POV: Denovan
The closer we got to the port, the stronger the smell became. It was a thick, acidic, and pungent odor. I even imagined that the stench would be a bit weaker due to the era — King's Landing wasn't yet as populous as it would be in 300 A.C. —, but I forgot a crucial detail: we are in the medieval era.
King's Landing was an absurdly crammed city. Even not being overcrowded as it would be in the future, it was still very full. The sewers ran in the open, the streets were packed dirt mixed with waste, and hygiene was far from those alleys. It was truly a sad sight.
To make my situation worse, my senses were as sharp as those of a direwolf. The smell hit me like a punch to the stomach.
"By the gods, boss... this smell is horrible. Their houses must be made of shit," commented one of my men, covering his nose.
The resounding and crude laughs of the other warriors echoed across the ship's deck. My senses weren't the only ones that had been enhanced; even though they didn't come close to my level, the hearing and smell of my men were also vastly superior to those of a common human. The runes on their bodies fulfilled their functions perfectly. The smell was unbearable for us, but I believe it was worse because we were docking exactly at the port, the dirtiest and busiest area of the capital.
As soon as the drakkars scraped against the docks and the ropes were tied, I observed the reception. There were several soldiers with gold cloaks forming a visual barricade, keeping the curious smallfolk away. Everyone stared fixedly at me and my men, the tension in the air being almost palpable.
Then, an older man, wearing elaborate armor and an immaculately white cloak, separated himself from the group and walked to the edge of the pier. A Kingsguard.
"... Ser?" he called out, his voice deep and uncertain, clearly not knowing how to address a giant barbarian.
"Denovan..." I replied, resting my hands on the ship's railing and looking down at him. "Just call me Denovan."
He nodded, looking somewhat uncomfortable with the lack of formal titles, but soon recovered his rigid and polite posture. His words, however, came out dry.
"His Grace, King Viserys, is waiting for you in the Small Council chamber. I am here to escort you there."
"And I will go with great pleasure," I smirked. "But I can't leave my men here at the port. This place reeks of old piss and, given the movement and the crossed glances, I believe it wouldn't take half an hour for them to get into trouble with those gold cloaks of yours."
Before he opened his mouth to argue, I decided to take the reins of the conversation.
"And what is your name? I can't keep calling you 'Kingsguard' or 'White Cloak' all day."
The man straightened his spine, proud. "I am Ser Harrold Westerling. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
"Ohhh, what an honor for me," I said, opening my arms in a wide gesture. "The Lord Commander himself came to escort me. I am feeling almost important. Tell me, Commander Harrold, can you find a decent place for my men to rest and leave some of your guards watching our ships?"
Harrold frowned, evaluating my one hundred and twenty warriors.
"I can order the City Watch to protect the vessels. As for your men, they can wait in the training areas of the Red Keep. However... they will have to go unarmed. I will not allow a hundred armed wildlings marching through the King's gates."
I let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Unarmed? No way. I might even trust your word, Commander, as you seem to me an honorable man. But I trust no one else in this city to leave my people defenseless."
"It is protocol, Denovan. No one enters the keep armed other than the Crown's forces and sworn personal guard," he insisted, his hand resting casually near the pommel of his sword.
"Well, we will be the exception today," I retorted, the teasing tone vanishing from my voice. "We will make an amicable agreement: one third of my men will remain armed to ensure the group's safety. The rest will leave their larger weapons on the ships. They will behave in the training grounds. That's it, or we don't leave the docks."
Harrold Westerling clenched his jaw, weighing the situation. A fight at the port against warriors of that size would be a bloodbath. Finally, he sighed heavily.
"So be it. One third armed. And if there is a single problem caused by them, the responsibility will be yours... and they will be watched during their entire stay."
"Fair enough."
I turned to the crew, giving the orders clearly and quickly. The men agreed with curt nods.
Once the gangplank was lowered, I stepped onto the docks. But I wasn't the only one. A blur of black fur and muscle leapt from the ship and landed heavily beside me. Fenrir.
The sound of the impact and the deep growl of the direwolf made the Gold Cloaks retreat a full step, the spears trembling in their hands. Even Commander Harrold widened his eyes. No one expected a monster of that size.
Right behind me, my men began to disembark. The gazes of all the southerners followed those warriors. They were tall — much taller than the Westerosi average —, strong as bulls, and had runic marks and tattoos covering their faces and arms. They were veteran combatants, full of scars, and exuded an aura of pure ferocity that justified the local watch's fear of letting them in.
One hundred and twenty men might seem like few for a city the size of King's Landing. But, for those elite soldiers of Scalebay, it was more than enough to take a significant part of the city by themselves. They wouldn't be able to hold it against the entire Targaryen army, obviously, but in a quick sack? It was a certainty that they would cause historic damage.
We began our march toward the Red Keep. We were escorted by the Gold Cloaks, being observed with pure terror and a slight touch of admiration by the smallfolk in the streets. The murmurs were incessant. Wildlings were not well-regarded in the South; we were the monsters of bedtime stories. And there we were, marching freely.
Much to Ser Harrold's displeasure, I brought Fenrir walking freely by my side.
The journey to Aegon's High Hill was peaceful, and I took the opportunity to observe the city's architecture. Upon reaching the gates of the imposing Red Keep, we separated. My men were directed to the great training courtyard, while I went alone with the Lord Commander to the inner areas of the castle.
If my height was already intimidating, next to Harrold and the castle servants I looked like a true giant. The maids stopped what they were doing and widened their eyes upon seeing the enormous man with a short beard followed by a frightening wolf, full of battle scars.
"Black Beast." I could hear the whisper of some of them.
I was sure that, in less than four hours, rumors would spread like wildfire through the corridors. Immense, tattooed soldiers, and a monstrous leader. Some lords would think we were northern sellswords, but it would soon become clear to the whole realm that the capital had welcomed wildlings with open arms.
"You know, Commander Harrold," I broke the silence as we walked through the long stone corridors, my tone light and amused. "Would you accept a spar with me later? I heard the Kingsguard gathers the best warriors in Westeros... I would very much like to test your steel. After all, I've never lost a real fight."
Harrold looked at me sideways, his expression unchanged.
"My duty is to protect the King, Denovan. I cannot accept fights at my whim to inflate the ego of guests."
"What a boring life," I sighed, crossing my hands behind my head. "I could never be like that. What's the fun of having a good sword if you can only use it when ordered to?"
He ignored my provocation and suddenly stopped at the end of a corridor. We were a few meters from a heavy double oak door.
"We have arrived," Harrold announced, turning to me and pointing at my canine companion. "But the wolf will not enter. No way."
"Fenrir is tame," I tried to argue, scratching the wolf's ears.
"I don't care if he knows how to do tricks. It is the Small Council chamber. The King and the most important lords of the Seven Kingdoms are inside. The animal stays outside. This is not negotiable."
Seeing the old knight's unwavering seriousness, I nodded.
"Alright. You win this one." I looked at the wolf and made a hand gesture. "Sit there, Fenrir. If anyone tries to pass by you with a weapon, rip their arm off. Other than that, behave."
The direwolf lay down languidly in front of the door, snorting, alert to everything around him.
The Council door was protected by two white cloaks, one on each side. As soon as they saw the Lord Commander, they greeted him with a nod, pushed the heavy oak, and opened the doors.
As soon as the hinges creaked, I didn't even wait for Harrold to announce me. I walked in, passing in front of the Commander, my heavy steps echoing in the room.
The sight was almost comical. Viserys, Daemon, Corlys Velaryon, Otto Hightower, and Grand Maester Mellos... all interrupted their conversations and turned their faces to me simultaneously. Shock was stamped on each of their faces. And the silence that formed was absolute.
I knew why. After all, even with my short beard, the scars, and my threatening size, it was obvious to anyone in there that I was extremely young. I didn't look like the old, reclusive wise man who controlled animals through dreams. I looked like a brutal boy from the North who had just come out of puberty.
I stopped at the opposite end of the table and offered a predatory smile.
"Hello, lords of Westeros..." I began, my voice breaking the silence. "I am the proclaimed King of the Wildlings. My name is Denovan. Son of Sigorn, the Magnar of Thenn."
I made a minimal bow with my head, almost imperceptible, just to say I did it. Then, I directed my eyes straight to the man at the head of the table.
"And how have you been, King Viserys? Well, I hope, as we discussed."
The stupefied silence of the room lasted for another long moment, until it was abruptly broken by the deep, irritated voice of Commander Harrold, who had just entered behind me.
"By the grace of the Seven, Denovan! Address His Grace with the correct title and bend the knee as the etiquette of this Court dictates!"
Harrold began his sermon on manners immediately, but from Viserys's curious look and the smirk on Daemon Targaryen's face, I knew the lack of etiquette would be the least of my problems. The meeting had begun.
"Do not worry about that, Ser Harrold," said Viserys, raising his hand and ending the knight's reprimands. His eyes returned to me, and he pointed to the empty chair. "Sit down, Denovan. We have some things to discuss."
I nodded and sat in the last chair, the furthest from the King, at the other end of the large stone table.
Viserys cleared his throat and began to introduce each of the lords present. I nodded disdainfully at the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, who looked at me as if I were a walking plague. But when Viserys's eyes fell on the Master of Ships, I stepped in.
"Lord Corlys Velaryon! The legendary Sea Snake," I said, with genuine excitement in my voice. "I've heard stories about your voyages. Tell me, what was the most fascinating place you visited? Did you really go to Sothoryos? What are the most exotic creatures there? And the warriors, who fights better on the other side of the narrow world?"
Corlys blinked, surprised by my enthusiastic and disarming approach, but a slight smile of pride soon appeared on his lips. He opened his mouth to answer, but Otto Hightower's harsh voice cut off the conversation.
"We are here to discuss matters of state, not to tell maritime fables, Denovan of Thenn," Otto scolded, rigid and full of rules, as always. He stared at me with suspicion. "I am a practical man. So explain to me: how do you, with a measly hundred and twenty men and six ragged ships, plan to destroy the military alliance of the Triarchy?"
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms.
"And who said that's all I have? Who said I came here with everything I own? And, more importantly... who said my hundred and twenty warriors fight like you, southerners in shining armor?"
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table.
"Aegon Targaryen had one of the smallest armies in all of Westeros when he marched here, and yet he conquered an entire continent. What makes you think me and my men can't clean the docks of a few pirates?"
Corlys, who had sympathized with my posture a moment ago, frowned.
"Do not underestimate the corsairs of the Triarchy, boy. They fight well, they are cunning, numerous, and have a lot of experience at sea. Believe me. Do you really think six ships, be it twenty ships, or even five hundred of your men, will finish off the Triarchy?"
I smiled, my teeth gleaming in the dim light of the room.
"The Targaryens had their dragons. I have my beasts. You are not stupid. I am a warg. A skinchanger. If Viserys hasn't told you the details, the rumors from the rangers beyond the Wall should have already reached the ears of this council. If you don't know what I am, then your incompetence is greater than I thought."
At that moment, Grand Maester Mellos slammed the table, his face red with indignation.
"Witchcraft! What you describe is profane sorcery! Dominating the minds of beasts is an abomination against nature and the laws of the gods!"
My patience, which was already short, ran out. I never liked the maesters much when I watched the show in my past life, much less the fanatical septons. Now, seeing one of them acting this way in person, my blood boiled.
"You little shit in a robe..." I growled, my voice dropping to a dangerous tone, deep enough to make Ser Harrold take a step forward. "Stay silent and let the men speak. The Targaryens and Velaryons practiced blood magic in Valyria for centuries. My lineage, the blood of the First Men, has just as much magic in its veins as they do. Accusing me of witchcraft and dark magic is spitting on the history of your own King."
The maester tried to speak, but I didn't let him.
"The Targaryens might not want to plunge your Citadel into chaos, but I can. And I would do it with a smile on my face. My men would be very happy to sack your precious seat in Oldtown. You stain our religion, spit on our customs, and abominate our magic. You drove my ancestors to the Far North... Stealing your safety is something the Free Folk would do and thank me for it for generations."
The room plunged into a deadly silence. The audacity to openly threaten the Citadel in the middle of the Red Keep was madness.
And then, Daemon Targaryen burst into laughter.
"Brother!" he said, laughing out loud, pointing at me with pure delight in his eyes. "By the gods, send me to the Triarchy along with this man. I foresee that the Stepstones will be incredibly fun."
Before Viserys could reply to his brother or reprimand my outburst, I intervened, returning to a business tone.
"I just want three months. Three months to show you that feeding the North is worth it, and that you must fulfill the supply contract. I will prove to you that the True North deserves respect, and that this agreement will be only the first of many."
I looked at Viserys. "I don't want war with the Iron Throne. But the lands beyond the Wall are frozen and poor. We raided southern lands for ages simply because we had nothing to eat. So, if you want to avoid me bringing all the clans I've gathered and starting to sack and bleed the Seven Kingdoms, we need to trade. The war against the Triarchy is my peace offering."
"I support the trial," Corlys Velaryon said immediately, realizing the naval value of the proposal.
Daemon nodded positively, still smiling. Viserys seemed inclined to agree.
Otto Hightower and Maester Mellos, however, were not happy.
"We cannot trust our foreign policy to barbarians... much less to threats and legends of sea sorcery!" Otto hissed.
I turned slowly to Otto, the smile disappearing.
"I have my means to sink the Triarchy's ships, Hand of the King. Think about what I could do to your fleet. Have me as an ally. Because if you have me as an enemy... perhaps, by the serpent's strike, even your dragons will start falling from the sky."
I spoke in an amused and dark tone, crossing my arms. With the movement, the runic tattoo of a massive serpent on my shoulders became more exposed under the candlelight, looking almost alive.
The message was clear, and Viserys made the final decision before the tension escalated into something irreversible. Right there, they sealed the verbal agreement. Three months of results in exchange for one year of trade routes and direct food supply for the True North.
The council was adjourned. Viserys dismissed everyone from the room, ordering that only I stay. Once the double doors closed, leaving us alone under Viserys's tense gaze, the mood changed.
"This opportunity is very important for us, Denovan... for both of us," Viserys spoke, the King's mask slipping a little, revealing the tired man behind the crown. "But the war in the Stepstones with the Triarchy won't be so simple."
"Whales. Giant squids. Sharks," I listed casually. "I'm not a normal warg, Viserys. Nature's most brutal predators are at my disposal. It might not be easy for an ordinary fleet, but believe me, I will succeed."
Viserys sighed heavily and looked away into the void. It was then that he touched upon a subject I had planted in his mind years ago, in the dreams I sent, but which he had tucked away amidst recent turmoil.
The Song of Ice and Fire. Aegon's dream.
"You told me about the song of ice and fire years ago, the only reason I trusted you, Denovan," Viserys whispered, his voice laden with contained dread. "The evil that comes from the cold. How is the North?"
"They are already there, Viserys. The White Walkers are already in the Far North. They always have been, just sleeping."
Viserys grew pale.
"And what are we doing to stop them?" the King asked, anxious.
"Preparing myself. Do you know why I needed ships and sea control so quickly? For the first stage of my plan. I took the island of Skagos."
Viserys widened his eyes. "Skagos?! But... how did you do that? When? No one in the castle of Winterfell heard about it?!"
I laughed, shaking my head.
"Just so you see how efficient the Stark Lords are. Their hold over their own islands is so weak that they didn't even notice they lost it. Skagos is mine."
"But why Skagos?" Viserys questioned, genuinely confused by the choice of such a rocky and inhospitable place.
"There is a semi-active volcano there, Viserys. And more importantly: Obsidian. Dragonglass." I leaned over the table, my eyes fixed on his. "Dragonglass, Valyrian Steel, and the fire of your beasts. These are the only known things in this world capable of killing the White Walkers. Our common steel swords are just twigs when they touch them."
Viserys absorbed the information in silence, the shock and the weight of the world falling on the shoulders of the peaceful King.
"We have to stand united," I continued, my voice serious. "Things will still take a while to happen. They are awakening slowly. And, in the meantime, obsidian and Valyrian steel weapons must be accumulated. Skagos is my mine, just as Dragonstone is one."
"But don't get too anxious, that won't help at all. So far I've seen only one wight, it was a chore to kill it with fire, but it was possible, there hasn't been any other record. We have at least five years before anything happens."
I stepped away from the table and walked toward the door.
"We will see each other in a while, Viserys. Soon you will receive good news of Triarchy ships at the bottom of the sea."
I stopped with my hand on the doorknob and looked at the Targaryen King over my shoulder.
"Don't forget my food, Viserys."
I turned the knob and left the Small Council, leaving the King alone with the ghosts of the future.