King's Landing was never meant for wolves. Eddard Stark knew it from the first moment he had ridden through its gates. The city smelled of rot and ambition, of too many men crowded into too little space. Its walls hummed with whispers and schemes, and its throne was built on blood.
In another life—the one that belonged to the Eddard Stark who had died—he had trusted too much, leaned too heavily on honor, and paid for it with his head on the steps of Baelor's Sept. But this life, this body now fused with the soldier he had once been on Earth, was not so easily broken.
The mysterious being had granted him gifts beyond reckoning, and Eddard Stark had used them carefully, quietly, beneath the notice of kings and spiders alike.
Eddard had played his part as Hand of the King. He confronted Cersei with the truth of her children's parentage, tested loyalties, and searched for allies. But he had also learned from his past mistake: this time, he revealed just enough, never all. He watched faces closely, listening not only with his ears but with his sharpened senses—the quickened heartbeats, the subtle shifts of breath that betrayed liars and schemers alike.
He knew the city was a nest of daggers. Varys whispered in riddles, Littlefinger smiled too easily, Renly spoke of opportunity, and Cersei threatened like a cornered viper. Each encounter confirmed what he already knew: King's Landing was not a place of honor, but of survival.
And survival was now his greatest weapon.
When Robert Baratheon fell to the boar, events moved swiftly, just as Eddard remembered they would.
He stood by the window of his chambers, overlooking the city sprawling below. "So many eyes," he muttered. "And not one to be trusted."
Harwin, one of his household guard, shifted uneasily. "M'lord… the men grow restless. They know the Queen moves against us. They whisper of escape, though the Gold Cloaks watch every street."
Edward turned, his grey eyes cold steel. "Escape is possible. Survival is not."
The men fell silent, for they knew he spoke not only of swords and spears but of something deeper—something primal that lurked beneath his skin. Edward's power, that cursed and blessed inheritance, had been honed in secret for a year. He had hidden it even from Robert, even from Catelyn. But now the time for secrecy was ending and if he want to escape has to show some of his powers.
It came swiftly, as Edward knew it would.
Janus Slynt and the City Watch turned their cloaks at the steps of the throne room. His men—loyal Northmen sworn to House Stark—were cut down, butchered like cattle as Joffrey claimed his crown. Edward himself was seized, accused of treason, and dragged to the black cells.
In the darkness, he wrestled with choices no man should ever bear. If he let events unfold as fate decreed, he would lose his head before Baelor's Sept, his daughters scattered to the wolves. But the blood within him whispered of another path: power, transformation, survival.
When Varys came slithering with his soft words, Edward listened but kept his silence. "You have friends still," the eunuch said, "but the Queen has more. Mercy may be bought—for your children, if not for you."
Edward's reply was low, a growl more than speech. "Mercy is for men who fear death. I am not one of them."
That night, when the guards came to drag him to the Sept, Edward acted. The power unfurled within him, muscles swelling, bones shifting, eyes glowing like burning coals. The guards had no time to scream before claws tore through steel and flesh alike.
His loyal Northmen—some still imprisoned in the dungeons, others kept in the barracks—were freed by his hand. But Edward knew that mortal men alone could not carve a path through the city of a hundred thousand. They needed more.
At the gates of the dungeons, he turned to them. "You have followed me south. You have bled for me. But to follow me further, you must become more than men. You must become wolves of my blood."
Jory Cassel, grim and steadfast, was first to step forward. "Then let it be, my lord. Better a wolf in truth than a sheep for slaughter."
Edward's hand pressed against Jory's chest. Power surged, a rush of fire and ice intermingled, flowing into the man's veins. Jory gasped, body convulsing, then straightened, his eyes glowing faintly silver.
One by one, others followed—Harwin, Desmond, Vayon Poole, even young Tommen, a squire from the Vale who had sworn to the Stark household. Each transformation was painful, primal, but when it ended, they stood taller, faster, stronger. They were not Edward's equals, but each was now an Alpha in their own right, their strength tied to his will.
The first test came immediately. A pair of Gold Cloaks rounded the corner, torches in hand. Harwin snarled, his fangs glistening, ready to rip them apart. But Edward's voice cut through the haze.
"Hold. No rampage. No frenzy. You kill when I say, you feed when I command. You are my pack. My word is law."
The glow in his eyes flared, his Alpha's dominance crashing over them like a wave. The bloodlust subsided, leaving only disciplined silence.
Jory bowed his head. "Your will, my lord. We are bound."
"Good," Edward said. "Then we leave no witnesses. None."
The Gold Cloaks never had a chance to scream.
They moved through the Red Keep like shadows, striking only when needed. Every corpse was hidden, dragged into side chambers or burned to ash with Edward's strange flames. By the time they reached the city gates, a dozen guards lay dead, but not a whisper had spread.
Outside the walls, they moved swiftly through the night, slipping into the Kingswood. But Edward knew it was not enough to flee. The Queen would send riders, ravens, spies. Their only hope was to vanish utterly.
So they did.
Every patrol that crossed their path was slaughtered, every survivor torn apart before word could spread. Farmers and travelers who glimpsed their monstrous forms were silenced forever. Edward hated the necessity, but it was the only law his pack could not break: no witnesses.
Weeks of travel hardened them further. At night, Edward trained his pack, teaching them to shift at will, to restrain their hunger, to fight as wolves in the shadows. During the day, they wore the faces of men, passing as weary travelers when they dared to enter villages.
The bond between them grew stronger, almost unbreakable. They could feel one another's rage, one another's calm. When one faltered, Edward's will steadied them. When the bloodlust threatened to overwhelm, his dominance dragged them back.
"Your strength is not for slaughter," he told them one night around a dying fire. "It is for survival. It is for the North. Remember that, and you will endure."
Jory chuckled darkly. "And if we forget, my lord?"
Edward's eyes glowed in the firelight. "Then I will remind you."
By the time they reached the Neck, word of the turmoil in King's Landing had spread, but no one knew the truth of Edward's escape. Rumors painted him slain, or imprisoned, or fled across the Narrow Sea. None guessed that he traveled north with a pack of wolves in men's skin.
When the walls of Winterfell rose before them, Edward felt the old stones answer him, whispering welcome. He had returned, not as the lord who had left, but as something greater—and far more dangerous.
He looked to his pack, men who had been soldiers, retainers, friends, and were now bound to him by blood and power. "Winterfell is our den," he said softly. "Here we grow stronger. Here we wait. The South thinks us broken. Let them. Our time will come."
The pack bowed, their voices one. "We are yours, my lord. Now and always."
And thus, the wolf returned to the North—not as prey, but as predator, his pack hidden in the shadows, their secret sharper than any sword.