Author's Note:
Hey guys, today's chapter is a bit of a longer one, but the reason for that was it occurred to me that i havent shown much love to our favorite Warden of the North's bastard brother, so I wish to flesh him out more and make his character more thought out. I hope y'all enjoy!
One thing too I wanted to address was i get that I am spending a lot of time with them being in Kings Landing, essentially I just really want to flesh everything and every character out, plus I enjoy exploring this period, the calm before the storm if you will.
If y'all have any comments, concerns, or feedback for me, please feel free to comment. I love reading y'all's comments!
[King's Landing, 17th day, 9th Moon, 298 AC]
Dorren Snow had learned, long ago, that cities had a way of watching you.
Not openly, not with eyes you could always catch. But in the pauses between footsteps, in the way voices dipped when you passed, in how a man's hand lingered a moment too long on a door latch before pulling it shut. The forests and frost of the north watched too, through the trees and the snow and the quiet. But King's Landing was different.
The city watched with fear.
He felt it the moment he stepped out onto the street.
The morning was already warm, the air thick with the smells of salt, horse dung, baking bread, and the river's slow rot. Dorren adjusted the clasp of his grey cloak as he moved, the fabric hanging heavy across his shoulders. It bore no livery, only a single wolf's head clasp, and just plain wool dyed the dull ash-color Alaric Stark favored for his men, practical and unassuming.
And unmistakable.
Shadow padded beside him, silent as the night itself.
The direwolf's black coat drank in the light, fur sleek and dense, his blue eyes alert and unblinking as they swept the street. He moved with the easy confidence of a creature that knew itself to be dangerous and had nothing to prove. Each step was measured, each breath slow. No hackles raised, not even a low growl.
Dorren kept his hand loose near his belt, not on the hilt of his sword. Alaric's orders had been clear.
They had to stay visible, calm, and controlled.
The market street was already busy. Fishmongers shouted prices, carts rattled over uneven stone, and a pair of Gold Cloaks argued lazily near a wine shop. All of it was ordinary
And yet, all it took was one look around to see that things were anything but ordinary now.
Off to the side, near an alleyway, a woman tugged her child closer as Dorren passed.
A baker's apprentice paused mid-laugh, the sound dying in his throat as Shadow's head turned, curious rather than threatening.
A pair of dockhands fell silent, eyes tracking the direwolf until Dorren had moved well past them.
No one barred his path, no one challenged him.
But the space around him widened.
He'd worn stares before. One with the name of Snow always did, even in the North. Bastards were noticed, measured, quietly judged. But this was different. This wasn't curiosity or disdain.
This was apprehension.
Dorren exhaled slowly through his nose and kept walking.
Shadow's ears flicked at a sound Dorren barely registered, a whisper carried on the air.
"…wolves…"
"…unnatural…"
"…not right…"
Dorren did not turn his head. He didn't need to. He could hear the shape of the words even when they weren't spoken plainly. He'd heard the same tone in villages south of the Neck when Northern riders passed through. He'd heard it from men who thought themselves polite because they lowered their voices.
Fear dressed up as concern.
They reached the warehouses just off the river, the timber yards where Northern logs were stacked in neat, orderly rows, each bundle marked and recorded. Greycloaks moved with quiet efficiency, unloading shipments, checking seals, and exchanging clipped words with dock officials.
No laughter, or shouting, clean, efficient, and orderly.
'His men move just like him now.' Dorren thought, amused at the side-long looks they received from the other dock workers who were yammering and slacking off.
Dorren nodded once to Harl, one of the younger men under his charge, and received a crisp nod in return. Discipline held, and hat mattered. If one man slipped, if one voice rose in anger, it would be enough for southern rats to continue squeaking.
Shadow stopped suddenly, head lifting.
Dorren halted with him, scanning the area, all too aware of the heightened sense of his companion being leagues above his to any threat.
A man stood near the edge of the yard, dressed in a merchant's coat too fine for dock work, hands clasped tightly in front of him. He was watching Shadow with poorly concealed unease.
"Can I help you?" Dorren asked, voice level.
The man startled, then straightened. "I, ah… just admiring the, um, animal."
"His name is Shadow," Dorren said. "He's well trained."
The man swallowed. "Some might say beasts like that are… intimidating."
Dorren met his gaze evenly. "Some say many things."
Shadow sat at Dorren's side without command, massive head level with Dorren's thigh, eyes fixed on the merchant. Calm. Patient.
After a moment, the man cleared his throat. "No trouble, then?"
"None," Dorren said. "Unless you're looking to cause it."
The merchant nodded quickly and retreated, boots scuffing against stone.
Dorren watched him go, jaw tight.
That was the trick of it. No threats had been spoken. No law broken, but the exchange would be remembered differently depending on who told it.
The wolf stared him down.
The Northern contingent, no matter how mundane their task had been, had made him nervous.
There was something in the way he spoke…
Dorren resumed his patrol.
They passed through three streets before the tension finally found a crack.
It came in the form of a drunk.
The man staggered out of a hovel of an inn, red-faced and reeking of sour ale, eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He spotted Dorren, then Shadow, and his expression twisted into something ugly.
"Well, I'll be fucked," the drunk slurred loudly. "They're letting wild dogs walk the streets now."
Dorren stopped.
Shadow rose to his feet, towering, but silent.
Nearby conversations stalled. People watched from doorways and windows, pretending not to.
Dorren felt the familiar heat flare in his chest, the old reflex sharpened by years of being tested.
Life had been a constant test, he was a bastard, a northerner, and now, one of Alaric's trusted few, a Winter Knight, and an officer in the Winter Guard.
'Say something, do something.' He thought, palm opening and closing with tension
The drunk took a step closer. "What happens when that thing eats a child, eh? Will your lord pay coin for that too?"
Dorren's hand tightened, then… he relaxed.
Slowly, deliberately, he knelt and placed a hand on Shadow's thick ruff. The direwolf leaned into the touch, a low huff leaving his chest. Not a growl, but almost a sigh.
"Go home," Dorren said calmly. "You've had too much to drink."
The drunk sneered. "Or what?"
Dorren stood. "Or you wake up tomorrow ashamed of yourself instead of in a cell," he said evenly. "Your choice."
The man hesitated, eyes flicking to Shadow's teeth, long and white even in the dim light.
Someone laughed nervously from a doorway.
The drunk spat on the ground. "Bloody Northerners," he muttered, but he backed away, stumbling down the street.
The watching eyes lingered for a moment longer, then scattered.
Dorren released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Shadow glanced up at him, head cocked slightly.
"You did good," Dorren murmured.
As his heart finally slowed, the duo continued on with their patrol.
By midday, Dorren's boots ached, and the weight of the cloak felt heavier than wool had any right to be. He found a shaded corner near the river and paused, letting Shadow drink from a shallow trough while he leaned against the stone wall.
This was what the rumors did. Not riots, nor open defiance.
But pressure. A constant, grinding test of patience.
They wanted a mistake. A raised voice, or even a snapped temper. Something they could point to and say, "See? We told you."
Dorren wiped sweat from his brow and straightened as footsteps approached.
A Gold Cloak captain, older, scarred, with a calculating gaze.
"Morning," the man said. "Or afternoon. Hard to tell with this heat."
Dorren inclined his head. "Captain."
The man eyed Shadow. "Big one."
"He eats less than he looks," Dorren replied.
The captain snorted softly. "That so? There's talk."
"Trust me, I've heard."
"I mean, can you blame the poor bastards? People are nervous."
Dorren met his gaze. "People often are."
A beat passed.
"No trouble from your men?" the captain asked.
"None," Dorren said. "Yours?"
The captain shrugged. "City's always got trouble. But nothing worth reporting."
They stood in silence a moment longer.
Finally, the captain nodded. "Keep it that way."
Dorren watched him leave, a strange sense of satisfaction settling in his chest.
They hadn't given him anything.
As the sun dipped lower and shadows stretched long across the streets, Dorren made his final circuit. The city still watched, but something had shifted. The fear hadn't vanished, but it had dulled, blunted by routine.
Wolves passed through the streets.
And despite the whispers, nothing happened.
That, Dorren realized, was the point.
When he finally returned to the Stark lodgings, Shadow at his side, he paused at the threshold and looked back once more at the city.
King's Landing would keep whispering. Men like Baelish would keep poking and prodding, hoping for a reaction.
They wouldn't get one from him.
Dorren Snow straightened his cloak and stepped inside, resolve hardening in his chest like ice forming over deep water.
Let them watch.
Soon, those southern rats would learn it would do no good.
[The Next Day, The Kings Wood, Late Afternoon]
The forest changed as the sun dipped lower.
The Kingswood was no Wolfswood, not vast, not ancient in the same way, but it held its own kind of ambience.
Alaric rode ahead at an easy pace, Tempest moving like smoke between the trees, Cinder following beside Alaric. Dorren followed to his right, Shadow silent at his stirrup. Ser Torrhen rode slightly behind them both, though whether by intent or instinct neither could say.
Although the King's Wood was normally the sole dominion of the Crown, they had been granted the right to a hunt by Robert himself.
"Take the damned wood if you like," the king had laughed. "Gods know I've frightened most of the game out of it already."
But the smallfolk had not laughed when they saw the wolves pass.
Dorren remembered the way they had stared.
His mind was soon torn from his thoughts as something shifted in the air.
Tempest froze first, Cinder's ears pricked sharply. Shadow lowered his head, hackles rising without a sound.
Alaric raised a hand.
Stillness.
Dorren listened..
A low, heavy rooting sound, the sound of wet earth shifting.
A Boar.
Ser Torrhen eased forward slightly in his saddle.
"Big," he murmured quietly. "Hear the depth of it?"
Dorren did. The sound carried weight, not the light steps of a young animal, no, this one was old, big too.
Alaric did not speak for several heartbeats.
Then he turned his head slightly.
"Dorren."
Not a command, but an invitation.
Dorren's pulse quickened. "Aye, my lord."
Alaric's gaze shifted to Torrhen.
"Stay close," Alaric said simply.
Dorren let a slow smirk spread across his face as he turned to his trueborn brother.
"I always do."
Following their exchange, the trio of Starks dismounted, ready to face the beast on foot.
The wolves spread naturally, Tempest drifting left, Cinder low and slow through the brush, Shadow remaining tight at Dorren's side.
The boar burst from the undergrowth in an explosion of earth and fury.
Gods It was massive.
Tusks long and curved, foam at its snout, hide scarred from older fights. It charged blindly at the first movement it saw, which of course just so happened to be Dorren.
There was no time to think.
Shadow lunged.
Dorren pivoted aside, spear lowering on instinct. He felt rather than saw the boar's weight as it thundered past, felt the ground tremble.
Then Tempest pounced.
The great grey wolf slammed into the boar's flank, teeth finding flesh. Cinder followed, swift and vicious, darting at the back legs.
The boar squealed, twisted.
Dorren moved.
He drove the spear forward as Torrhen had drilled into him a hundred times, not wild, not rushed, but steady and angled.
The point struck behind the shoulder.
The boar reeled in pain.
And then it turned, straight at him.
'By the old gods hes fast!' Dorren thought in alarm
Dorren's foot slipped in churned mud.
The world narrowed to tusks and fury, yet before he could be sent to see his beloved departed mother and the father he never knew, he saw steel sing past him.
Ser Torrhen's blade struck the boar's neck with brutal precision, deflecting its charge just enough.
Alaric moved in the same heartbeat.
The greatsword Ice entered beneath the jaw, deep and final.
The forest went still again, and the raging boar collapsed.
Breathing hard, Dorren remained frozen where he had stumbled.
Tempest and Cinder stepped back. Shadow remained planted at his side.
Torrhen's hand gripped Dorren's shoulder firmly.
"Stand," the knight said quietly.
Dorren hadn't realized he had half-fallen.
He straightened, gathering himself and wiping the dirt off his cloak.
Alaric withdrew his blade slowly and wiped it clean on the boar's coarse hide.
Then he looked at Dorren.
Not angry, or disappointed, but in his own way, approving
"You did not run." A rare smile adorned Alaric's face as he patted his brother's shoulder
"No, my lord." He replied, voice cracking slightly, hand scratching his head
"You did not hesitate."
Dorren swallowed. "I slipped."
"You recovered," Alaric said, his smile turning wry
Torrhen's grip tightened once, briefly, proud, not restraining.
Alaric stepped back, surveying the corpse of the larger-than-life boar
"You did well… little brother," Alaric said as he turned to Dorren, giving him a small nod and then turning away to look around for any other signs of more wildlife
But Dorren felt them settle deep.
[Later that night]
They built a small fire before dusk, more for ritual than need.
The boar would be sent back to the city, the corpse's fur could be made into something, a gift, perhaps, or a statement, further cementing the sway they have with the king in front of the court.
But a portion they roasted there.
The wolves fed first.
Alaric watched them with that quiet comfort and adoration he always carried when near them.
Dorren sat across the fire, staring into the flame.
Ser Torrhen cleaned his boar spear methodically.
For a while, none of them spoke.
Then Alaric did.
"Do you know why Robert granted us this wood?"
Dorren shook his head.
"Because he trusts me," Alaric said with a wave of a hand, showing how indifferent he was to the king's machinations.
The words were not boastful, almost tired in tone.
"They whisper in the Red Keep," Alaric continued. "They say I grow too powerful. That the North grows too bold. That I build fleets and canals and trade routes beyond my station."
Dorren glanced up.
"Well, brother, do you?" he asked, a small smirk spreading
Alaric's mouth twitched faintly, the jest not going unnoticed
Torrhen snorted quietly.
"But Robert does not fear strength," Alaric said. "He understands it, respects it even. He believes strong men should rule strong lands."
"And the others?" Dorren asked.
Alaric's eyes flickered briefly toward the distant south.
"They prefer weak men. Easier to move, even easier to break." He paused, thinking for a moment, "The kind of men Tywin Lannister likes to send to serve his daughter
Silence stretched.
Then Torrhen spoke for the first time in a while.
"Strength without control is nothing."
Dorren looked at him.
Torrhen met his gaze.
"You held your ground. That matters, but you also nearly died."
Dorren flushed, the day's events replaying in his head.
"Fear keeps you alive," Torrhen continued evenly. "It sharpens you. Pride dulls you."
Alaric watched the exchange carefully.
"You think I am proud?" Dorren asked.
"I think," Torrhen said, voice gentler now, "that you wish to prove yourself."
Dorren looked down at his hands.
"Well, of course I do, I carry the name Snow, on top of being the bastard brother of the great Lord Alaric Stark," he said, the last bit not bitter, but concerned. Concerned he wouldnt be able to stand side by side with his brother, to support him with his own reputation.
The words came quieter than he intended.
The fire cracked softly.
Alaric did not answer immediately.
Instead, he rose and walked around the fire until he stood beside Dorren.
"You are of my blood, my brother, bastard or not," Alaric said calmly.
Dorren's throat tightened.
"I made you a Winter Knight before all of Winterfell. Before lords, Greycloaks, and most importantly, our kin."
Torrhen watched the exchange with an easy smile, something like pride emanating from his expression.
Alaric continued. "I did not do so out of charity."
Dorren's head lifted slowly.
"I did so because you earned it." Standing next to Dorren, the cold and collected Warden of the North was gone, and in his place was Alaric Stark, his older brother and idol, the one who brought him into his family with open arms all those years ago.
The words struck harder than any blow.
Dorren had been knighted. Recognized, elevating in standing.
But hearing it here, not in a hall before banners, but beneath trees with only fire and wolves as witnesses, made it real in a different way.
Torrhen stood then and moved to Dorren's other side.
"You fight like a Stark," the older knight said quietly.
Dorren almost laughed. "I am not—"
Torrhen cut him off gently.
"Legitimacy is not the only thing that makes a Stark."
Silence fell again.
Then Torrhen added, softer stilln"And besides, if you were my son, I would be proud."
The words stunned him.
Dorren could not speak.
He stared at the fire so the others would not see the glistening in his eyes.
Alaric said nothing.
But he did not look away.
Night deepened.
The wolves settled in a loose circle around them.
Alaric remained standing.
"Dorren."
He rose at once.
Alaric drew his blade again, not in threat, but in ceremony.
"Repeat it."
Dorren knew the words.
He knelt.
"In the cold of winter and the heat of summer, in war and in peace, I stand as shield and sword to the North. My life for my lord. My honor for House Stark."
Alaric lowered the blade to his shoulder, light, steady.
"Rise anew, my Knight of Winter."
When Dorren stood, Torrhen's hand clasped briefly at the back of his neck, firm, grounding.
The gesture was almost unconscious.
Almost paternal.
Alaric sheathed his sword.
"The court may whisper," he said quietly. "They may question and scheme."
His gaze moved between them both.
"But here, in the forest, in the cold, and in blood and steel, we know who we are."
Torrhen nodded once.
Dorren felt something settle inside him.
It was a warm feeling, something that he has been chasing all this time.
Belonging.
[One hour later, the outskirts of King's Landing]
The trio rode beneath starlight.
The wolves roaming ahead like scouts on patrol.
Dorren kept his posture straighter than before.
Not from pride, but certainty.
Ser Torrhen rode closer now, not behind, but beside him.
After a while, the older knight spoke low enough that only Dorren could hear.
"You did well."
Dorren glanced at him.
"As you said, I almost died."
Torrhen's mouth curved slightly.
"Most men do, and yet here you are, standing taller than ever."
Dorren huffed quietly.
Torrhen continued.
"But you listened. You moved, and most importantly, you trusted your wolf. And you trusted us." A long pause between them ended once Torrhen continued, "That is what makes a man dangerous."
Ahead of them, Alaric slowed his horse slightly, allowing them to draw even.
The three rode side by side for a stretch.
Not lord and sworn sword.
Not bastard and trueborn.
Just three Northmen beneath southern stars.
As the lights of King's Landing began to flicker faintly in the distance, Dorren looked once more toward the dark line of trees behind them.
The Kingswood had not felt like home.
But for a few hours, beneath branches and the moon and firelight, something had shifted.
Alaric had renewed him.
Torrhen had claimed him.
And Dorren Snow no longer felt so alone.
Tempest howled once, low and resonant.
Shadow answered.
Cinder's amber eyes glinted in the dark.
And the three riders of the North returned to the lion's den together, ready to combat any challenge that may come their way.