark.
But the semifinals would wait for the morrow.
That evening, the city buzzed with rumors of the northern wolf. Tales of his blacksteel blade, his snarling helm, and the fierce little girl who had named herself queen long before any lance was shattered.
And in the Red Keep, under flickering candlelight, Jon Arryn reviewed the names moving forward.
"A Stark against two lions and a flower," he muttered.
"A story in the making," said Varys.
"Or a storm," Renly added, smiling.
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