#vannyandthejets fanfiction
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The Wolf and the Wildling
Chapter Six: Daryl
༄ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Stark!OC
༄ Season: 1
༄ Warnings: swearing
༄ Word Count: 5.9k
༄ A/N: Enter Carol in her plotting and scheming era woohoo who cheered?
This chapter took so long, but I think it turned out halfway decent all things considered. So sorry we haven’t gotten into any fighting yet but I promise it’s coming. I know we’re all dying to see Daryl fight like a wildling yeahhhhhh.
White hot rage coursed through Daryl’s veins. In all his years he had never felt an anger so intense, and it was all the fault of a boy of one-and-six who, in truth, had no idea what he had done by executing Lord Eddard Stark.
Daryl remembered then why he was in the middle of all the Flea Bottomers in the first place. Arya. She was almost within his reach.
He continued shoving through the horde of filthy citizens until he reached the statue where the youngest Stark daughter had perched herself only a moment before. She was no longer there and nowhere in his sights. Twice in a span of less than a minute had he failed to save Adara’s family. The more his mind considered this notion, the heavier the weight felt on his chest. How have I managed twice to let her down so swiftly?
When he looked back to the horrific scene, Adara was still on her knees. The color was drained from her face, her jaw slackened, and she stared as if her eyes were focused on nothing. Sansa laid beside her after fainting at the sight of her father’s head being showcased to the onlookers by Sandor Clegane. Daryl’s fists clenched. It was bad enough having to watch the Hound restrain Adara and prevent her from getting to her father, but after witnessing the way he callously paraded Ned Stark’s head, Daryl knew he would kill the man who would do such a cruel thing to Adara and Sansa, so undeserving of such a taunting.
He thought back to Fawn, who was waiting patiently outside of the city. He could hardly believe the direwolf had taken the journey with him, but Robb had insisted, and Fawn practically busted down the door to her cage as though she knew exactly where she was going. She tracked ahead of Daryl for the entire trip, only stopping to hunt or sleep, and almost did not listen when Daryl told her to stay behind upon their arrival near the city gates. He had a hard time believing the Stark direwolves really understood anything about humans, and yet they proved themselves far more intelligent than any other beast he had ever encountered. Fawn loved Adara, that much was certain.
Joffrey laughed and raised his hand once more, indicating he was about to speak. The people hushed just as quickly as they had become restless.
“Now that the traitor is dead, we must revel in this triumph! Ser Negan, please come forward!” The young king gestured to his left. All heads turned, including Daryl’s, to the daunting man making his way to the steps of the sept.
Ser Negan was every bit the Clegane he was rumored to be, though Daryl was surprised to learn he wasn’t as tall as his brothers. While he was still several inches above most of the men surrounding him, the Hound had to have at least six more inches on his older sibling.
The man they called the Blade smiled smugly during his ascent to kneel before King Joffrey. His was a maniacal grin that made Daryl angrier by the second. He appeared to enjoy the spectacle he was a part of.
The Blade sported the golden coat of mail and armor of Lannister that indicated he was another man in service to the most powerful family in Westeros. His hair was shorn in a fashion similar to that of the Mountain’s, yet his stature was lean in a way similar to the Hound’s. Daryl didn’t miss the way Ser Negan stepped in the puddle of Ned Stark’s blood and guffawed with Joffrey when they both made the realization.
Adara seemed to break from her trance when Ser Negan approached, helping Sansa to her feet and holding on to her sister’s arm for dear life. It was all Daryl could do not to rush the steps and take the both of them then and there.
“Ser Negan Clegane has returned to us after his long hiatus. He has been away in the service of my grandfather, and now that he is back, he has asked us to procure for him a bride,” King Joffrey announced. One of the men who, only moments earlier, was begging Joffrey not to kill Lord Stark leaned in and whispered in the boy’s ear, but the king swatted him away. “Nonsense, Lord Baelish. Why wait for a formal meeting in the Great Hall when we can make the announcement right here in the wake of the death of Ser Negan’s late father-in-law?”
Daryl didn’t miss the subtle hint. Late father-in-law. It couldn’t be.
Adara shoved Sansa behind her and began whispering to her, but Daryl could not make out any of the words.
Joffrey turned to the Stark sisters. “Lady Adara, come here.” There was poison in his tone. Every word he spoke to her was laced with disgust, something Daryl was all too familiar with each time he heard a kneeler voice their derision for wildlings.
He felt the anger bubble up inside himself once more, this time reaching for his sword but stopping short when a woman’s voice found his ear. “If you want to save them this is not the way.”
She had short grey hair and the blue eyes of most southern women. Her purple satin robe was indicative of some form of wealth, though Daryl knew better than to trust clothing to tell him anything about someone in King’s Landing. Rick told him time and time again that nobody was honest in the capital. After witnessing the King himself lie and behead a man he vowed to show mercy, Daryl understood just how right his friend was.
Adara took wary steps toward King Joffrey and Ser Negan. The young man put a hand on her back. Daryl detected the fear plain as day on her face. Whatever transpired between the last time he had seen Joffrey as a prince and now King had been enough to scare the wits out of her.
“My mother and counselors have advised me to see to the betrothal of Ser Negan of House Clegane and Lady Adara of House Stark, joining their houses and forging alliances that will aid both the North and the South for generations to come!”
Though Sansa wept in the background, Adara’s expression hardened. To the untrained eye one might assume she was apathetic about the arrangement, but Daryl’s entire life beyond the Wall had been one of training to sense fear. It was radiating off of her in waves, and he refused to stand there while she was thrown to the dogs.
“You’ll get yourself and the Stark girls killed if you charge those steps, Daryl.”
His head whipped towards the stranger once more, and he scowled. “Who the fuck are you and how the hell do ya know my name?” Daryl let himself speak before he could think to disguise his accent. The woman smirked. “Being in the service of Lord Baelish provides me with a wealth of knowledge. Judging by that peculiar accent of yours I would guess knowledge is not as easily distributed beyond the Wall.”
Before he could snap at the woman, King Joffrey spoke again. “Lady Adara may not be the traitor’s true daughter, but Robb Stark finds value in her all the same. My mother claims killing her would do us no good, so she will spend some time in the dungeons while Ser Negan fights for us. Once the war has been won and her family decimated, she will marry him.”
With nothing more than a look, two members of the Kingsguard seized Adara by her arms and ripped her from Sansa, practically dragging her away from the Sept of Baelor and out of Daryl’s sight. He could have sworn then that he heard Fawn begin to howl somewhere beyond the city gates.
He nearly went after her, but the mysterious woman put a hand on his arm. “I know where they are going to keep her, and I know how to help you get her out of here. Do you want to save her, or do you want to jeopardize all three of Lord Eddard’s daughters’ lives with your wildling temper?”
Daryl watched Sansa beg and scream for them to bring back her sister. The woman tugged on his arm. “I can help you save her.”
Sansa collapsed to the ground again with tears flowing like rivers down her cheeks. With one final desperate look in the direction Adara had been taken, he nodded to the woman and allowed her to pull him into the crowd.
The woman led Daryl through the streets of Kings Landing, stopping only when someone shot out in front of them. Her movements were fluid as though she’d made the journey a thousand times, waving to the people she knew, straightening herself and smiling when someone scowled at her.
When they finally reached a large, ornate building with an intricate wooden door, she stopped and turned to him. “You have to pretend to be a customer.”
She spoke as if he was supposed to understand her plainly, but when she read the blatant confusion on his face, she rolled her eyes. “This is a brothel, Daryl. You are not supposed to be here, so I’m taking a great personal risk letting you in. You have to pretend to be a customer.” Her eyes darted to a woman in a sheer suggestion of a dress leading a man into the brothel. Daryl understood then and grunted in reluctant agreement. If you Old Gods are real, do me this one damn favor and keep Adara’s ears far from my whereabouts. He remembered his best friend back home and fought back a smirk. Tormund, too. He’ll never let me live this down.
The strange woman took Daryl’s hand in spite of his flinching and pulled him into the same door the previous customer entered. He noted the sigil on the sturdy wood: a bird of some kind. To his surprise, the brothel looked nothing like what Daryl expected. It was an expensive, ornate interior. Tapestries lined several of the walls. Where the fine fabrics stopped, curtains and elaborate artwork took their places. Many of the tables in the common room were covered with fruits, cakes, and gaskets of wine. A harpist sat in the corner playing a song Daryl recognized only because he could recall Mance Raydar singing it in his tent.
I loved a maid as red as autumn
with sunset in her hair.
Adara’s hair was the sunset Daryl watched each evening in Frostfang. Her eyes were the deep grey of the storm clouds that followed him when he hunted in the deepest parts of the mountains. The touch of her hand on his cheek was the soft brush of heat from all the fires he’s built to keep the worst of winter at bay.
It truly hit him in that moment, what Adara’s situation was—her father was dead, and she was forcibly betrothed to one of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms. She would be held in the capital dungeons and be subjected to the gods only knew what. The thought made him feel ill.
“Daryl,” the woman’s voice broke him from his trance. He scanned his surroundings, realizing he was in an entirely different room. It was smaller and less extravagant but still on the lavish side as far as Daryl was concerned. It was an office; he could tell that much. It reminded him of Mormont’s office if only the man had not been so accustomed to a life without color.
“I had to bring you somewhere that we would not be followed. The only people allowed in this office are the ones I permit.” As she spoke, the woman poured wine into two cups and held one out to Daryl. He took the cup from her, but he did not drink, instead eyeing her cautiously.
She frowned before downing her wine in one large swallow. “If my goal was to kill you, you would already be dead.”
Daryl slowly brought the cup to his lips, but stopped himself before he could drink. He couldn’t trust a soul in the city, and this woman knew he was a wildling. He would be a fool to drink her wine or anyone else’s. He sat the cup down on the nearest table. “Who are you?”
“My name is Carol,” she stated simply before pouring herself more wine. Daryl waited for her to continue, but she only stared at him blankly. What the fuck is it with these kneelers and their mind games?
“Carol…? Are you from a House?” It was the only way Daryl knew to identify anyone. He missed home for that reason. Everything there was so simple. You came from one of several clans and—for the most part—you didn’t need to know anyone outside of your own clan. Beyond his side of the Wall it became far too complicated.
Her laugh was dry and felt as if she were annoyed by the conversation. “House Peletier was gone long before you even knew what was on this side of the Wall. Lord Baelish took me under his wing when I was younger. I’ve been with him ever since.”
Daryl rested his hand on the hilt of his sword more so out of comfort than momentary need. He recalled Rick’s many warnings, several of them about the man they called Littlefinger. “I was told I can’t trust Lord Baelish. Guess that means I shouldn’t trust you either if you’re so close with him.”
“A wise caution,” Carol admitted. “He is an influential man, which is why being in his good graces can be of significant benefit…particularly as it concerns a certain northern lady facing an arranged marriage to a man who will likely become her worst nightmare.”
Daryl wanted desperately to shake the information out of her, but he somehow managed to remain calm despite his lack of patience. “So you’re tellin’ me Baelish wants somethin’ from me?” He could not imagine what that would be. He hardly had a possession to his name.
The harpist in the next room stopped playing, allowing Daryl to note just how loud the brothel was. The sounds of passion came at him from every direction. He was surprised he had only just taken notice. It took everything in him to keep his composure in spite of is discomfort at sounds he hadn’t heard in years.
Carol crossed her arms over her chest. “You will owe Lord Baelish a debt. When he calls upon you for a favor, you will answer emphatically.” She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a sealed scroll bearing the same emblem that was carved into the front door. “I’ll help you reach the dungeons and retrieve Lady Adara, but once it’s time to flee the city, you’ll be on your own. Written on this scroll are the directions that will lead you out of King’s Landing. Do you accept that my help means you will be indebted to Lord Baelish, and that hereafter denying him of your favor may result in unnamed consequences?” Carol held the scroll in one hand and held out the other towards Daryl.
“How do I know this ain’t some kind of trick?” He questioned, doing his best to ignore the heat creeping up his neck and into his cheeks with each moan emanating from the walls.
The smile that spread across Carol’s face appeared so sincere that he was almost fooled into thinking she was actually amused. “If you want to try your luck without me, be my guest. You saw what King Joffrey did to the most righteous man in Westeros. What do you think he would do to the wildling in watchman clothes attempting to swipe all of his bargaining power right out from under him?”
Daryl did not have to consider long. He knew she was right. He had no other options. He couldn’t run the risk of encountering the Hound or the Kingslayer with Adara by his side. He was confident in his own fighting skills, but if multiple men charged him at once, it wouldn’t be long before both their heads were posted beside Lord Stark’s.
There was one thing Carol had yet to mention, but Daryl refused to ignore it.
“Sansa. How do we get to her room?”
Carol began to shake her head before Daryl had finished speaking. “We cannot spend long inside the castle. We’re already risking enough just discussing taking Lady Adara, and Lady Sansa’s chambers are in an entirely separate area. One or more of us would end up dead.”
Daryl’s grip on his sword tightened. “Why the hell would you offer any of this if it means I gotta leave Adara’s sister with that murderous little—“ Carol was quick to interrupt him, stepping into his personal space and staring directly into his eyes with a flare of irritation. “Use whatever minute amount of intelligence you possess for just a moment, Daryl. You will already be risking life and limb just to find Lady Adara, but then you must see her safely out of this hellscape of a city and somehow make it all the way back to Winterfell in the midst of what will soon be a war between the North and South. Not to mention, now that Lord Stark is dead, she very likely has guards following her day and night as well as standing outside her door. I don’t doubt you’re a capable fighter, but you do not want to take your chances with these knights, not when they could outnumber you in seconds and certainly not when you’d be risking lives more precious than your own.”
Daryl knew she was right again, as much as it pained him to admit it.
“She won’t be safe here.” He made one last futile attempt, but Carol shot him down. “She’s marrying the King. Distressing as he may be, he’s all the protection she could possibly hope for. She will never want for a single thing and nobody will be able to reach her within those walls. With war on the horizon, who knows if you’d be able to say the same thing for her if you took her to Winterfell?”
Carol sighed. “Do I need to go on? Tell you how dreadful it would be taking both girls on the run? Tell you how you taking Sansa would mean every single southerner—and probably even a few northmen—would be hunting for you to reap whatever reward King Joffrey would surely offer for your capture? I know you care for Lady Adara, but the consequences for taking her will be nowhere near as dangerous as they would if you took her sister.”
Daryl knew Adara was not seen as much of a value as her sister. Robb Stark said as much when he’d passed through Winterfell on his way to the capital.
“My mother doesn’t care for Adara, as I’m sure you’ve observed,” Robb stated bluntly as they strolled through the godswood.
The boy had aged since the last time Daryl saw him, and it looked as if it had been years. He worried for his father. From the frantic way everyone in the castle was behaving, Daryl could tell they were all gravely concerned for their lord.
Daryl shrugged, though he did take notice. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that was any indication he could possibly slander the boy’s mother.
“She is my sister as much as Arya and Sansa. She is also one of my most trusted friends, and my father means everything in this world to me. I will not ask you to stick your neck out for us, but I do ask that you make sure they are all right. Find them, reach them somehow, and tell them we will get them home.”
Since his arrival at Winterfell, the incessant howls of Fawn crying for her mother followed Daryl wherever he went, and he could hear her still in the godswood. Robb cringed at the sound.
“Take Fawn with you. She only leaves Adara’s room to hunt. She hardly eats or sleeps. She’s no good to anyone if she starves herself to death,” said the young Lord of Winterfell. “She may one day be all that stands between Adara and those who wish her harm.”
Daryl was of half a mind to wonder aloud how he would fair traveling with a massive wolf by his side, but he held his tongue on that matter. “As you command, m’lord.”
Robb shook his head. “Call me Robb, please. You’re doing my family an incredible service. We are beyond formalities now.” Daryl only nodded in response.
They circled back towards the entrance of the woods. Robb ran a nervous hand through his curls. “My mother means for me to ask you if you’ll be fighting for us, ser. As a man of House Grimes I’m inclined to presume you will.”
Another ‘ser’ that did not belong to him. Daryl was beginning to wonder if he should just parade as a knight during his Westerosi vacations. “I’m no knight, m’lord. Robb. But I am loyal to House Grimes. As soon as I see that your sisters and father are all right, I’ll meet you on the battlefield. You have my word.”
There he was in King’s Landing as he swore he would be, and none of them were all right.
He couldn’t save Lord Eddard, but Daryl owed it to Robb to do what he could for his sisters, and no matter what Carol said to try and convince him otherwise, that included Sansa. He would just have to keep that to himself until a moment came where he could reach her.
He stared into Carol’s eyes, searching for any sign of deceit or falseness. If she was trying to trick him, he wouldn’t find the evidence in her face. Rick’s caution against trusting the people of the capital city played in Daryl’s head once again. He then recalled the fear in Adara’s eyes as her impending nuptials were announced and she was hauled into the dungeons.
It doesn’t matter if she’s trickin’ me or not. This is my only chance.
He held his hand out to Carol. “All right. You got my word; I’ll do whatever Baelish wants. Tell me the plan.”
Another rat scampered across Daryl’s foot, but he kicked it off before it could weasel into his breeches. He coughed and grunted when the stale air of the narrow tunnel filled his lungs for the hundredth time. “When was the last time anyone’s been in here?” He ducked even lower in response to the ceiling slanting closer to the ground. Whoever uses these tunnels can’t be much bigger than a child.
“This labyrinth is utilized more often than you think. Lord Grimes did tell you there are many secrets in this kingdom, did he not?” Carol spared a glance back at him, a small smirk on her face that Daryl could just barely detect in the meager candlelight she held in her left hand. “How else do you think these secrets are discovered?”
He followed her down another flight of stairs. Stairs. So many fucking stairs. He could go the rest of his days without ever using another set of stairs and lay his grave all the happier.
A faint light appeared around a corner up ahead. Daryl started to unsheathe his sword, but Carol put a hand on the pommel. “No need for blades, Daryl. It’s the Spider, as I told you it would be.” Just as she finished, a man rounded the corner with a torch in his hand. He was the same height as Carol but with a stout build. His head was remarkably devoid of a single hair and he wore dark robes with a hood sitting behind his neck. The eunuch’s smile was uncanny to the description Rick had given him. “Lord Varys smiles as if he already possesses every secret about you…even ones you yourself do not know.”
“Daryl Dixon. Lady Adara has spoken so very highly of you. Such a pity she boasts of a man she does not truly know,” Lord Varys teased. Heat crept up Daryl’s neck and he scowled, this time reaching for the dagger on his hip he found at Castle Black. The smug smile never left Lord Varys’s face as he spoke. “There’s that wildling temper I’ve heard so much about. I would not be so hasty with your weaponry just yet, my friend. You may find yourselves rather lost should a hotheaded dagger tragically slip its way across my throat.”
Carol glared at Daryl. It was enough for him to reluctantly sheath the dagger and follow them both through the tunnel.
After what felt like ages, the tunnel opened up to where he could almost stand straight. Lord Varys stopped at a wooden door a few inches shorter than Daryl’s eye line. The Master of Whispers motioned for him to come forward.
Daryl took careful steps to avoid cracking the scattered bones of rodents on the floor. When he reached the door, Lord Varys handed him the torch. “The castle dungeons are comprised of four levels. Since Lady Adara is marked a traitor’s daughter, she is being kept in the black cells, the third level that we are at now. The only light these cells see are the torch lights brought in by gaolers. There are two on duty tonight: Dwight and Simon. I dosed their wine with milk of the poppy so you will have enough time to go in, retrieve Lady Adara, and get out. You will go back through this door and follow the exact directions laid out for you in the scroll Carol provided.”
He paused to place an iron key into Daryl’s hand. “To open the cell. Good luck.”
Daryl only had a few seconds to process the instructions before Lord Varys opened the door. He frowned and looked between the two strangers who’d led him to the black cells. If this is a trap, I swear by the Old Gods I’ll kill both of you, he thought and nodded briefly before ducking and moving into the darkness.
The black cells were named aptly, for they were shrouded in darkness. Even with the light provided by the torch, Daryl could only see five feet forward. The air was foul and heavy and reeked of decay. He forced himself not to dwell on why that was as he slowly stepped through the dank hall.
Daryl heard nothing but dripping and the squeals of rats for several minutes before a small voice whispered somewhere in the distance. He pulled his sword from the scabbard. It had not occurred to him until that moment that the Spider could have lied about the sleeping gaolers. They could be awake and waiting on him somewhere in the blackness. The whispering could even be members of the Kingsguard ready to behead him the moment the light hit their white armor.
Daryl cursed himself for being so foolish. He was walking into a trap created by people who knew what he was, who knew that Rick had been helping him.
“It will all be okay, Kelly. I promise you I will figure out a way to get us out of this. I swear it on my life and on my honor as a Stark.”
The voice stopped him in his tracks. Daryl thought he might have imagined it, but that couldn’t be. He spent so many nights at Castle Black trying to remember that voice and could never recreate its beauty. It was Adara’s real voice.
He nearly broke into a sprint, ready to kill any man who tried to stop him from reaching the voice. Daryl glanced into each cell as he ran past. While most were empty, every so often he saw a pair of eyes watching him go by.
At the first sign of red his eyes found, he planted his feet to the floor. Behind the bars of the cell he was facing, three women were curled up as far from the door as they could get. Between the two he didn’t recognize, Adara sat with her head on the shoulder of one of the women and her arm laced through the arm of the other.
All three of them looked up at the same time. The two unfamiliar women gasped and recoiled at the sight of Daryl, but when Adara met his eyes, her own filled with tears. “Daryl? Gods be good, I’ve truly gone mad.”
Daryl let a chuckle escape his lips. “It’s me. I’m really here and I’m getting you out of here, m’lady.”
His nerves were so stricken upon seeing her again that he momentarily fumbled with the key before aligning it with the cell lock. He barely had time to open the door before Adara leapt into his arms and threw her own around his neck. He didn’t hesitate to envelop her and pull her as close to him as their bodies would allow, though he took care to keep the torch at length.
Her quiet sobs were muffled by Daryl’s shoulder. When he released her, Adara sniffled and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. “I can’t believe you’re here.” Her glassy eyes were like to break his heart. He carefully placed a hand on her face and caressed her cheek. Her skin was even softer than he remembered. “I’m here to take you home.”
She leaned into his touch briefly before turning to her two cellmates. The women were both young and fair with dresses similar to Adara’s.
“These are my handmaidens, Connie and Kelly. Joffrey sent them to the cells with me simply for being my friends,”Adara confessed with a guilt-ridden tone. She looked back to Daryl. “They have nowhere else to go, Daryl. They’ll die down here or be killed once I’m married to Ser Negan.”
Just the mention of the Blade made Daryl want to take Adara and run as far as his legs could carry him. He couldn’t help but picture Adara watching her father die. After such a devastating loss, he refused to allow her to bear any more death. “They’ll come with us.”
Connie and Kelly got to their feet and smiled. Adara’s hands motioned to them in ways he was unfamiliar with, but once she was done, Connie was beaming.
Daryl remembered the gaolers asleep somewhere nearby and reluctantly released Adara from his hold. “We need to move quickly. I don’t know how much time we have before someone finds us.” He took Adara’s hand. “Follow me. Stay as close as possible. Do you have your dagger?”
She used her free hand to lift the side of her skirts and pull the Valyrian steel dagger from a holster on her thigh. Daryl looked to the ceiling in a brief plea to the gods that Adara wouldn’t detect the way every part of his body tensed at the sight of her thigh.
Once she’d readjusted her dress, Adara motioned for Connie and Kelly to follow. “We’re leaving, girls.” They both smiled and fell in line behind Adara and Daryl, signaling their readiness.
Daryl led his party of four back to the wooden door. For a moment he wondered if it would be locked, but to his relief, the door opened with ease. He pushed it as far as it would go and ushered the three women through before ducking into the tunnels once more.
There was no point in using the scroll when Daryl had the directions memorized, so he pulled it from his shirt pocket and handed it to Kelly. “If something happens to me while we’re trying to leave, these are the directions out of the city.” As soon as Kelly nodded her understanding, he started for the first turn they needed to make.
Left, right, another left, down the long corridor to the third archway, second staircase to the right of the next hall.
Adara’s grip on Daryl’s hand was so tight he might have worried about loss of circulation if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with getting out of the castle.
Once they descended the stairs, they came out to an alleyway stinking of feces. The three women scrunched their noses and covered their faces with their sleeves in disgust, but Daryl hardly flinched. If they think this is bad, they wouldn’t survive the smells from the shit holes in camps beyond the Wall.
“Surely this isn’t where you entered to find us,” Adara remarked in the nasal tone resulting from her pinching her nostrils.
Daryl chuckled as quietly as he could. Even under cover of nighttime he could never be sure there weren’t eyes everywhere and ears everywhere else.
He looked to Connie and Kelly, motioning to the hoods on the backs of their cloaks. “Put those on. The less people notice us, the better.”
Adara’s red hair seemed even brighter in the moonlight, almost a flame brighter than the torch they’d abandoned in the tunnels. As much as Daryl loved it, she stuck out more than the rest of them when so few redheads dwelled beyond the Riverlands.
He removed his watchman’s cloak and carefully placed it on Adara’s shoulders. She threw the hood over her hair and giggled. “I feel like a ranger now.”
Daryl smiled before scanning the alley to make sure it was clear for them to move. “You’re much prettier than any of the rangers I’ve seen.” At that, Connie and Kelly covered their mouths to stifle their own giddy amusement.
Once he knew the coast was clear, Daryl motioned for them to move ahead. Adara led the way through the alley, moving slow enough to let him catch up. Daryl took Adara’s hand again and wove through the winding roads of Flea Bottom with the women in tow.
The city was eerily quiet. Beyond the sounds of dogs barking and the occasional open window letting music into the streets, Daryl could not believe just how quiet it was for a city so full of people. There was no time to question it, though. Whatever was keeping people from noticing them was something to be grateful for. At least, for the time.
Finally, after so many turns that Daryl began wondering if maybe he’d lost his way, they reached the hidden door on the wall that Carol wrote about in the scroll. Forcibly press the brick with seven chips on its face. He did exactly that, and the door opened.
Connie and Kelly went first with Adara close behind them. She stopped in the doorway to look between Daryl and the city. “Is this it? I’m finally leaving?”
He smiled at her with an ease he only experienced when those steel grey eyes watched him with all the earnestness in the world. “You’re finally leaving, and I swear on my life you will never have to come back.”
Adara smiled and followed Connie and Kelly beyond the city walls. Daryl brought up the rear with near complete satisfaction at his success. It was only when he’d closed the stone door and ran with the women for the woods that he realized they hadn’t encountered a single City Watchman.
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The Wolf and the Wildling
Chapter Five: Adara
༄ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Stark!OC
༄ Season: 1
༄ Warnings: major character death, loss
༄ Word Count: 4.4k
༄ A/N: The bold sentences going forward will be Connie and/or anyone else’s dialogue when they use sign language. If the words are bold and have quotations, that’ll mean that whoever is signing is also speaking. I hope that’s not too complex lol but I wanted to differentiate somehow and it’s the best I could come up with.
Also, my apologies if this chapter feels a little short. I’ve been itching to get a new one out, but this was a struggle to write. This particular death is one of the worst for me as a proud Stark loyalist. God I hate it. Anyway, it’s done and thank the gods we can all move on. Except Adara and Sansa and Arya and the rest of the Starks and even poor Daryl who was forced to watch his girl’s papa get the axe. This sucks LOL.
Adara stared up at the canopy of her bed as a million thoughts ran through her mind. The attack on her father by the Kingslayer and his men had only happened a week ago and already she felt chaos on the horizon. She missed Robb and Jon, two of the only people in the world who could always ease her anxiety, and Bran and Rickon with their sweet eyes and warm hugs.
She longed for Fawn so much it physically pained her. In her dreams she swore she felt as though she was Fawn. She ran through fields and woods, chased rabbits, trotted through the tunnels and halls of Winterfell. She even felt the small hands of her brothers stroke her fur when she slept at night.
She missed Daryl more by the hour. His scent, the gentle tone of his voice, his calloused fingers brushing against her face when they shared their kiss in the godswood. More than anything else, she couldn’t stop thinking about how right he was. The capital was dangerous. Every day she felt wandering eyes watching her every move. The first thing she did upon arriving was purchase a leather thigh holster for Daryl’s dagger. The only comfort she had was the weight of the blade under her dresses as she navigated the castle and prayed to whoever was listening that she never needed to use it.
Out of all the fearsome men she had encountered in her nearly three months in the capital, it was Petyr Baelish who made her skin crawl the most. The Hound was frightening in an obvious sort of way, but he hardly spared a glance at her. The Mountain was more beast than man, she thought, but she saw Ser Gregor even less because of his service to Lord Tywin. Prince Joffrey and Ser Jaime the Kingslayer were two others she steered clear of, but no matter Adara’s efforts, no matter how hard she tried to stay as far from the man as she possibly could, Lord Baelish was everywhere she turned. She had no reason not to trust the man, sure, but her father always told her to trust her gut above all else. Something was off about Lord Baelish. His lecherous eyes followed both her and Sansa with an intensity that made her ill. The same could be said for Grand Maester Pycelle, though he was so old and decrepit she knew she could outrun him if the occasion called for it.
Though she managed to stay away from the Kingslayer most days, she despised him more than she thought she could ever despise anyone. He killed Jory and nearly killed her father. She didn’t care that his motives were in protection of his younger brother. Anyone who would kill a king and make an attempt on her father’s life was someone she could never trust.
Now, with King Robert gravely injured, Adara’s stress only worsened. The one man in the entire kingdom who truly cared for her father’s wellbeing would be gone soon. The Kingslayer had the gall to attack Lord Stark in the streets before the King’s inevitable demise. There would be no telling what he would do once her father no longer had his best friend backing him.
Adara recalled the conversation she had with him in his chambers as he laid there with the fresh wound on his leg.
“If it hurts too terribly I can have Grand Maester Pycelle bring milk of the poppy,” Adara winced as she watched her father sweat from the intensity of the pain. He shook his head and attempted to sit up, but groaned as soon as his leg moved. “I don’t need to sleep right now, darling. It’s been days already.”
Adara sighed and took her father’s hand. “You must be quite the fighter even in your old age, taking on the Kingslayer like that.” When she smirked, Lord Stark chuckled, the laugh turning to a grunt of pain. “I may have even had him if his guard hadn’t skewered my leg from behind.”
They both glanced at his bandaged wound. “Do you want to tell me why this happened? I’ve refused to speak to anyone else. I don’t trust a soul in this place,” Adara admitted. The side of Ned’s mouth twitched. “And for that I am glad. It’s a dangerous place we’re in. I’ve tried to tell Sansa and Arya the same, but they’re so ingrained with their own matters that they hardly pay my words any mind.”
He finally adjusted himself into a comfortable position. “Cat has taken Tyrion Lannister as her prisoner. She believes he’s the one who tried to have Bran killed.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “The King has asked me to send a raven compelling her to release him, and he all but forced me to remain his Hand. He’s gone hunting and I’m to act in his stead until he returns.”
It was a heap of information to process. Adara had several questions, but only one of them was truly important to her. “Do you think Lord Tyrion tried to have Bran killed?” She didn’t know much about the man they called ‘The Imp,’ but she trusted her father’s judgement, and she knew enough about the Lannisters to know they weren’t above killing children.
“I know Cat wouldn’t act on such a thing unless she were certain. I told the King that it was on my command. If anyone asks you about it you will say the same. I take full responsibility for it. Is that clear?” Ned eyed Adara as seriously as he ever had, and she nodded quickly. “Of course, Father.”
Now she laid in bed on her third night of sleeplessness and wondered just how much stress her injured father would be under after losing Jory—along with half of the household guard—and King Robert’s death being close enough to touch. Selfishly, Adara also worried over what this would mean for her and her sisters. They rarely had time with their father as it was. How few and far between would their interactions become with the added weight of standing in place of the King? Never mind the anger of Tywin Lannister hot on his back after Lord Stark denounced Ser Gregor Clegane and sentenced him to die.
Adara did not have to wonder for long. The very next morning, as the bells of the capital chimed the news of the King’s death, her Lord Father was betrayed by Lord Baelish and the City Watchmen.
As she walked through the Red Keep with Sansa and Septa Mordane, the yelling of men and the clashing of swords could be heard in the distance. Sansa gasped, clinging to Adara’s arm. The septa commanded the girls in a hushed tone. “Go back to your room, Lady Adara, and take your sister with you. Bar the doors and do not open them for anyone you do not know.”
Adara’s heart quickened with every war cry she heard down the hallway. “What’s happening?” She took Sansa’s hand, already preparing to flee. Septa Mordane squeezed Adara’s arm tightly and urged them on, a look of sadness in her eyes. Adara looked between the old woman and the commotion down the hall once more before turning and fleeing with Sansa in tow.
Don’t look back, she thought. If you turn, you die. She hadn’t a clue what caused her to think it, but Adara knew better than to go against whatever was telling her to survive.
“Adara, what is it? What’s going on?” Sansa cried as they rounded the corner to her chambers. Adara opened her mouth to speak and tell Sansa she was just as clueless as anybody else, but instead froze when they came upon Sandor Clegane in full chainmail. She immediately moved her younger sister behind her and felt for Daryl’s dagger. Gods be good if Daryl Dixon does not turn out to be my savior for giving me this dagger, she thought.
The Hound smirked as he approached the Stark girls. The grim smile on his half-burnt face sent a wave of nausea so intense through Adara that she might have fallen to the floor if not for Sansa’s tight grip keeping her steady. She could hardly consider one thought before a new one took its place. Why was Joffrey’s personal bodyguard coming for them? Why did it sound as though men were being ripped apart in every direction? Where in the hell was her father?
With every step The Hound took, Adara’s fingers inched closer to the weapon under her dress. This was the man she’d seen fight his own brother on the day of the Tourney of the Hand. The man who was rumored to have killed more people than she had ever met in her life. She wouldn’t dare remove the dagger from its holster when he was still so many paces from her, but even if she did she knew it would be like raising a needle to a bear.
“We don’t want any trouble, Clegane. Let us pass and I will not tell my father or the Queen.” In spite of the tremor in her hands, Adara straightened her back and met his eyes. If he was about to kill her, she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her afraid.
The beast of a man chuckled and his eyes darkened as he closed the distance between them. “Who do you think sent me?”
Weeks passed in which Adara barely rose from her bed. There was no point in moving while her father sat in the dungeons beneath her, alone and cold and starving. She did not allow anyone to see her besides her two handmaidens whom she had grown to love since coming to the capital.
Connie laid beside her in the bed while Kelly, her younger sister, ate the food Adara had refused to touch. When Connie tapped Adara’s arm, the eldest Stark focused on Connie’s hands making signs and her stern face. You need to eat. You’re no good to any of us if you starve to death.
In the months they had become acquainted, both Connie and Kelly taught Adara the hand language of the common tongue. While Connie made the signs with her hands, Kelly translated and helped Adara form her own digits into the careful movements. It was time consuming work, but Adara knew she would have lost her senses if not for the sibling duo urging her to keep going and teaching her a new form of communication. Still, as days came and went without word from her father and her sister being under careful scrutiny of Queen Cersei, Adara didn’t have the motivation she possessed before. She signed a simple no and turned away from Connie.
Only a week after they put her lord father in chains did Robb call the banners of House Stark and declare war on the Lannisters. Lady Catelyn lost Tyrion in the Vale, promptly destroying the one bargaining chip they may have possessed. Sansa, still a young girl and right under Cersei’s thumb, betrayed her house when she wrote the words that named Lord Stark a traitor to the throne. Arya, only 11 then, was lost to them, likely dead in the chaos that saw an end to the entire Stark house guard. Adara could no longer keep up with all the things happening to her family, all the ways in which the life she knew was irrevocably altered.
Each day turned out to be worse than the previous. Lord Varys—“The Spider,” they called him—brought word of Robb’s travels in the hopes that it would enliven her spirits, but all Adara felt was dread when she heard that the sweet boy she once knew was a man intending to fight Lannister armies. A dread that weighed upon her so heavily she wondered if it would kill her.
“You won’t eat. We can’t force you, but you have to get up, Lady Adara. King Joffrey has summoned both you and your sister to court.” Kelly finished off the last lemon cake on the tray of food as she spoke.
Adara chuckled with a tinge of barely controlled anger. “How lovely. It’s always been my dream to go to a royal court, to stand beside the rich lords and ladies of Kings Landing and share space with the gallant knights of the Kingsguard.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she mocked the idealistic view of the kingdom that she possessed before it was smashed to pieces, yet she sat up in her bed nonetheless. Adara knew as well as anyone what would happen to her if she ignored Joffrey’s command. She had no choice.
Connie smiled sadly. Maybe they will release your father today. It could be for something good. Even as the young handmaiden signed the words, Adara saw in her eyes that she was only saying them to comfort her. Hope was almost completely lost on her now, but she was grateful to her sweet friends for trying. She took Connie’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze of thanks before rising from her bed.
“Whatever happens today, I need you both to promise me you will not interfere.” Kelly opened her mouth to speak and Connie was already signing, but Adara held a hand up to stop them. She looked to Kelly to translate for her sister, as Adara was still unable to recall every word of sign language. “I am labeled a traitor’s daughter now, as is Sansa, and we are without our family or our household guard. We’re no longer safe here and we’re both at the mercy of the new King,” she began, a lump catching in her throat at the thought of being in Joffrey Baratheon’s hands. She should have found comfort in the notion that she would not be the one to wed that monster, yet anguish filled all the crevices of her heart because her innocent little sister would be the one suffering so.
Adara swallowed her fears so she could continue without crying. “Sansa will marry him and that will keep her safe enough, but I am just as disposable as any stranger in court. They have no use for me, therefore they have even littler use for the two of you. I refuse to see either of you hurt on account of myself, so you will not speak a word or make a move no matter what occurs in that hall.”
Connie’s eyes welled with the tears that Adara was fighting with all her strength to keep at bay. You are not disposable. Surely with the war starting the Lannisters know that killing you would only be hurting themselves.
Adara smiled sadly at her sweet friend and signed her words to the best of her ability as she spoke. “While Father lives they will not kill me, and I know they will never kill him. Joffrey is backed by too many intelligent people to be so reckless. They could kill the both of you simply for associating with me if Cersei or Joffrey were to say the word. That is what I care about.” She refused to lose anyone else she cared for in that horrible place. There would be no more losses after Jory, Septa Mordane, Arya, and now her father, who was all but dead.
They moved in silence after that, Connie and Kelly carefully dressing Adara in a capitol gown of blue satin with a high neckline and wide sleeves that nearly touched the floor when her arms were at her sides. She loathed both the feel and the look of it. Such a thin material for a place that never experienced the harsh winters of the North, and so ugly how it hugged her in all the wrong areas. She missed how Sansa got her measurements right every time.
The two sisters began to style Adara’s hair in the manner of all southern women of the time, the way Queen Cersei wore it to court, but she stopped them. “They won’t let me wear my northern dresses, but I am not throwing bundles of hair on top of my head like a beehive. I don’t care what the ladies in court say.”
Connie and Kelly giggled before opting for the simpler style of Adara’s people, pinning her red strands to the side the way Lady Catelyn taught her. She remembered the woman’s stern voice as she showed Adara exactly how to wear her hair. “You’re a lady of the North, so you will fashion your hair like one. I’ll only show you once. Watch closely.”
For the first time since leaving home Adara wondered where Lady Catelyn was, how she was fairing. However they felt about each other, Adara knew the woman’s love for her children was beyond measure. Had she received word of Arya’s disappearance? Did she know her husband sat in the castle dungeons deprived of food or water, declared a traitor of the crown?
Adara’s only comfort lied in knowing they would never kill Lord Ned Stark, and Lady Catelyn had to have the same faith.
“He has to confess and say that I am the king, or there will be no mercy for him,” King Joffrey commanded in words that were strangely empathetic.
Adara’s eyes flew between the young king and his future bride. Sansa remained on her knees in the Great Hall with the eyes of the entire court upon her. Beside Joffrey on the throne, Queen Cersei, Lord Varys, Littlefinger, Grand Maester Pycelle, and The Hound waited silently for Sansa’s reply while the Kingsguard was lined in front of her.
“He will,” Sansa finally assured him, sending a wave of panic through Adara’s entire body. She felt Connie and Kelly take her hands.
On their way to the Great Hall Adara told them explicitly that though her father would never admit he was wrong, she was sure he would not die for it. Now there they stood, the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms announcing the imminent death of Eddard Stark if he did not confess his treason to the world. Connie and Kelly both knew as well as Adara did that her father was as good as dead.
Joffrey stood from the great iron throne. “It is settled then. Have the people gather at the Sept of Baelor where Lord Stark will be given his chance to confess.” He turned to his executioner, who was standing in the corner of the room with Lord Stark’s own greatsword, Ice. “Ser Illyn will be there if he decides to remain a traitor.”
Adara’s eyes found Sansa’s then, and her heart broke for the naïve little girl with the proud smile on her face, the smile that said she truly believed she’d just saved her father’s life.
Adara stood between Littlefinger and Sansa in front of the Sept of Baelor only a few hours later. She watched in horror as two Golden Cloaks brought her limping father through the crowd of the agitated city populous. They hurled insults at him and pointed in his face, but when he passed one man in the black clothing of the Night’s Watch, a look passed between them, maybe even a word, before the stranger turned his head toward the statue of Baelor the Blessed. When she followed his gaze, she saw what her father meant and her breath caught in her chest.
Arya, dirty and clearly petrified, squatted beside the legs of the statue. Her eyes squinted in the sunlight as she watched their father being practically carried up the steps. Just as she made to tell Sansa, Adara remembered who they were standing by. She glanced to Littlefinger and Cersei on either side of them. If they heard her, Arya would be another Stark taken prisoner, or maybe killed because she fled. Adara’s only choice would have to be telling Arya to leave before she was caught.
Try as she might, she couldn’t get her youngest sister’s attention, but instead her eye caught to the figure dressed similarly to the watchman her father passed. When he shaded his eyes from the sun, Adara thought her heart would leap from her chest. “Daryl,” she breathed, covering her mouth as soon as she spoke his name. Littlefinger nor Sansa acted as though they heard it. Their focus was too heavy on Lord Stark’s slow ascent.
Daryl’s head turned as though he were looking for something until his eyes landed on Adara, at which point she had to fight every instinct she’d ever known not to jump into the crowd of angry citizens and run into his arms. He started towards the crowd, likely intent on getting to Adara himself, but she raised her hand just enough to make him halt. She willed Daryl to see. Arya, she beckoned, praying to any gods that he would understand the begging in her face and the trail of her eyesight. Arya is on the statue. Get to her, Daryl. Please.
Her father began to speak, gaining the attention of every soul before the sept. “I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King.” The hundreds of people remained so quiet that all she could hear was the sound of her own heart beating rapidly in her ears. Lord Stark turned to his daughters for a moment, and Sansa nodded to him. Adara’s eyebrows furrowed. Surely not, she thought. Surely he would never lie.
“I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men,” Lord Stark began, and a genuine smile spread across Adara’s face. He was confessing; he was saving himself. Her father would live.
“I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold I plotted to murder his son and seize the throne for myself,” Ned continued, earning the angry cries and jeers of the people of King’s Landing. A rock the size of Adara’s fist cracked against her father’s forehead and nearly sent him to the ground, but Sandor Clegane managed to keep him steady. Adara gasped and took Sansa’s hand. She felt a light squeeze that assured her: Father will be okay.
She looked back to Arya who was studying the commotion with her usual intense gaze. When she searched for Daryl, he was no longer in the place he once stood, but instead shoving through the crowd.
“Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the iron throne, by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Stark finished. Adara’s heart grew heavy watching her father tremble with the weight of his own words. She knew as well as he did that nothing he spoke was true, yet he said it not for the sake of himself, but for his family.
Grand Maester Pycelle calmed the crowd before talking of the gods being just and merciful, two things Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane used to tell her. Pycelle asked King Joffrey what they should do with Lord Stark, spurring the people into another fit of protests and catcalls. Joffrey raised a hand. “My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night’s Watch. Stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And my Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father.”
Adara fought the urge to vomit not only at the thought of her beloved father spending the rest of his days among thieves and rapists, but at the mental image of Sansa being trapped there with the demonic young king, forced to bear his children and the brunt of his abuse.
It was then that Adara saw the change in the king’s face just before he turned to the people below them. “But they have the soft hearts of women!” The declaration set her nerves ablaze, the hair on her arms raising.
“So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished!” Joffrey cried. Sansa’s smile fell from her face and she looked to Adara in a silent plea for her to do something. The dagger, Adara remembered. Just as she started to reach under her skirts, Joffrey made the command. “Ser Illyn, bring me his head!”
Sansa leapt forward, but a member of the Kingsguard quickly trapped her in his arms as she screamed. Queen Cersei took her son’s arm and chastised him, begging him to reconsider. The indignant crowd was sent into an uproar.
Adara’s eyes frantically searched for Arya, but she was no longer clinging to Baelor’s leg. She felt for her dagger, but two strong arms wrapped around her waist and bound her own arms to her sides. “I know what you’ve got under that dress, Red. If you want to keep that dagger and your head, you best leave it be.” The harsh tone of The Hound grunted in her ear. Adara froze in fear of the vile monster charged with keeping her at bay. All she could do was watch as Ser Illyn Payne threw on his executioner’s mask and bounded up the steps.
Lord Varys and Littlefinger pulled Joffrey aside, but he would not hear them, his eyes too entranced by Ser Illyn pulling Lord Stark’s own greatsword from its sheath. Ice glistening in the sunlight made Adara’s blood run cold. She found her voice then, letting her cries mingle with the biting shrieks of her little sister beside her. “Father! Father, please!”
Lord Stark’s head turned briefly towards her and she met his gaze. Through the dirty strands of hair clinging to his sweat-soaked brow, Adara could see the fear in his eyes. For it did not matter what he’d said. King Joffrey intended to kill him and they’d all been played for fools to believe otherwise.
“Oh, please! Joffrey, please! Take me instead!” Adara belted.
Ser Illyn brought Ice down slowly in a rehearsal. Adara’s voice became hoarse. “TAKE ME! PLEASE STOP, PLEASE!” Hot tears streamed across her cheeks as she fought helplessly against The Hound’s powerful restraint.
Lord Stark’s head bowed.
Ser Illyn Payne lifted Ice once more.
Through the yelling of the citizens of the kingdom, through the strangled cries of her sister, through the confused pleas of Joffrey’s counselors, and even through her own anguished bellowing, Adara heard the Valyrian steel blade cut through her father’s flesh and split his head from his body.
#game of thrones#a song of ice and fire#asoif/got#asoif fanfic#asoiaf#house stark#daryl dixon#the walking dead#twd fanfiction#daryl dixon twd#twd#stark!oc#stark!daughter#daryl dixon x oc#daryl dixon x stark!daughter#the wolf and the wildling#the wolf and the wildling series#got#game of thrones fanfiction#game of thrones series#got fanfiction#direwolf#twd x got#the walking dead x game of thrones#fanfiction#vannyandthejets#vannyandthejets fanfiction
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The Wolf and the Wildling
Chapter Four: Daryl
༄ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Stark!OC
༄ Season: 1
༄ Warnings: some swearing, injury, mentions of violence
༄ Word Count: 5.5k
“Your girl and that butcher’s boy attacked my son,” Queen Cersei chided. “That animal of hers nearly tore his arm off.”
Daryl stood beside Adara in the Great Hall, along with Lord Stark’s men, King Robert and his men, and the Lord of Winterfell himself. Young Arya planted herself in front of Adara and allowed her older sister to put a protective arm across her chest.
King Robert sat beside his wife and son, his expression one of anger that Daryl could tell he was struggling to feel. If what Adara said was true, King Robert and Lord Stark were too close to have any resentment towards one another. Besides, it didn’t take a genius to see that Robert loathed his wife and barely acknowledged his son’s existence. All of this outrage was Cersei’s doing.
When Daryl looked over to Adara, he knew the malice in her eyes to be authentic. She was the angriest person in that room.
They went with the search party to look for Arya, and when Jory Cassel, the captain of the Stark household guards, brought news that Lannister men found her first and brought her before the King, Adara became so furious that Daryl feared for the life of the first man who might try to get in her way on their trek back to the castle.
She stood beside him now, her eyes boring into Cersei and Joffrey with such intensity that every time the Prince glanced at her, his eyes immediately moved back to the floor and he took a small step closer to his mother. If it were any other situation, Daryl might have been fighting back a laugh, but he understood the gravity of what was happening. Daryl knew well enough from Rick that when a Lannister was harmed in any way, somebody would pay.
He tuned back in when King Robert asked Lord Stark where his “other daughter” was. Though Lord Stark confidently stated Sansa was in her chambers, Cersei confirmed otherwise when she beckoned Sansa into the room.
All heads turned when the young girl entered, looking every bit like the Tully side of her genetic makeup. Daryl spared another glance at Adara, who seemed just as surprised as the rest of the population in the Great Hall. She put both arms around Arya then and pulled her sister as close to her as she possibly could.
The King’s Justice, a man they called Ser Illyn Payne, stood directly behind them. His beady eyes and constant frown unsettled Daryl enough to make him want to force himself between Adara and the silent knight. He knew the man had his tongue removed by the Mad King, but his eyes were so haunting that he didn’t need words.
As soon as Sansa finished telling the King that she had no memory of what happened by the river, Arya pounced on her, screaming that she was a liar and pulling her hair. Adara and Lord Eddard quickly separated them, and Adara moved between the girls. “Stop this. Right now,” she commanded through gritted teeth. Sansa and Arya both listened, but not without glaring at their older sister.
“She’s as wild as that animal of hers. I want her punished,” the Queen spat with a smirk on her face. Adara opened her mouth to speak, but Ned eyed her carefully. Thankfully, she was stopped by the King’s exasperation. “What would you have me do? Whip her through the streets? Dammit, children fight! It’s over.” Cersei attempted to speak for their son, but King Robert hardly listened, instead scolding Joffrey for letting Arya best him. Daryl had to put his head down to hide his smile, and he could tell Adara was fighting one back as well as the men in the Great Hall murmured their own amusement.
King Robert told Lord Stark to punish Arya herself and he would see about the Prince. Just as the Starks turned to leave with Daryl right behind Adara, Queen Cersei brought up Arya’s direwolf. All three Stark girls stopped in their tracks. Daryl watched Adara’s eyes widen and he sucked in his own breath.
One of the King’s men admitted that they couldn’t find the wolf, but Cersei refused to back down. “They have another wolf.” At that, Adara turned on her heel. King Robert agreed to the decision, disregarding Lord Stark’s pleads for reconsideration.
Sansa shouted and begged them to stop, her eyes filling with tears. “Lady didn’t bite anyone! SHE’S GOOD!” Arya began crying as well as she angrily defended her sister’s pet. Adara shoved the two girls behind her and took Lord Stark by the arm, a single tear sliding down her own cheek. “Father, please.”
Ned made one last attempt, asking King Robert if he truly meant it. When the King gave one stern look before storming off, Daryl’s heart sunk for the three sisters. Adara gasped and pulled Arya and Sansa into her arms as they both began sobbing. All he could do was watch as anger boiled inside of him on their behalf.
The Queen commanded Ser Illyn to put the wolf down, but Lord Stark stopped him. He looked to Adara with grief-stricken eyes. “Adara, take the girls to their rooms.” He took a step forward and informed Cersei that he would be the one to kill Arya’s direwolf. “The wolf is of the North. She deserves better than a butcher.” With that, he left the Great Hall, several of his men following.
Arya and Sansa clung to Adara as they wept. She put her hands on her sister’s backs and gently moved them forward. With one look to Daryl, he knew he was supposed to follow, though he’d planned on going either way. Ser Illyn’s eyes followed Adara too much for his liking. He shoved past the mute executioner and led the Stark sisters out of the Great Hall.
The hour was late when Daryl left the guest chambers to get fresh air. Winterfell was colder in the night, but felt like a summer’s day compared to the freezing temperatures he was used to.
His steps were quiet as he moved down the hall and into the courtyard. There were still some men in the armory, preparing the horses and wagons for the journey the Starks would be facing at sunrise. They loaded a trunk onto one of the wagons with a red A on the front. Daryl smiled when Adara’s face came to his mind, but that smile was quickly replaced by a sadness he hadn’t expected to be so heavy.
She would be leaving at first light, moving to a place full of thieves, liars, murderers, and worse. She would have protection, Daryl knew that, but whoever would be watching her would not be enough.
“There’s not a single good man in Kings Landing,” he recalled Rick’s words about the benevolent capital. “Everyone there will use whoever they can to get whatever they want, or they’ll kill you. It’s why Northerners never travel that way. We know we’ll never make it out alive.”
Daryl tried not to imagine what Queen Cersei and her lying son would do to Adara and her sisters when they were no longer in the safety of their home. He barely interacted with either of them, yet he understood exactly who Cersei was the moment she lied simply to get Sansa’s wolf killed. She smiled as she spoke the words. She enjoyed every moment of heartbreak she caused the Stark girls, and Prince Joffrey’s eyes widened in a pleasure that made Daryl’s skin crawl. It was as if he were picturing the wolf dying in his mind, relishing in the animal’s suffering.
When he walked Adara back to her chambers—after helping her see her sisters to their own rooms—she cried just as hard as she had the last time they were there. She whispered of her hatred for the Queen and the Prince, and she cursed herself for feeling a small amount of gratitude that Fawn hadn’t been the one under her father’s blade. The entire time, Daryl held her and let her express her frustrations, all the while wondering how much worse things might become for her once she went south.
“I must admit I was surprised to see you here, Daryl,” a man’s voice said behind him. Daryl turned to face Ned Stark, looking weary after having been forced to kill his daughter’s beloved pet. Daryl scratched the back of his neck nervously. Was he supposed to tell Lord Stark that it was his daughter who summoned him? Surely Adara wanted that to remain a secret, he thought.
“Lord Grimes asked me to come back to White Harbor when they believed Lady Michonne would be laboring. He told me about what happened with Bran while I was there, so I came to see if I could be of any help.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. That was the best Daryl could do. Lord Stark seemed fully accepting of it, because he smiled. “I thank you for that. I must say, though, that I was surprised when Lord Grimes first told me of your coming so many months ago. I’d heard of you and your many journeys to the Wall, of course, but that was the first time Lord Grimes had ever asked us to host you.”
Daryl wondered for a moment if Lord Eddard was testing him—attempting to see if he could catch him in a lie—but when he looked into the man’s eyes, all he saw was curiosity and trust. It surprised him only briefly. Lord Eddard was Warden of the North, soon-to-be Hand of the King, and most of all, he was a Stark. He’s not wanted for a thing in his entire life. He’s been safe. He was raised by good men who were raised by good men. It’s no wonder he had such uncomplicated faith in people. He had never been given any reason not to trust them.
“I’m not a man who likes being seen,” Daryl explained, and that was the truth. “I do what Lord Grimes asks of me, but I try to do it as quietly as I can.” Another honest admission. He wouldn’t go as far as saying he lived in the shadows, but when Daryl made his trips south of the Wall, anything Rick needed done was done with as much secrecy as he could muster. Being discovered for the wilding that he was would cost him not only his own life, but possibly the lives of Rick and his family.
Lord Stark chuckled and rested his hand on his sword. “I can certainly respect that. It seems an easier way to live. A part of me envies you.” Daryl sensed a sadness in his tone when he uttered the last sentence. He wondered if the Warden of the North was having second thoughts about his decision to become Hand of the King.
There was a brief silence in which Daryl’s eyes traveled to the hall that held Adara’s chambers. He wondered what Lord Eddard would think if he knew his adopted daughter had a wildling in her room—more than once, in fact.
“Do you intend to head for the Wall soon?” The man’s question reverted Daryl’s focus back to their conversation. He was so focused on getting to Winterfell to help Adara that it only occurred to Daryl in that moment that he hadn’t the faintest clue what his plans would be once she left. He supposed he would have to go back to White Harbor before Michonne had the baby, then go back home. He didn’t have many people who would miss him at Frostfang, but Daryl thought that if he was extremely quiet, he could hear Tormund yelling about how he hadn’t returned from his hunt.
“I’ll go to White Harbor first, to be there for the birth of Lord Richard’s new child. The Wall will come after that,” he finally informed Lord Eddard. The man smiled and watched as the last of his daughters’ belongings were hauled onto the wagons.
“I should get to bed before Catelyn wonders where I am.” Lord Eddard held his hand out to Daryl. “It was good to see you once more, Daryl. Gods be good, I hope our paths cross again. Lord Richard is a fine man and he’s chosen a fine man as his trusted friend.” Once they exchanged their Northman handshake, Lord Stark was off to his chambers, leaving Daryl with his thoughts once again.
He wondered idly when their paths would cross again. It never occurred to Daryl that the next time he saw Ned Stark’s face, he would be looking upon the man’s severed head.
Daryl stood in the courtyard again the following morning, donning his armor from House Grimes. His eyes followed Adara as she left Bran’s chambers, wiping her eyes before taking the stairs to the ground. She wore a brown riding gown with a leather overcoat, her direwolf pin keeping the coat across her waist. Her hair was tied back with a white ribbon, her thick tail of red curls swaying across her back as she moved. Fawn followed her closer than she had in the past, as though she could tell her mother was leaving.
When Adara saw Daryl, she smiled, but her legs took her to her father. Daryl frowned only for a moment before he watched her speak a quick word with Lord Stark, spare a glance his way, and saunter to the godswood. Fawn stopped and stared at Daryl as Adara went on. It only took a few seconds for the chills to creep up his spine and force him to move in the same direction.
Adara stood facing the heart tree when Daryl reached her. She didn’t speak for what felt like ages, letting the gentle cool breeze blow her hair ribbon towards him. Fawn whined and moved so her head was under Adara’s hand.
“I’ve had to say goodbye to Robb, Jon, Bran, and now you. Oddly enough, my heart seems to hurt just as much when I look at you as it did when I last saw my brothers.” She turned to him then, and Daryl wondered if that look would be what sent him to an early grave. He would have planted his sword in the earth and sworn fealty to House Stark in perpetuity if that’s what it took to wipe the devastation from her face.
He cleared his throat nervously. “I couldn’t sleep last night…thinking of you in Kings Landing.” Daryl wasn’t exactly sure why he said it, but something was compelling him to speak his mind, damned the limited amount of time they had left. “I feel sick every time I think about how far you’ll be. Why do I feel this way when we barely know each other?”
Adara’s eyes brimmed with tears and she smiled. “It seems like every time we’re together I’m emotional. I promise you I’m not always like this.” They both huffed small laughs. Adara’s eyes flicked to the courtyard tunnel. “I have to go soon.”
Daryl wanted so many things. He wanted to tell her he felt drawn to her, that every time she looked at him he was certain he could fight a dragon and win, that the sound of her voice was more beautiful than the greatest performance any bard could conjure. He wanted to know what her lips would feel like against his own. He wanted to know if the rest of her skin was as pale as the glimpse he got of her legs. He wanted her as close to him as one could possibly get.
“Daryl,” Adara breathed, breaking him from his near lustful thoughts. He hadn’t realized she moved towards him. In an instant they were back where they had been three months ago, standing in the godswood, abutting each other without actually touching.
She was so tall that they were almost level. Her eyes, grey as a winter sky, bored into his crystal blues. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again,” Adara spoke just above a whisper. “The thought fills me with anguish.” Before Daryl could process her words, her shaky hand crept up his breastplate. As delicately as he had ever felt another person’s touch, her fingers brushed against his neck and came to cup the side of his face. “All the times I spent crying to you and I never once touched your face when I so badly wanted to.” Her hand moved to twirl a strand of his hair around her index finger. “Three months you were gone and so many of my selfish thoughts centered around this hair.”
Daryl didn’t know what possessed Adara to be so bold, but he promised himself that anyone who interrupted in that moment would die before they could utter a word if they made her stop. He feared so many things if he touched her despite the longing in every part of him that yearned for her. But she was touching him. Who was he to deny a lady of the most noble house in the North?
“Lady Adara, I—“ She was quick to stop him with the most serious look on her face that Daryl had seen yet. “I knew the only way I would ever get you to do anything would be if I moved first, but if you don’t kiss me soon, I’ll ask the gods right here in these woods to give you greyscale of the groin, Daryl Dixon.”
He took one sharp breath before bringing his right hand to the side of Adara’s head, his finger carefully weaving between strands of her auburn locks. Slowly, with the chilled winds of the end of the long summer swirling between them, Daryl brought Adara’s face to his and gently pressed her lips to his own.
He could vaguely recall other times in his life that he’d kissed a woman, all of them crazed Free Folk women who went from the joining of lips to clawing and biting in a matter of seconds. There was no patience when it came to the hard, aggressive women on his side of the Wall. As Daryl let his lips dance with Adara’s for a moment longer, however, he wondered if this woman was who Tormund was always talking about. With just one kiss, Adara had brought more joy to Daryl than he’d ever experienced with all the wildling women his lips had ever touched combined.
“When you find a woman whose lips are soft as the fresh snow, whose skin feels like silk when she touches you, that’s when you’ll know you’re fucked, little archer,” his best friend told him one night while they were eating a late supper. Little archer, Tormund called him, a name he’d bestowed upon Daryl when they were kids and Daryl shot and killed a crow with an arrow who was chasing Tormund. Granted, Daryl was only a couple inches shorter than him now, but the man was almost as persistent with his nicknames as he was at killing.
The distant call of Adara’s name broke them apart. Adara smiled at Daryl and used her sleeve to wipe his lips. “Wouldn’t want anyone to wonder why you’ve been stained red.”
Daryl felt as though he was in a haze. He watched her crouch down and hug Fawn to her chest, whispering things to the direwolf that he was too far gone to understand.
When she stood straight again, she covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Am I that bad?” He could tell by her expression that she was jesting with him, but Daryl stammered over his words anyway. “Oh— I— No, m’lady, it’s not that.”
Adara took Daryl’s hand. “I’m teasing you, Daryl. I don’t mean to embarrass you.” Her name was called again, this time by her father. Daryl looked down at their hands and back to the lady before him. “This won’t be the last time we see each other. I won’t let this be it.” Even as he spoke the words, he had no idea how he would make their reunion happen. She didn’t even know who he really was, where he was truly from, and she would hate him if she ever discovered it.
Daryl was overcome with the need to protect Adara from the south, but seeing as there would be no way for him to follow her without raising suspicions, all he could do was give her something that might help.
He hesitantly let go of her hand and plucked Rick’s Valyrian steel dagger from his hip. The blue stone and its grey companion shone in the early morning light. Adara gasped. “This dagger is the same shape as the one that the cutthroat tried to use on Bran.”
Daryl’s eyebrows shot up. “Lord Grimes gave it to me. He says it was one of the few weapons they got out of Valyria after The Doom.” He held it out to her horizontally. “If it reminds you too much of what happened, you don’t have to take it…but I could sleep easier if I knew you had it with you when you went to the capital.”
Adara’s fingers wrapped around the black hilt as she examined the magic-made rivulets of the blade. “This is a gift to you, Daryl. I couldn’t possibly accept it.” He began shaking his head before she’d finished speaking. “I want you to have it. I’m not saying I don’t trust your father’s guards to look after you, but you need something to protect yourself with. Kings Landing is too dangerous not to have your own weapon.”
“I don’t even know how to use a dagger, let alone any other weapon,” Adara maintained, attempting to hand it back to him, but he put his hand up. “Tell you what. Next time we see each other I’ll teach you how to use all the weapons you can handle. For now, just keep it safe for me. The men of the Night’s Watch are all thieves and crooks. I’d probably lose it after one day.” He smirked, and Adara blushed under his gaze.
She turned to the courtyard tunnel and sighed. “I have to go.”
Daryl nodded sadly. “I know.” He took her hand once more and gave it a gentle squeeze. Adara returned the gesture before letting go to lift her dress. Daryl’s eyes flew elsewhere as heat radiated in his face. Adara laughed heartily. “I was putting the dagger in my boot!” She put her hand on his arm, making Daryl turn back to look into her eyes. He studied those vast, grey orbs as though they were the most fascinating things he’d ever seen. Frankly, in that moment they were. He would’ve fought every member of the Kingsguard to keep looking at them.
“Thank you, Daryl,” Adara breathed, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into a tight embrace. His hands found her back and he pressed her further into his breastplate. “We’ll see each other again, m’lady. I promise.”
She released him and motioned for Fawn to follow her back to the courtyard. With one final look as she walked away from him, Adara beamed at Daryl. “I will hold you to that, Ser.”
“OPEN THE GATE!” A watchman called from inside the walls of Castle Black.
A few seconds passed in which snow fell in Daryl’s eyes, but Nerio began moving the moment the gates started to open. When Daryl cleared his vision, he saw Lord Commander Mormont, Ser Allister Thorne, Maester Aemon, and Othell Yarwyk, the main men in charge of the Night’s Watch. He must have interrupted a training day, he thought, because it seemed as though every new recruit was standing in the courtyard then.
Daryl dismounted Nerio and approached Mormont as dozens of cautious eyes followed him. He spotted Jon Snow off to one side, his direwolf, Ghost, beside him. The white wolf and his red eyes were just as unique as Fawn, and he was even the same size as her. It sent a pang in his chest just looking at the animal. Adara was nearly all he thought about when he'd gone to White Harbor for a month, and she was all he thought about his entire month-long journey to Castle Black once Lady Michonne had given birth.
“Commander. It’s good to be back,” Daryl stated loudly. He could see Jon Snow move closer in his peripheral. Commander Mormont shook Daryl’s hand firmly before making an announcement to the group of men. “Everyone, this is Daryl Dixon of House Grimes. He’ll be staying with us for a fortnight or two. Show him your respect.”
That evening, Daryl sat with the Lord Commander in his office as they ate their dinner of venison stew, the usual feast for men of the Night’s Watch. Mormont didn’t wait long before pestering him with questions about his trip. “What did you do for five months? You’ve never been gone that long.”
Daryl thought back to the two fortnights he spent with the Grimes family. He enjoyed having so much time with friends that he rarely got to see. He played with little Judith, helped teach Carl how to shoot a bow and arrow and swing a sword. He listened to Lady Michonne’s talk about the happenings of White Harbor and how excited she was for their new baby, who turned out to be a son that they named Richard after his father. He asked Rick more questions about the White Walkers, though neither he nor Maester Eugene could answer many of them. Even with all those distractions, Daryl found his mind wandering to Lady Adara every chance he got. He nearly drove himself to madness one night trying to remember the exact cadence of her laugh.
“Lady Grimes wanted me in White Harbor for the baby comin’, so I stayed there.” It was only half a lie, but Daryl knew full well how Mormont would react if he mentioned that he interacted with the Starks. The man was convinced they would somehow see right through his Westerosi farce.
The Lord Commander nodded with understanding. He was wary of the Grimes’s, too, but they weren’t as Northern as the Starks. They could be deceived, according to the Old Bear. Daryl didn’t have the heart to tell him that—so far—Rick Grimes was the only man to ever figure out his true origins.
“Do you intend to go back to Frostfang soon?” Mormont asked before taking the last bite of his stew and pushing his bowl away. He wiped his mouth and sat back, waiting for Daryl’s answer. Daryl finished his meal as well and shrugged. “I was thinkin’ about it. Not much here for me, and Tormund probably thinks I’m dead.” As if on a schedule, Daryl thought about Lady Adara again. Over two months without her. He wondered what she was doing in that exact moment, what she was wearing. He hoped more than anything that she was safe and that she was keeping his dagger close and hidden.
Mormont sighed. “Have you ever thought about becoming a man of the Night’s Watch, Daryl? You’ve got no family, nothing keeping you at Frostfang besides this Tormund fellow you discuss as though he’s you’re only friend. I could make you a recruiter so you could still visit White Harbor.” His stern face watched Daryl in the flickering candlelight. “We could use a man like you on the Wall. You’re not like the other—“
“Hey,” Daryl stopped him before he could go too far. “Watch yourself, Jeor.”
Mormont backtracked. “You’re different. I knew that the moment I met you when you were just a lad. You’re a decent man. How many of those do we have left?” He frowned and his eyes moved to watch the fire burning in the hearth.
Daryl shook his head. He didn’t have to think about it. Maybe he didn’t have any blood family in Frostfang, but a lot of people counted on him. He was the best hunter in their camp. Besides, he would never betray the Free Folk by becoming one of the crows they hated so much. He was already pushing his luck just being in Castle Black as a guest. Sure, they would never know, but there was a part of Daryl who felt guilty all the same.
“I can’t abandon my people, but I’ll stick around for a while ‘nd see what it’s like. Maybe I can teach some of your moon-faced men out there how to fight like a real warrior,” he joked, earning a chuckle from the Old Bear. “All right, then, Dixon. Get on to the guest chambers. We’ll see what you’re made of at first light.”
“King Robert Baratheon is dead.”
Daryl wasn’t sure he’d heard Jon right, but when he looked at the boy’s face, he knew. Jon Snow’s eyes were the same steel grey as his sister’s, and just as open in their honesty. “Stark eyes can never tell a lie,” Rick often said.
Jon and Daryl had become fast friends during his visit to the Night's Watch. Daryl shared stories about battle—omitting anything about his life with the Free Folk—and Jon told him all about his days in Winterfell.
Samwell Tarly, another young watchman that Daryl befriended during his time on the Wall, stood between the two of them and fiddled with his hands, the worry on his face becoming more and more palpable by the second. In the three weeks Daryl had been at Castle Black he’d never met a man with as much fear in his eyes as Sam.
“What happened?” Daryl didn’t bother hiding his confusion. He barely knew the King, but Rick told him plenty of stories. He was fairly hard to kill even in the drunken stupor he was prone to putting himself in most days.
Jon chewed on his bottom lip. “A boar ripped him open, Lord Commander said.” Daryl watched his jaw work, his eyes dart around. There was something deeper troubling him. “You want to tell me what’s got you so shaken? I know you didn’t care for Robert that much.”
The Stark bastard ran his hand through his curly, black locks as he collected himself. “Something just doesn’t feel right. I can’t really explain it.” Ghost, who’d been watching the three men like a hawk for the entire meeting, seemed to huff a sigh as though he was experiencing Jon’s frustrations with him.
“Didn’t you say your sisters are at the capital with your father?” Sam questioned after a beat of silence. Daryl cursed Sam in his head for bringing his thoughts back to Adara yet again. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep himself away from her for more than a few hours. Now that the King was dead, he knew his worries would only grow.
Jon nodded. “That’s what I’m worried about. I barely liked the idea of them going to begin with, but now...with the possibility of Joffrey becoming king…”
“What if I went to Kings Landing to check on them?” Daryl uttered the words as soon as the thought crossed his mind. Jon and Sam both seemed surprised by the idea, but neither of them protested against it. “I suppose it’s not the worst idea. Especially since you can actually leave without risk of losing your head,” Sam suggested.
Jon seemed to mull this over for a moment. One of his hands reached over to stroke Ghost on the side of his neck. “They’re not in imminent danger, so if you went, you couldn’t make it seem like you’re in a hurry. It will raise suspicions if people see you lumbering down the Kingsroad like your life depends on it. Especially in the trappings of House Grimes. No Northman would send someone south without one hell of a reason.” Daryl was surprised by the amount of thought Jon was putting into this. He didn’t expect it from a boy of only 18.
“I’ve got a watchman’s uniform. Might make more sense if I wore that,” Daryl offered, and Jon and Sam both nodded in agreement. “I can see why Lord Grimes trusts you so, Daryl. You hardly know my family yet you’re so willing to risk your neck for us.”
Daryl brushed the compliment off, though inside it was taking all his strength to keep his nerves in check. Jon may not be able to leave the Wall, but he still didn’t need him discovering Daryl’s blooming affections for Adara. Of course he wanted to make sure all three of the Stark girls were safe. Still, he couldn’t deny that Lady Adara was his paramount concern.
Daryl glanced out the window, watching Ser Allister and Lord Commander Mormont as they guided the young recruits through another training session. After spending so much time here, Daryl was beginning to enjoy aiding in the training sessions. He was already noticing a difference in the young men and their fighting skills. Little did they know they were being taught how to fight like wildlings.
“I’ll leave tonight when there are less eyes.” Once Jon and Sam confirmed their support, Daryl left the empty mess hall and headed for the guest chambers to pack his belongings once again.
He couldn’t help but smile to himself. Tormund, he thought. I’m gonna have one hell of a story to tell you if I ever get back home.
#game of thrones#a song of ice and fire#asoif/got#asoif fanfic#asoiaf#house stark#daryl dixon#the walking dead#twd fanfiction#daryl dixon twd#twd#stark!oc#stark!daughter#daryl dixon x oc#daryl dixon x stark!daughter#the wolf and the wildling#the wolf and the wildling series#got#game of thrones series#game of thrones fanfiction#got fanfiction#direwolf#twd x got#the walking dead x game of thrones#fanfiction#vannyandthejets#vannyandthejets fanfiction
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The Wolf and the Wildling
Chapter Three: Daryl
༄ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Stark!OC
༄ Season: 1
༄ Warnings: some swearing, injury, mentions of violence
༄ Word Count: 4.4k
༄ A/N: Not much of a note, but I gotta say that there aren't many Daryl gifs out there that have a Game of Thrones-y vibe, so any of the ones I use for this series just suspend your disbelief a little. That gif is actually Daryl standing in Winterfell idk what you're talking about "the Atlanta woods."
Daryl watched with careful eyes as half of Winterfell hustled throughout the courtyard to prepare King Robert and Lord Stark for their morning hunt.
The King’s cupbearer followed the burly man like a duckling to its mother, the boy’s blonde head of hair only raising when Robert yelled at him for more wine. His son, Joffrey, mounted his horse with the help of one of the largest men Daryl had ever seen. The Hound they called him, though Rick said his real name was Sandor Clegane.
From what Rick had divulged, House Clegane was of no real nobility. The Clegane’s grandfather earned his knighthood by saving a Lannister life, received lands and titles because of his bravery, and now here The Hound stood, a hulking beast of a man with his face half burnt from an incident everyone in Westeros only spoke of when they thought he couldn’t hear them.
Daryl also knew Sandor had two brothers: Ser Gregor, The Mountain, and their eldest brother Ser Negan, whom they called The Blade. Both the men were rumored to be just as big—if not bigger—than The Hound, and twice as horrific, though Ser Negan was more hearsay than he was man. After the Clegane’s father died in a hunting accident, Negan disappeared and has not been seen or heard from since. Ser Gregor, on the other hand, was a member of the Kingsguard.
As if Daryl’s thoughts summoned the man, Ser Gregor came bounding through one of the tunnels of the castle and into the courtyard, the largest greatsword Daryl had ever seen strapped to his side. Ser Gregor mounted a warhorse substantial enough to carry three Daryls as if it were a pony. Though the two towering brothers were merely a few feet from each other, not even a glance was exchanged between them.
Lord Stark’s ward, a boy from House Greyjoy they called Theon, approached the man with reverence to hand him his gloves. There was something else in his eyes, though. Daryl thought he’d imagined it at first, but Theon Greyjoy’s face bore the faintest flash of resentment. He’d know the look anywhere after being on the receiving end of it for most of his childhood.
“Are you a knight?” A small voice asked from somewhere below him. Daryl nearly jumped at the sudden noise. He looked down to find the second youngest Stark boy, Bran, watching him with a curious gaze. “My brother says you’re a knight from House Grimes. I say you aren’t, because Father didn’t say you were.” Behind Bran the youngest boy, Rickon, eyed Daryl nervously.
Daryl couldn’t help his slight smirk. Where Bran favored his mother in all but the hair color, Rickon was Adara made over. They shared the same big, grey eyes, rust-colored hair, and dotting of freckles along their noses and cheekbones.
“I don’t think our guest enjoys being pelted with questions, boys.” The sweetest voice Daryl had ever heard spoke behind him. He turned so quickly that his cloak narrowly missed brushing against Bran’s face.
Lady Adara stood before him, even more beautiful than she was the night before. She wore a simpler ensemble this time, though Daryl thought it might’ve been his favorite of the two. The first layer was a blue linen gown with a high neckline—a common trim in the North—covered by a dark grey overtop coat that was pinned just above her waist. Both the dress and the coat had the same long sleeves that flared out at her wrists, only this time the coat’s trim was fur-lined. Her hair was styled much the same as the last time he saw her. He suspected it was the way she most loved to wear it. Watching her in that moment, the way the long, auburn strands cascaded down her shoulders despite the tightness of each ringlet, Daryl had to agree.
Fawn, who appeared recently groomed, lumbered up beside her, the direwolf’s iridescent eyes moving between the men on their horses and her mother. When Bran and Rickon’s wolves, Summer and Shaggydog, clumsily ran up to their big sister, she patiently watched them nip at her and run around her in circles, never growling or reciprocating their taunts.
“Lady Adara.” The smallest crack in Daryl’s voice made the two young Stark boys snicker behind him. He fought against shooting them a glare, instead slightly bowing to her. “Off to join the hunt?” He joked. The same melodic laugh she released in the godswood came from her so easily that Daryl considered running back to the heart tree and praying he’d never have to go another day without hearing it.
Adara turned to look at her father, who was in the middle of a conversation with the King. “He brought me along on a hunt once,” she remarked, crossing her arms over her chest when a breeze blew. “I cried so hard when he shot a stag with an arrow that Father knew then never to take me again.” The smile on Daryl’s face may have been small, but he could have sworn his heart grew three sizes.
“Are you a knight or not?” Bran repeated his question in the lull of their conversation. Adara rolled her eyes and moved to stand beside her little brothers, placing her hands on their backs. “You’ll have to forgive these two. They don’t meet many men outside of House Karstark or Glover these days, and most of them don’t make for very good knights.” She glared at the boys and ruffled their hair. “Maester Luwin is looking for you both. I suggest you either find him or a decent place to hide.”
Bran and Rickon exchanged one look before bolting in two different directions, Summer and Shaggydog tailing behind the boys. Adara giggled as she watched them scurry away. Daryl couldn’t help but admire the easy way she dealt with her siblings. Even in being stern she showed her love.
Adara watched the men of her family, the King, and all their companions gather in the courtyard, a look on her face that Daryl struggled to read. King Robert rode off first, the signal for the others to follow. Just before Lord Stark followed behind him, he smiled at his daughter and gently dipped his head. The smile she returned did not reach her eyes, Daryl could tell, but he decided against acknowledging it for the time.
“I heard my father invited you on the hunt, but you declined,” Adara pried when the last man was beyond the gates of the castle. She said nothing else, only watching him with a smug smirk on her face. He did his best not to reveal how much the small gesture affected his heart rate. “I usually to do my hunting alone. Less noise, easier kill.”
Adara nodded as though she fully understood, but changed the subject. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what is a man from House Grimes doing heading to the Wall? Do you plan to take the black?” Daryl thought this was another joke, but she wasn’t smiling when she asked.
“No, m’lady, nothing like that.” He could have sworn he saw Lady Adara breathe a small sigh of relief, but thought for sure he had to have imagined it. “I’m a friend to Lord Commander Mormont.” It was the truth, and Daryl didn’t want to have to lie to her.
Before Adara could reply, an ear-piercing scream erupted from the godswood. Daryl barely had time to react before she was running as fast as her legs could carry her through the courtyard. Fawn and Daryl moved quickly, catching up with her as she rounded the corner.
The first thing Daryl noticed was how still Bran’s body was.
As Lady Catelyn wailed for her son and cradled him in her arms, the boy’s eyes remained closed and he was limp as a dead stag. When Adara herself screamed and went to help her, Catelyn cried harder, screeching at Adara not to touch him. “Stay away from him! STAY AWAY! DON’T TOUCH HIM! YOU CAN’T!” She bellowed. The fright plain on Adara’s face made Daryl nearly angry enough to confront the woman, but he held his tongue. Doing so with the family in such a state could cost him his life.
Lady Catelyn cried for Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik, anyone to help. When her eyes found Daryl, she begged and pleaded to him, but the maester reached the lady before Daryl could come to her aid.
Young Rickon ran to the scene with Shaggydog in tow, his big, grey eyes surveying the horror with confusion. Adara beckoned him as streams of tears ran from her eyes. Rickon ran into her arms and buried his face into the crook of her neck as the entire population of the kingdom watched in terror.
If it wasn’t for Fawn’s deep, guttural barks barely drowning out the sound of the two Stark women’s hysterical sobs, Daryl may not have noticed that she and her two siblings had their heads pointed to the window of the Broken Tower, all three of them yelping as though Bran’s life depended on it.
It had been almost three months since Bran’s fall when Daryl was summoned back to Winterfell by a raven from Lady Adara Stark. He sat in Rick’s study, staring at the fire of the hearth when Michonne entered with a small scroll. He stood when he saw the imprint of a direwolf’s head on the wax seal. Adara, his mind repeated. After this long with no word, she was all he could think about.
Daryl,
I sincerely apologize for the silence over these many months. If I’m to be honest, which I always hope to be with you, daily tasks of any kind have been daunting. I wish I had better news to bring you, but Bran’s condition remains the same. Maester Luwin assures us that he will wake with time, but I’m not sure how much longer I can wait. My guilt eats me alive. I haven’t slept in weeks. Lady Catelyn will hardly let me see him.
I write to you because I need you. Something happened last night, and now my family and I fear for our lives. I understand you’re a man of importance in White Harbor, but if it isn’t too much trouble—
Daryl didn’t bother finishing the note, simply putting it in his shirt pocket and heading for the door. Michonne’s brow crinkled. “What was in that note, Daryl? Is everything all right?”
“The Starks need me, so I’m goin’.” Daryl let his natural accident slip in the comfort of the Grimes’ castle. Michonne stopped him just before he flung the door of the study open. “Any special reason why you’re so loyal to the Starks after spending one night there three months ago?” She raised a curious brow at him and crossed her arms, waiting for his answer.
Daryl gnawed on his bottom lip, attempting to think of an answer better than the truth. “Me and Lord Stark just got to be good friends is all. He’s sayin’ there’s some trouble and he wants me to come help.” He could tell the moment the words left his lips that Michonne didn’t believe him, but she moved away from the door. “You can go, but if you’re not here when this baby comes…” She rubbed her swollen belly. The child was nearly past due, and Daryl did worry he might miss the arrival of the newest addition to House Grimes, but Adara needed him. He intended to find out why.
“You know I’ll do my best, Michonne.” He wrapped her in a tight embrace before lightly kissing her cheek and advancing through the castle halls.
He wasn’t entirely sure why he felt such a strong loyalty to House Stark. Sure, he liked Lord Eddard, and his men were easy to get along with as long as they weren’t mouthing off about “wildings.” All he did know—and it was with absolute certainty—was that three months without the woman who captivated him with one glance was long enough.
Daryl barely let Nerio slow down long enough to barrel through the southern gate of Winterfell, the horse’s hoofs hardly making contact with the earth until they finally came to a stiff halt in the courtyard.
He dismounted Nerio and handed off his reins to the nearest stableboy. “Do you know where Lady Adara is?” The boy opened his mouth to answer, but he was cut off by the small voice of Rickon Stark, who crept up from Nerio’s other side. Shaggydog, dark as night in comparison to his littermates, eyed Daryl angrily from his place beside the youngest Lord of Winterfell. “She’s in Bran’s room,” the boy of six mumbled.
Daryl gently placed his hand on Rickon’s head. “Do you want to come with me to see them?” He considered dropping the useless fake accent, but there were eyes and ears all around even if they weren’t up close. One wrong move and Daryl’s luck would run out.
Rickon shook his head. “I just want to be with Shaggy.” He reached out to pet the direwolf’s head. The two of them sauntered off to another part of the castle and out of Daryl’s line of sight. He sighed once they were gone. Rickon was barely old enough to understand what was going on. His father was about to leave soon and the brother he’s closest with was in a possibly permanent sleep. He hoped the child wouldn’t have to suffer through much more.
Daryl found Septa Mordane, who took him straight to Bran’s chambers without a word. He imagined the woman was mourning for Bran herself as someone who had likely been around since before the boy was a glint in his parents’ eyes.
He knocked lightly, and that unmistakable soft voice told him to come in. Daryl’s heart nearly fell out of his chest when he laid eyes on Adara. The coils of copper that usually sat half-pinned in a simple fashion on the sides of her head were wild and untamed. Where she would have adorned the attire of some Northern variety she wore only a dark slip with a thick overcoat. Her legs up to the knees were on display from where she sat.
Bran laid in his bed beside her with his eyes closed. His chest rose and sank just enough to give Daryl peace of mind for the time. He’s still alive. Summer, nearly doubled in size since he last saw the direwolf, watched Daryl closely from his position beside the young boy.
Adara jumped up when she saw him and wrapped her coat around her torso. “Gods be good! Daryl, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think it would be you. I could have been more presentable at least.” She attempted to smooth out her hair and clothes. Daryl smiled softly and closed the door. “Actually, m’lady, this might be my personal favorite look of yours.”
As soon as the door was shut, Adara’s eyes became glassy and her bottom lip quivered. The air escaped Daryl’s lungs all at once from the devastation of such a look, and he searched the room as if the solution to her problem was somewhere in Bran’s chambers. “Lady Adara, if I offended you I—“
Before he could get another word out, Adara’s arms were wrapped around his neck and she was sobbing into his shoulder. Daryl froze. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged anyone besides the Grimes family, and maybe Tormund when the drinks were flowing. Namely, he didn’t want to lose himself. Her scent—something he normally could ignore if he tried hard enough—enveloped him with no mercy. Rose oil and the smoky airs of Winterfell.
He slowly placed his hands on her back. “I came as soon as your raven landed. You said something happened?” Daryl searched the room until his eyes landed on Fawn, who was also larger than she had been three months ago. She sat beside Adara’s chair, and from the looks of both the wolf and her mother, they’d hardly abandoned their posts.
When Adara’s head rose, Daryl immediately released her despite his desperation to keep her close. She sighed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Lady Catelyn went to rest for a while. You’ll need to lock the door while I explain.” Daryl did as she said.
He took the chair closest to her, but left a comfortable distance between the two of them. It was more for his own sake than hers. If Daryl had any hope of being able to think clearly, he couldn’t be in the clutches of that intoxicating smell again.
With eyes full of fear and a shaky voice, Adara recounted the events from two nights ago. “A fire was set in one of the old buildings. I heard everyone yelling and Robb calling for people to help. My room is just down the hall from Bran’s, so my first thought was to check on him.” She paused and studied her brother in his comatose state. One of Adara’s trembling hands moved to her mouth. “I saw the man go in there.” A single sob emitted from her before Daryl sat up and took her hand in his.
“Hey,” he whispered, waiting for her to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to tell me if it’s not something you want to talk about.” As much as he was yearning to hear what the man did, he wouldn’t make her relive anything she didn’t want to, but Adara shook her head adamantly. “No. You need to know this, because something is wrong, Daryl.”
It was the way Adara said his name that made him straighten. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze as a sign for her to continue. She stared at the point where their wrists met and cleared her throat. “He was dressed as though he belonged here, but all the same, when I saw the way he crept, I knew he wasn’t a Winterfell man. He didn’t knock either. Just opened Bran’s door wide enough to enter, and didn’t bother closing it.”
Daryl didn’t like where this story was going, but he held his tongue. Adara sighed with a deep exhaustion. “I heard yelling and…and thrashing. Just as Lady Catelyn cried out, Summer came bounding through the halls and into Bran’s chambers. I…I walked in just as Summer ripped into the man’s throat.” A single tear slid down her cheek as her free hand when to Fawn’s head. “Lady Catelyn’s hands had been slit open by the blade that was intended for Bran. A Valyrian steel dagger with a golden handle. Not something that a hired killer would have.”
Daryl couldn’t decide on which part of her story he wanted to focus on the most. She kept referring to her mother as Lady Catelyn. A man was hired to murder a defenseless child. He snuck into the extremely secure walls of Winterfell, meaning he could have harmed anyone, including Adara.
“Are you okay?” He finally asked. She nodded slowly. “He was dead before he ever knew I’d seen him. I’m not sure how Summer knew Bran was in danger, but he did.”
They both watched Summer sleep soundly beside Bran. Daryl never knew direwolves to be tame, domestic animals. They killed, ate, and slept. Yet the wolves that belonged to the children of Ned Stark seemed to be in tune with their caretakers. It was an anomaly he respected, slightly feared, and doubted he would ever understand.
He waited a beat before speaking. “Any ideas about who would do this? Or why?” Adara leaned back in her seat and rubbed her eyes. Daryl didn’t feel he had much of a right to the emptiness that shrouded him when she let go of his hand, but it was there nonetheless.
“I met with Ser Rodrik, Maester Luwin, Theon, Robb, and Lady Catelyn. She told all of us about what happened, but none of us could surmise who would do such a thing. We know Bran saw something. He’s been climbing since he was able to stand on two feet. He’s far too sure-footed to have stumbled on his own.” She stared at her sleeping brother with such a sorrowful gaze, it was all Daryl could do not to take her in his arms again.
He chewed on his bottom lip as he considered the situation the Starks were facing. “Does the King still expect your father to be Hand after this?” Daryl couldn’t imagine a world in which a father would be forced to separate from his ailing son and endangered family after the child was nearly killed and his wife maimed trying to defend him, but kings were nothing if not careless.
Adara’s laugh was one of anger—short and barely audible. “My father made his choice. He could decide to go back on it, but Ned Stark is a true man of his word. Besides, he loves King Robert. He would sooner die than disappoint the man.” She spoke the words as though they annoyed her. Daryl didn’t blame her. Rick never spoke highly of King Robert when they were alone. It couldn’t be easy anticipating having to live so close to a king who cared so little for anything besides women and wine.
A question Daryl had pondered since he first received Adara’s note came to his mind as they sat there watching Bran. “Why do you call your mother by her first name?” He didn’t mean to ask it so abruptly, but Adara didn’t seem to mind. She actually appeared rather surprised by his inquiry, sitting back up in her chair and raising a brow at him.
“I assumed everyone in the North knew that she’s not my real mother. Lord Stark isn’t my real father, either,” she admitted, laughing at the shock that must have been evident on his face. “My father was Brandon Stark, the eldest son of Lord Rickard and brother to Ned. My mother was a lowborn girl whom I never knew.”
Daryl wasn’t sure how to ask his next question, but he didn’t have to. It was like Adara could read his mind. “I’m a bastard, yes. My surname was Snow until I was Bran’s age. Father asked King Robert to legitimize me as a Stark, to which he happily obliged, but I have no qualms with my past. I am a bastard and a Stark, and proud of both titles.” She smiled at Daryl in a way that reminded her of Lord Eddard. Maybe she wasn’t his daughter, but she favored the man plain as day in appearance and personality.
Despite sharing similar features with her adoptive father, Adara had the same fire-kissed hair as Lady Catelyn, though Adara’s had much more curl to it. Daryl was reminded of another curiosity as he studied her features. “You mind if I ask you something else?” He was so comfortable he nearly let his natural accent through.
She dipped her head, Daryl’s signal to continue. “I understand why she looks at Jon with so much…loathing, but why you? You’re not her child, but you’re not Lord Eddard’s either. Shouldn’t she be a little happier to have a niece?” Before he finished speaking, a sad smile appeared on Adara’s face. Daryl immediately regretted asking, but there was no taking back his words.
“Before Lady Catelyn married Ned Stark, she was betrothed to Brandon. From what I’ve been told, she was quite taken with him, and he with her,” Adara started, absentmindedly twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers. “Before that, though, Brandon met my mother, Seranne. I don’t know much about her because she died from a fever when I was two, but Maester Luwin says she’s where my hair comes from. They were 16 when they met, and their relationship didn’t last long. She didn’t tell Brandon that she was pregnant. She just showed up one day with me in her arms. I looked so much like Brandon that there was no way for him to deny it, so Lord Rickard took her in. She stayed here until she died, and only two years later the Mad King butchered both Brandon and Lord Rickard.”
Daryl remembered Rick’s lessons on the Mad King Aerys. He vaguely recalled a story about the Stark men being murdered in the capital, and now here he was looking into the eyes of another person who suffered because of the murderous king’s delusions.
“Lady Catelyn didn’t know I existed until she married my father. She knows full well that I came about long before they knew each other, but because I have this hair…because she knows it came from my mother, she despises me. She thinks Brandon only liked her because she reminded him of my mother,” Adara finished, a bite of vexation in her tone. Daryl couldn’t help but be irritated on her behalf. Sure, her anger over Jon Snow was understandable in a certain light. Any woman would be scorned by her husband’s infidelity, though Daryl didn’t entirely understand why an innocent child had to bear the brunt of that distain. Hating Adara over genetics, over something as trivial as a hypothesis was something entirely different. It was juvenile.
“And I thought House Stark was perfect,” Daryl joked. Adara’s laugh was so joyous in the dark aura of the room that it startled him. He couldn’t believe he’d gone so long without hearing that sweet sound.
Shouting from outside broke the pair from their conversation. Fawn stood at once, the hairs on her neck prickling in a way Daryl did not find comforting. He was on his feet with Adara not far behind. “Gods, surely they aren’t sending contract killers in broad daylight now.”
“Lady Adara!” The panicked voice of Septa Mordane echoed through the halls. Daryl opened the door to the wide-eyed old woman with her fist in mid-air. She jumped at the sight of him. “Lord Daryl! When did you arrive?” He went to correct her mistake, but Adara interrupted before they could get off on the technicalities of titles. “What’s happened, Septa? Is everyone all right?”
Between sharp breaths from running to find Adara, the septa attempted to sputter out the information. “Your sister…Lady Arya…She was by the river…” Adara’s eyes widened in fear as she put her hand on the septa’s arm to steady her. “What is it? Is she hurt?”
“Her wolf attacked Prince Joffrey, and now she’s disappeared.”
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The Wolf and the Wildling
Chapter One: Daryl
༄ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Stark!OC
༄ Season: 1
༄ Warnings: some swearing, average GOT occurrences of violence & danger
༄ Word Count: 5.6k
Daryl couldn’t recall the last time his balls had been so cold.
He’d never made it a habit to think of his balls, but when they were that cold, it was difficult to keep them from the forefront of his mind. Usually the layers of pelts he covered himself with could fight the frigid winds and needle-pointed snowflakes long enough for him to make a sufficient kill, but Daryl knew the moment he stepped through the gates of Frostfang that something was off.
Hours later and he was miles from home, the premonition only growing stronger. Still he was tasked to hunt, and he refused to return home to Tormund empty-handed. Only once had he made that mistake, and he paid for it dearly by having to give ear to his fanatical friend’s bellyaching for days.
The snow assailed Daryl’s face as he took careful steps. Whatever was attempting to slow him down nearly succeeded, but the forest up ahead was so enticing, he’d have done anything in that moment to reach it. He could take cover behind a tree, find his bearings, and kill the first thing his eyes detected on four legs.
Daryl put his left arm out to shield his eyes from the blizzard, and after several more painstakingly slow strides, he was in the tree line. He hadn’t been there for more than a few seconds when a steady stream of smoke billowing behind a small hill caught his attention. His first thought:
That’s a ball-warming fire.
This time he didn’t bother watching his step, making such haste that he barely managed not to plant his face in the snow-covered knoll. Daryl took a moment to steady himself, and that’s when his eyes found the red blotches bestrewed across the top of the mound. He turned his head slowly and surveyed the woods that surrounded him, but he could not see or hear a soul in his vicinity.
When Daryl moved up the hill, his gaze fell upon a scene that sent a wave of chills down his body in spite of the already biting temperature. In stark contrast to the spattering on the snow under his feet, the bloodbath in front of him made the man’s skin crawl. The arms, legs, and torsos of five people laid in a circle, with an additional line of body parts cutting through the middle. Their heads were speared by sticks that protruded from the earth around the lacerated appendages. It was a pattern foreign to Daryl, but it was a pattern. Whoever committed this violent act left these people this way for a purpose.
Hot anger coursed through his veins when he crouched to look upon the dead faces. He did not recognize them, but most were women, so they had to be Free Folk—his people—from another clan. His mind went immediately to the crows, but it didn’t take a maester’s eye to deduce it couldn’t be their handiwork. Crows cross through these woods to hunt for Free Folk, sure, but even for them this seemed an unreasonable course of action. Even the most callous crows Daryl encountered throughout the years didn’t kill for pleasure. Whoever did this enjoyed it.
The sound of a man speaking turned his head. A horse nickered, followed by the unmistakable accent of a crow commanding his steed to quicken.
Daryl threw the hood of his fur cloak over his head and stood, turning around to face a dead girl hanging from a tree, her chest pierced by the limb she dangled from. He jerked back when he made contact with her lifeless eyes. He thought she couldn’t have been more than six years of age, and he felt a brief loathing for the man who would snuff out a life so innocent.
The crow’s voice grew closer, ripping Daryl from his mournful thoughts. His right hand landed on the sword at his hip, but he did not draw, only resting his palm there as a comfort until he knew who he was dealing with.
Daryl maneuvered quickly through the woods, ducking behind a tree ten paces away so as not to lose sight of the approaching threat. The crow arrived just as Daryl disappeared from the crow’s view.
Daryl fought a chuckle when he spotted the man, though he thought calling him a man was generous. He was a boy of no more than 20, a “summer child,” as Rick often called them. He was around Daryl’s height, but much leaner, and his eyes were so obviously devoid of joy that Daryl need not be close to spot the deficiency.
He wondered briefly what the boy did to be there now. Rarely did young men join the Night’s Watch of their own volition—another one of Lord Richard Grimes’s many lessons on the ways of Westeros. The more likely occurrence would be that the boy committed a crime, and—depending on the nature—was offered a choice between death, being banished to the Night’s Watch, the amputating of a hand, or castration. Just thinking of the latter punishment filled Daryl with gladness that he still had his own balls, however frozen they were by that point.
The boy jumped from his horse when he discovered the smoke stream. He opted to crawl his way up the hill in a display of paranoia that was entirely unique to the crows of the Night’s Watch. Even after thousands of years of performing the same useless tasks, guarding the kneelers’ lands from entities none of them found much truth in any longer, they still moved through the wintry tundras with mistrust in things as insignificant as the breeze blowing at their necks.
Daryl could tell by the way the boy’s eyes nearly flew from his skull that he was just as shocked by the sight of the bodies as he’d been. He had his confirmation that those Free Folk had not been killed by crows when the young ranger rejoined the two men he was with, and they surmised that Daryl’s people were slaughtered by their own. Typical crows, Daryl thought. They always jumped straight to the Free Folk butchering each other when they couldn’t get their own hands on them.
There were some who did kill each other, but Daryl’s clan, the Ice-river clan, weren’t among them. Fights broke out and people got hurt, but with Mance Raydar’s help, they hadn’t had any fights to the death in years. The ignorance of the crows and all the kneelers south of the Wall prevented them from understanding the Free Folk as they truly were. Daryl doubted even a man as good at bringing volatile clans together as Mance could change that.
The young crow begged the two men to turn back, but one, who sounded to Daryl like a man who once belonged to a House of some prominence, refused to hear him. They had “wildlings” to track, he told them, and commanded both men to get back on their horses. Daryl rolled his eyes at the derogatory nickname. It never got under his skin as badly as it did with other Free Folk, but he still held no favor with it.
The three crows stalked back to the unnatural arrangement of the dead, and Daryl followed after them, keeping a measured distance and taking each step heel first. After a lifetime of being surrounded by thick snows, not a sound was made where there should have been the crunching of ice.
Daryl could’ve easily ambushed the crows and killed the trio before they had time to reach for their swords, but that would only serve to cause chaos. He’d give one day before the whole lot of the Night’s Watch would be descending upon the nearest Free Folk camp with sharpened rage and whetted swords.
He couldn’t see what caused the older men to cast such displeased glances towards the young ranger, but if Daryl had to guess—especially knowing the nature of the magic that resided in those lands—the dead Free Folk were no longer on display.
Just as his mind pieced together why that might be, Daryl realized the snow squall had come to an abrupt halt.
“Winds will cease, and any waters will freeze over with an ice thick enough to support a giant.”
He suddenly recalled the ramblings of old men in his camp. Tales of creatures who were supposed to be just that—myths and legends from the First Men.
“A feeling of impending doom will wash over you so swiftly, you’ll wonder if you’re already dead.”
The moment the memory came, the quietus that invaded Daryl’s senses was all-consuming. His heart quickened, he began to sweat in the frozen wasteland, and for the first time in his life, he was concerned that he was no longer drawing breath.
Almost as if from nowhere, a man appeared from behind one of the crows. No…it was no man. Men’s eyes did not glow a severe blue. They didn’t carry swords as long as Daryl’s tent was wide.
The creature’s white hair fell across its shoulders and down its back in a wild mane. Where a man would have muscles or fat or some amalgamation of the two, the being’s arms and chest swirled with rivulets and sharp points of ice, as if whatever or whoever created this creature couldn’t decide where to soften and where to serrate.
The two crows turned to face the monster, both of them standing at least a head shorter than the frozen brute. No sooner had they met its eyes than the creature swung its sword of ice and cleanly beheaded the crow who’d been berating his comrades, and the other man fled in the opposite direction with a piercing scream.
Daryl barely had time to register the situation before he felt those unsettling blue eyes fall to him. In his peripheral he could see two more pairs in the shadows of the forest. His right hand flew to his only knife—a gift from Rick that the Lord of White Harbor forged with his own two hands—and he launched it at the first creature in the hopes he might have time to get away if one was dead.
Daryl’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the strong knife shatter into thousands of fragments the moment it touched the creature. He wanted this to be a dream so desperately. Surely there was no way the stories of men the Free Folk deemed raving lunatics were right, but he felt dense when the words of one of the storytellers reminded him of what he should have already known. “Your blades, your arrows, any weapons you raise against it will be rendered useless, for they will not even nick its frigid skin.”
He wasn’t sure what he expected in return for his bumbling attempt at killing it, but the creature only stared at Daryl. He noticed that, in spite of it now being so cold that his hair was frozen against his cheeks, not one breath had come from the creature’s mouth or nose. It hadn’t even opened its mouth.
A few more seconds went by of nothing, then all three of the creatures disappeared as quickly as they had arrived. Daryl stood in the snow, letting the abrupt torrent of flakes lash at his face, and wondered how in the hell he was going to get Rick to believe him.
“I don’t have time for talkin’ Jeor. Rick—“ Daryl stopped himself, forcing the switch in his dialect that helped to keep him alive once he crossed through Castle Black. “Lord Grimes needs my assistance.”
Jeor Mormont, “the Old Bear” they called him, sat across from Daryl in the Lord Commander’s office, a worn wooden desk resting between them. Small scrolls littered the mahogany, but Daryl had no interest in these meaningless words from across Westeros. Any other time he would prop his feet on Jeor’s desk and listen to the man grumble over how to deal with the petty squabbles of his crows and when he should send out for more of them, but not this time. Daryl watched Jeor analyze him. He should have known it would be hard to hide anything from a man who had known him since he was a boy of five.
“Talk, boy. You can either confide in me why you’re so uneasy, or we can fester in this strained silence until Maester Aemon comes in with yet another insignificant inquiry from an insignificant Lord,” the Old Bear chided, pointing his writing quill at Daryl as he spoke.
Daryl contemplated what he might say. It didn’t take him long to decide that he would not be telling Lord Commander Mormont about the crows. He would get word that one of them got away soon enough. It would likely be a raven’s message telling him the boy was executed for deserting, but that was still word. Lord Commander Mormont would do his mourning privately, and in some cases he’d have Daryl hand-deliver a scroll to the dead man’s next of kin, but that was a rarity.
He eventually let out a defeated sigh. “I saw somethin’ out there tonight.” Daryl didn’t bother using his best kneeler accent to speak his piece. “I went out to hunt like always. I got to the Haunted Forest to try and get the godsdamned snow out of my face. I found five’a my own people dead, their bodies torn to bits by somethin’, but it wasn’t an animal somethin’, Jeor. Wasn’t a single bite on the…parts, like you see with a direwolf or shadowcat.”
Unlike the crows from before, Jeor had sense to leave well enough alone when it came to suggesting the Free Folk had laid waste to their own people. His biases about the Free Folk still shone through at times, but Daryl hardly paid any mind to it after a lifetime knowing the man. He cared for Jeor Mormont, and Daryl knew the Old Bear cared for him all the same. More than that, Daryl owed the man his life. If he wanted to make a few remarks about “wildlings” every now and again, he’d reluctantly allow it.
Mormont frowned and sat down the scroll he had barely been reading. “What are you getting at, Daryl?”
“I’m sayin’ there’s something out there. Not an animal, and not a man. They’re shaped like men, I guess, but they look like they’re made of ice, and their eyes blue as a winter rose.” Daryl sat forward in his chair, never breaking contact with Mormont.
The Lord Commander thought this over. Daryl could see his jaw working as he considered what to say, but he was sure he already knew. Not even the leader on the Wall truly believed in what really lied beyond its icy barriers. Or if he did, he fought every instinct he had to deny their existence just like the rest of the kneelers.
“It’s high time you made a journey south, son. The light reflecting off all that white does things to your vision after so long. You’re starting to see things. It happens to every man at some point.” Mormont nodded curtly, as if in approval of his own assessment. “Most of the men are on watch or in their beds. You’d best head on now while you can slip away quickly. Benjen Stark will be back soon, and he is not as easy to fool as the others.”
Daryl didn’t hide his disappointment. “You really don’t believe me.” He didn’t wait for the Lord Commander to speak, instead rising to his feet and throwing on a black cloak to cover the watchman’s uniform Mormont lent him so many years before. The Old Bear stood as well, though his age required him to move a bit slower than he used to. “I believe you believe you saw something, but that doesn’t make it real. These hunting trips you go on take days, always in isolation. The mind plays tricks on us when we’ve spent too long in solitude. You know that as well as I,” Mormont reasoned, taking Daryl by the shoulders. “Your brother—“ Daryl jerked himself away from the old man. “I won’t hear it, Jeor.”
The Old Bear took a step back and glowered at the man before him. “I don’t mean to upset you, but I would not lie to you. If it were a thousand years ago I’d be rounding up the men and forming a team to go out and see it with my own eyes, but the things that used to dwell beyond the Wall are no more, son. You can hardly find a snow bear these days, let alone…anything else.” And yet as he spoke the words, his eyes looked everywhere but back at Daryl’s.
Daryl made a promise to himself then that he would never tell Mormont any more of what he saw on his side of the Wall. What was the point when he knew damn well how it would be received? Crows, kneelers, even Free Folk all thought the old magic was gone from the world, Daryl having been one of those non-believers before that moment. Now he wasn’t sure what he believed in.
He picked up his sword from the desk and plunged it into his scabbard. “I’ll have Lord Grimes write you if he has any men for the Wall,” Daryl seethed in his best kneeler voice once again, having no intention of sitting here being doubted any longer. “If there’s nothing else, I will see you on my return.” He waited a beat for Mormont to say anything, but the Lord Commander only furrowed his brows and sighed. With that, Daryl opened the door leading to the outside common area and left the office.
The cold was intense, but felt like a warm summer’s day compared to his time spent at Frostfang. At least in Westerosi winter he could count on keeping his balls.
He tightened the straps on his cloak and skipped a stair step for every one he took until his feet hit the ground. He kept his head down, being sure the strands of his hair hid his face from any onlooking crows. All they would see is a fellow watchman sent by their Lord Commander on a mission south, but there were so few men on the Wall by then that they would know he wasn’t one of them the moment they glimpsed his face.
The young boy standing guard at the gate opened it for Daryl without a question. Like always, his horse waited for him to the right, the reins tied to the high wooden posts that made the walls of Castle Black. The horse nickered at him as soon as he spotted him, and Daryl smirked in return, giving the steed a pat on his strong neck. “Missed you, too, Nerio.”
He found the usual provisions upon checking his saddle bag: bread, strips of dried boar, a flagon of wine, and a whetstone. He silently thanked the Old Bear for his continued generosity as he untied the reins from the wall and mounted Nerio with ease. The black stallion turned and started down the Kingsroad with sure steps. They’d been making this journey together for five years, so he was almost more surefooted than Daryl himself.
He clicked his tongue as a signal for Nerio to hasten, and it was no surprise to Daryl when he did so without a hitch. “Time to get out of this cold, boy, or else we’re both losin’ our balls.”
Days later, Daryl and Nerio arrived at the town of White Harbor, being greeted by nearly every townsperson with a warmth he never experienced back home, even if he brought an entire snow bear as his spoil from a hunt. Free Folk weren’t the cheerful type. It was something Rick had to work with him on for years when the two became friends. In truth, they were still working on it.
“Woah, boy.” Daryl tugged slightly on the reins, causing Nerio to stop in his tracks at the city stables. A young boy of no more than 15 approached, holding his hand out to take the reins. Daryl dismounted and passed them over. “His name is Nerio. See to it that he gets food, water, and new shoes and you’ll be paid well.” The boy bowed his head. “Yes, m’lord.”
Daryl opened his mouth to correct him, but the boy was already leading Nerio away. He sighed, still not sure why so many thought him a lord. He had the look of the Free Folk, or at least he thought so.
“Do my eyes deceive me, or has Ser Daryl Dixon returned to us at last?” The familiar voice of a friend called from behind him. Daryl turned to the smiling face of Lady Michonne Grimes, in her sixth month with child, coming his way. Her son and daughter, the young Lord Carl and his sister Lady Judith, trailed after her with even wider grins. “Daryl!” Judith beamed, running and jumping into Daryl’s arms. He laughed and hugged the girl to his chest. “Princess Judith, I have missed you greatly.”
Judith giggled as he put her back on her feet. “I missed you, too, good Ser.” She picked her green dress from the ground, curtseyed, and lowered her head in an attempt to hide her smirk. Daryl eyed Lady Michonne. “Ser?”
The corner of both Carl and Lady Michonne’s mouths went up. “Have you lost your sense of humor since we saw you last?”
Lady Michonne wrapped Daryl in a tight embrace. He smiled warmly when she released him. “It’s good to see you, Michonne.” He placed a hand on Carl’s head, slightly ruffling the boy’s hair. “Young lordling. Watching over of the people of White Harbor keenly, I’m sure?” Carl nodded gallantly, straightening his back so the sigil of House Grimes—a snow leopard with a sword in its mouth—could be seen on the brooch that held his cloak together across his chest.
Daryl saw the Lord of White Harbor coming in his peripheral and straightened himself as well, but only for the show of it. Rick taught him well in the ways of behaving like a proper Westerosi, namely one in the service of the second most powerful man in the North. Rick didn’t waste time with formalities, holding out his arm to his dear friend.
Daryl gladly took it, the two men’s hands landing near each other’s elbows in the way of a true Northman greeting. “My brother, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Rick crooned. “Months of no word. I thought for sure you’d been mauled by a snow leopard or eaten whole by one of your massive bears.”
Daryl only rolled his eyes at the Lord’s jokes. Rick motioned for him to follow, placing a hand on the small of his wife’s back. “Come, Daryl. You’ve arrived just in time to break fast with us.” Carl and Judith dutifully fell in line beside their parents with Daryl bringing up the rear.
As soon as they were in the walls of the private dining hall, Daryl pulled Rick aside. “Rick, we have to talk. It’s urgent.” The look on his face must have been serious enough, because Rick dipped his head firmly and looked to his nearest cupbearer. “Tell Lady Michonne I’ll only be a moment. Daryl and I must have words first.” The boy gave one curt nod and went to deliver his lord’s message.
Rick led Daryl into his office and closed the door. “You don’t come to me with urgent business often. What’s troubling you, Daryl?”
Once again Daryl gave his witness account from beyond the Wall, only this time he did mention the slaughtered crows. As his most trusted confidant this side of Castle Black, Daryl knew Rick wouldn’t breathe a word of the story to anyone.
He watched Rick’s expressions as he recounted the jarring sight. There was surprise there, but not nearly as much as he had expected. Then again, there wasn’t much that could surprise Lord Richard Grimes. The man fought in Robert’s Rebellion. He was there when King Aerys butchered good men and paid the ultimate price for it. It wasn’t the same as watching blue-eyed demons behead anyone, to be sure, but Daryl knew from the stories that it was a shock all the same.
When he finished, he waited for Rick to say anything, but he only stood there, his brows knitted together in deep contemplation. Daryl almost started in on him about how exhausted he was becoming with people not finding truth in his words when Rick finally spoke. “The Others.”
Daryl must have made a face, because Rick elaborated without needing to be asked. “They’re called the Others. Some even refer to them as White Walkers. No one knows where they came from, but it is believed they were here long before the First Men. They were supposed to be dead, but it seems as though they’ve been hiding for thousands of years. If you’ve seen them, then those damned words of House Stark have become more a prophecy than ever before.”
“Words of House Stark?” Daryl probed. He vaguely remembered Rick’s teachings of the words of each Great and Noble house, but they all ran together before long. He only remembered House Grimes’s words because his visits were so frequent: We’re the ones who live.
One side of Rick’s mouth turned up. “Winter is coming. The most ominous words of all the houses and yet the most accurate. One way or another, winter always comes. It seems as though you’ve discovered it’s finally on its way after the longest summer in my lifetime.”
Daryl frowned, recalling the words of the elder Free Folk. “My people say they’re impossible to kill.” Rick nodded grimly. “Aye, they would be right. Maester Eugene has poured over every scrap of information he can get his hands on, with the length of his chain as evidence, and he’s not found much on White Walkers. If the records exist, the Citadel has hidden them away.”
“What the hell do we do then?” Daryl hoped his brother would have some idea of how to prepare themselves, surely with all the knowledge he possessed from having a maester who’d read every book he could get his hands on. He could tell from the way Rick’s eyes fell that he was wrong. “Winter is coming. All we can do is hope we survive it.”
Daryl was on the road once again, this time donning the armor of House Grimes, and carrying a new dagger from Rick’s personal collection to replace the one he lost. The blade was easily recognizable as Valyrian steel, with its unpredictable swirl patterns as a sign that it was forged from dragon fire. The hilt was black as night. On one side it bore the ancient scrawl of a language none had been able to decipher, not even Maester Eugene, and the other side contained two jewels, one a misty grey, the other a blue as deep as the Narrow Sea. Rick knew its value, but gifted it to Daryl nonetheless. “I have a Valyrian steel sword, Daryl,” Rick had assured him. “You won’t be harming my lineage by accepting what I offer you. Besides, every good fighter needs a bit of Valyrian steel.”
Nerio moved quicker than he had that morning thanks to the stable boy’s diligence in taking care of his horse. Daryl made a mental note to tell Rick of the boy’s skill the next time he visited the Harbor. Rick was a good lord. He would likely reward the boy and his family with enough to keep them comfortable. The thought made Daryl smile as he and Nerio traveled back up the Kingsroad.
He wondered idly when the raven announcing him to Winterfell had arrived and what Lord Stark would be like. Rick always said he was a good man, one of the best in the Seven Kingdoms. All men have their flaws, though, and the Warden of the North was no exception. Rick spoke of Eddard Stark’s blatant trust in others, predicting that it would one day bite him in the ass if he wasn’t careful. Daryl might have reason to doubt that if it hadn’t been Rick telling him. Lord Richard Grimes’s ability to read people confounded him. The man was never wrong.
It was afternoon by the time Nerio trodded toward the gates of Winterfell. Daryl had ridden him hard to get there fast. He wasn’t sure what it was about the castle and the Starks within it, but something drew him there, and he was itching to find out what it was.
The watch blew his horn above the gate to signal Daryl’s arrival. Seconds later, the gates slowly opened, and Daryl snapped the reins. Nerio’s hooves beat against the dirt as he carried his rider into the castle. Daryl was not sure what to expect when he finally laid eyes on the inside of the greatest house in the North, but it was not—what appeared to be—the entire population of Winterfell. They stood tall behind a group of children who could never deny they were siblings, for they were all spitting images of the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, who presented themselves beside the six young Starks.
Nerio halted before the family, letting Daryl dismount him and calmly going with the stable boy who took his reins. Lord Stark approached first with a grand smile. “Daryl Dixon of House Grimes. Lord Richard speaks highly of you. It’s good to finally put a face to the name.” They exchanged the Northman’s handshake, and Daryl returned Lord Stark’s gesture. “I could say the same for you, Lord Stark. I can hardly break bread with Lord Richard without hearing of your gallantry during King Robert’s Rebellion.” It almost pained Daryl to speak so formally, but Rick nearly beat the dialect into his head. “It will be the first sign to them that you’re not a northman. You either learn to talk like the ‘kneelers’ you despise so much, or you die fighting the hundreds of northmen who will chase you to the Wall and beyond once they discover who you really are.”
“Please, call me Ned. We’ve no need for formalities as friends of Lord Rick.” Lord Stark’s arm went out, gesturing to his family. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Lady Catelyn, daughter of Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun, and my children.” He turned, stopping in his tracks when he observed the empty spot between Lady Catelyn and a strapping young lad with curly, brunette hair and the blue eyes of a Tully.
“Forgive me, Daryl. My eldest daughter is elsewhere,” Lord Stark apologized, looking to the woman behind Lady Catelyn. “Septa Mordane, would you retrieve her?” The Septa hadn’t made two steps before Daryl caught motion in his peripheral and turned his head to it. His eyes met who he thought to be a goddess at first, but the longer he watched her walk towards him, the more he knew she must be a woman. He knew the gods weren’t real, but if ever there were anything in this world to prove him wrong, he wouldn’t have minded it to be her. Daryl thought he’d become the most devout man on this continent if the bewitching lady coming his way only said the word.
She was taller than most, standing only a few inches below himself, yet still curvaceous in the ways Daryl dreamt of when he laid his head down at night. Her hair spilled from her head in tight rivulets of copper that reached halfway down her back. Her dress was a deep green that hugged her figure, reaching just above the ground so her delicate, brown boots peeked out with each step she took. Her thick winter cloak of pelts covered her shoulders, arms, and back, shielding her from the cold airs of the North. The sigil of her house sat against her chest as a fastening of her cloak bands: the direwolf.
Just as Daryl noticed the silver pin, the largest direwolf he’d ever seen came bounding after the alluring eldest daughter of House Stark. It was a hulking wolf of chestnut brown, with eyes the color of sunlight, neither feature like any direwolf he had encountered before. He would have drawn his sword if he hadn’t watched, with his own two eyes, the woman hold her hand out and the great beast nuzzle its head against her palm.
He was so stunned by both the lady and her pet that it took him a moment to realize Lord Stark had spoken again. Daryl shook himself from his daze and cleared his throat. “Pardon me, Lord Eddard. My days on the road have been long and weary. I’m afraid my mind wandered elsewhere for a moment.”
Lord Stark chuckled lightheartedly, clapping Daryl on the back. “Forgive me, Daryl. I should be letting you rest, but here I stand presenting half the names in Winterfell like we’re a merry band.” His joke earned laughs from several of his staff, as well as all seven of his children.
The woman Daryl’s eyes fell on yet again aligned with her mother and siblings, and the direwolf planted itself beside Lady Catelyn. Lord Stark motioned to her. “My eldest daughter, Adara.” His hand moved to each of the children. “Robb, Sansa, Bran, Arya, and Rickon.” Daryl noticed Lord Stark did not introduce the young man on the end who appeared the most like his own son than any of the others, and the boy made no attempt to offer his own name, only nodding slightly when Daryl met his gaze.
Adara. He repeated her name in his mind, turning it over like he would a perfect skipping rock he found on a riverbank, or a jewel he took as payment by Rick for the many duties he performed on behalf of the Lord. Lady Adara Stark of Winterfell, he thought as he met her striking grey eyes. You’ll surely be the death of me.
#twd#game of thrones#a song of ice and fire#asoiaf#asoif/got#asoif fanfic#house stark#daryl dixon#the walking dead#twd fanfiction#daryl dixon twd#stark!oc#stark!daughter#the wolf and the wildling#the wolf and the wildling series#got#game of thrones fanfiction#got fanfiction#game of thrones series#direwolf#twd x got#the walking dead x game of thrones#fanfiction#vannyandthejets#vannyandthejets fanfiction
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The Wolf and the Wildling
Chapter Two: Adara
༄ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Stark!OC
༄ Season: 1
༄ Warnings: some swearing, mentions of death
༄ Word Count: 5.8k words
Adara woke to a giant tongue licking her face.
She giggled and shoved at the wet snout that nudged her chin. “I’m awake. You can stop assaulting me with your slobber already.” She opened her eyes to find the brown face of her gargantuan direwolf as close to her as she could get without touching. Fawn’s amber eyes stared her down with nothing but love. Adara always wondered if it was the only thing Fawn could feel. She never got angry, never growled at a single person, never appeared stressed or disquieted. The great wolf seemed content to follow Adara wherever she went, and Adara felt the same for her.
She lifted her hand to stroke Fawn’s fur, her fingers running across the animal’s forehead and scratching behind one of her ears—an ear that was as big as Adara’s own hand. Fawn responded happily, her stout back leg coming up and scratching as a sign that she was enjoying the affection.
“Good morning to you, too, girl.” As soon as she removed her hand, Fawn jumped from the bed and bounded to the door of Adara’s chambers, planting herself in front of it in their usual routine. Adara smiled gratefully at her as she went to comb her hair, but she was stopped by a knocking at the door.
“Lady Adara, dear, it’s Septa Mordane. Should I come in, or is that beast blocking the way again?” The tutor of the Stark daughters didn’t hide the disapproval in her voice. She wasn’t fond of the Stark direwolves, which got under the skin of every one of them save Adara. It bothered her for the first few weeks the children had been caring for their wolf pups, but then she watched Septa Mordane plant a kiss on Fawn’s forehead when she thought no one was looking their way. Ever since, Adara allows the septa’s seemingly harsh words. She knew the truth, and it brought a smile to her face each time her old tutor started in about her dislike for the animals.
Adara motioned for Fawn to move from the door, and Fawn dutifully obeyed, rising on her legs and jumping back onto Adara’s unmade bed. She rolled her eyes at the wolf before checking that her white nightgown covered everything. “Come in,” she responded, straightening her shoulders if only to give the septa one less thing to chide her for.
Septa Mordane entered the room in the same worn, blue dress and matching hair shade that she’d been wearing since before Adara was born. Before she closed the door she already had her eyes on Adara, narrowing them on her face. “You’ve not been sleeping well.”
How the woman could tell such a thing just by taking one look at her was beyond Adara, but that was how Septa Mordane had always been. As the oldest of the Stark children, she and Adara knew each other the longest. Truthfully, the elder septa was likely the closest thing Adara had to a mother, but such things were not to be discussed between a girl and her tutor.
“You can hardly blame me. It’s been a month of knowing the King and his family ride this way preceding the death of Jon Arryn.” The septa opened the large chest at the end of Adara’s bed, briefly smiling at Fawn laying across the end. Adara chose not to acknowledge the gesture, though she had to fight herself not to laugh. “Father and King Robert haven’t seen each other in nine years. He may not speak to us about matters he thinks don’t concern us, but even Hodor could piece together why the King would take a month-long journey to the North before his late Hand is even in the ground.”
Septa Mordane glared at Adara as she pulled one of her dresses from the chest. “That is crude talk coming from a lady of House Stark.” She held the dark green dress to Adara’s chest. It was one of her favorites. Her younger sister Sansa made it for her just last week as a gift for her 23rd name day. Adara nodded in approval, taking both the dress and a satin slip from the septa and moving behind her dressing wall. She replaced her nightgown with the slip before carefully pulling the dress over her head and reaching her arms through the sleeves. Finally, she came out to show Septa Mordane, who beamed at her proudly. “How I’ve always adored greens on you, child.”
Adara moved to the small mirror on her desk and examined her look. The dress was made of a rich velvet imported from Braavos, one that she knew cost her father a significant sum. Sansa worked her magic with the fabric, folding it over at the collar for an extra layer and sewing a beautiful, brown wolf into the chest—the sweetest ode to her beloved Fawn. She’d secured the sleeves tight on Adara’s upper arms, but left them flowing long on the fores, as was the custom wear of a lady of the North. The dress reached just above the ground so it wouldn’t drag through the mud, swirl patterns made from the same brown thread dancing around the entire edge.
Adara grinned as she studied the intricacies of her favorite dress. She often envied Sansa’s sewing abilities, but the same could be said for her sister of her. Where Sansa was a wizard with the delicate art of dressmaking, Adara could fashion any man’s clothing from simple nightshirts to all the trappings of a wardrobe fit for a king. Ever since Septa Mordane put a needle and thread in her hands, she’d been earning her own living making the clothes for the men of the Night’s Watch. Her father didn’t approve at first, but when she began making his clothes more comfortable than either Catelyn or the septa could, he begrudgingly allowed it the same way he always allowed his daughter anything she desired.
Septa Mordane came behind her in the mirror and stuck her hands in the bush of red curls that crowned Adara’s head. “Today marks 23 years of watching after you, yet I still haven’t the faintest idea what to do with his wild mane.” Nonetheless, she set her mind to the task, the septa’s delicate fingers dipping in her bowl of water as she dampened the right strands to make them pliable.
They were quiet only for a moment before the old woman voiced one of Adara’s heaviest concerns about the impending arrival of King Robert. “You worry your father will go back on his word once he’s Hand of the King.” There was no need for her to question it. The septa had always known her young student’s biggest fear and how often she still fretted over it.
Adara breathed a defeated sigh. “I attempted to fool myself, thinking there could be a chance he might say no to King Robert and then we could avoid it completely, but when have you ever known Lord Eddard Stark to say no to anything if he could help it?” She studied Septa Mordane’s careful movements as she parted Adara’s flaming locks down the middle and gently separated pieces on the side to pin back in the signature Northern style. When she finished, she put her hands on Adara’s shoulders and met her eyes through the mirror. “When have you ever known Lord Stark to go back on his word, especially where it concerns you?”
It was a notion she had never considered until that moment. Ned Stark was a man of honor, and he loved each of his children deeply, but he and Adara shared a unique bond. No, he wasn’t her real father, but where most men might draw a line to demarcate boundaries in their situation, the Lord of Winterfell embraced his niece with open arms from the moment he was tasked with caring for her.
She had never been able to remember anything of substance about her biological father, the late Brandon Stark, first son of Rickard Stark and heir to Winterfell, but Ned had no shortage of stories about his older brother, and he loved telling them. He had no issue being honest with Adara about her grim origins, either.
At just 16, Brandon conceived a child with a low born Northern girl they called Seranne. Seranne brought the newborn Adara before Lord Rickard and confessed she was the offspring of Brandon Stark. Honorable man that he was, Lord Rickard arranged for Seranne to stay within the castle of Winterfell until Adara was weaned. Seranne passed from a fever only two years later, leaving Adara to be raised by septas, maesters, and anyone else who wasn’t off fighting for Robert’s Rebellion. Two more years had passed before the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen burned Lord Rickard alive and tied Brandon to a strangulation device, forcing him to kill himself when he reached for his own sword. The orphaned Adara of only 4 years old was given to Ned Stark and his new wife to raise, entering the household of the new Lord of Winterfell the same time as the infant Robb and bastard baby Jon Snow. Because she was old enough to help care for the boys and shared the Northern bastard’s name with Jon—at least until Ned had her legitimized by King Robert—Adara grew close with her new brothers and still was to the current day.
“Best bring that wandering mind back around, Lady Adara. We must be in the courtyard soon,” Septa Mordane articulated before placing Adara’s thick cloak over her shoulders. The sturdy covering of sheep’s wool and animal skins immediately warmed her. It was a breezier morning than she was used to, signaling that the Long Summer was coming to an end.
The septa added one final touch to the crossed leather bands of Adara’s cloak: the direwolf pin that her true father had given to her on her 3rd name day. It was her most prized possession and something she promised herself she would never part with.
Adara looked over at Fawn, who was fast asleep across her bed. “Such a lazy girl this morning.” The great wolf’s eyes opened and seemed to sparkle when they found Adara. Fawn rose to her paws and jumped from the bed to stand by her mother’s side. Adara quickly slipped on a pair of thick socks and her favorite short boots.
She stopped to let Septa Mordane give her a once over. The old woman beamed at her. “It’s difficult to believe it’s already your 23rd name day. With each that passes you’re more beautiful than the last.” She gently squeezed Adara’s forearm, earning a small smile from the eldest Stark daughter. “Thank you, Septa. I could say the same for you.”
The septa blushed and opened the door for Adara, following the woman and her direwolf through the castle halls to prepare for the King’s arrival.
After a heavy lunch filled with the laughter of her siblings as their father told them one of his many stories about his days conquering Westeros with King Robert, Adara found herself standing in the godswood. Most baffling about her presence in the sacred location was that she couldn’t be sure why she was there.
Adara found little joy in the Old Gods despite her father’s adamancy that they were all around her, watching her, protecting her from those who would harm her. She loved her father dearly, so she’d never had the heart to admit that she found it difficult to believe in the gods of the First Men, and she likely always would.
She usually made her visits to the godswood quick and infrequent, never staying for more than a few minutes, yet there she stood, staring at the old carved face of the weirwood tree for more than 10 before she realized she hadn’t meant to stay for so long.
Adara studied the godswood with a keen eye, noticing the way the small pond in front of the weirwood tree reflected it’s five-pointed, blood red leaves. Her father called it a “heart tree” because it was a weirwood with a carved face. As a child, the face terrified her. The wide-set eyes that appeared as though they were crying blood gave her more nightmares than she ever cared to admit to anyone. As an adult, however, she found a strange comfort in the lifelike expression the tree bore. Robb always said if the tree ever decided to speak, he hoped one of them would be there to witness it.
Her mind wandered to the high stakes situation her father would soon be tasked with navigating. Adara was confident in him and his abilities to help run the Seven Kingdoms if he accepted the job—and she knew he would—but the thought of her father, the greatest man she’d ever known, being surrounded by the worst men this world had to offer filled her with a dread unlike any other.
Selfishly, Adara also worried what this new path would mean for her. She knew Septa Mordane was right: Ned Stark never went back on his word. He was so true to his own word, Adara thought, that if ever they needed to change their house words, Ned Stark keeps his promises would be a fine option. Still, she couldn’t help the nagging in the back of her mind telling her that Kings Landing might change the honorable man who raised her. The conniving weasels he’d be working with could poison his mind and make him think that promises no longer mattered.
The stress began to eat at her so, she briefly considered praying to the Old Gods out of nothing more than pure desperation. She almost went to her knees, but the nudging of Fawn’s nose on her thigh stopped her.
She heard the conversation then. Voices in the distance where there had been a strange silence she’d only just noticed. A man’s voice she did not recognize. Her father responding. Fawn nudged Adara’s leg once more, signaling for her to lead the way. She begrudgingly obliged, stroking Fawn’s head as the two of them started back to the courtyard. She had yet to understand how Fawn understood so much so well, but Adara was grateful for it. She didn’t know how she’d gone on this long without the sweet, brown direwolf.
As the pair got closer to the courtyard, Adara saw a large, black horse with a saddle from White Harbor, and a man standing beside the steed donning armor with the sigil of House Grimes. The eyes of her family and the castle staff all staring daggers at her caused Adara to hasten, Fawn picking up her own pace to follow her mother until they were both in their proper places in the Stark family line.
“Adara, there you are, love.” Lord Stark smiled at his adopted daughter warmly as she situated herself between Robb and Lady Catelyn, and she happily returned the gesture. She felt the piercing gaze of Lady Catelyn beside her, attempting to burden her, weigh her down, make her feel the ambivalence that the Lady Stark herself felt for her niece. Adara refused to look at her, instead focusing on the newcomer from White Harbor, who had said something she didn’t catch while feeling the scrutiny of her father’s wife.
“Forgive me, Daryl. I should be letting you rest, but here I stand presenting half the names in Winterfell like we’re a merry band,” Lord Stark joked, causing Adara and her siblings to giggle despite themselves. She enjoyed his comedy, however mawkish it could be from time to time.
When her father said her name to introduce her, it was the first time she truly examined the man’s features. She was taken aback by how similar yet different the man looked compared to most Northmen, especially ones from White Harbor. He had the usual darker brown hair, the ends long but not quite reaching his shoulders. His strong jaw and cheekbones were evidence of his Northern heritage as well, and Adara could tell that he had the stalwart build of a man who’d spent long hours doing strenuous work. His eyes, however, were brilliantly blue. The only blue eyes Adara had ever seen belonged to Lady Catelyn and her sister Sansa. No Northman possessed such oceanic orbs, yet here this stranger stood, immediately captivating her with his rarities.
“Robb, Sansa, Bran, Arya, and Rickon,” Lord Stark listed off the rest of his children, his hand moving to point to each of them. Adara tried not to let it bother her when he did not mention Jon at the end. So many times before they’ve been introduced to lords and ladies, and so many times before it has lit Adara’s heart afire with anger. It was all she could do not to step from the line and introduce Jon herself.
“Children, this is Daryl Dixon of House Grimes. He is a loyal and trusted friend of Lord Richard. He will be here for several days to recover from his long journey and prepare for the Wall. I trust you will extend your kindness to our guest?” Lord Stark eyed Robb in particular, who was staring at Daryl with a fierceness she had not noticed until that moment.
Her father’s careful gaze snapped Robb from his brooding and he nodded along with his siblings. Lord Stark smiled at their guest, clapping him on the back. “Welcome to Winterfell, Daryl. Let me show you where you’ll be staying. King Robert and his family should arrive soon, so you may want to catch sleep before we’re steeped into chaos.”
Daryl chuckled lightly at Lord Stark’s joke, but as the two men walked towards the guest chambers, Daryl’s head turned, meeting Adara’s eyes for a split second before she averted her gaze to the ground.
As the festivities raved around her, Adara glowered in her seat at the family dinner table. She watched the people in the Great Hall with despondence. They frolicked and danced to the music being played on the fiddle, toasting to not only the King’s presence, but also to Adara’s 23rd year of life, though she doubted anyone besides her family and some of the northerners even knew of the latter reason. She might have been upset with the notion of being a shadow under the drunken ruler if her father hadn’t just given her the most distressing news of all those 23 years.
He was to be Hand of the King, and Sansa and Arya would be going south with him. His decision wasn’t official yet, but all the same, she knew. He’d never told her anything he didn’t mean.
She was so deep in her thoughts of loathing for the lecher they called Protecter of the Realm that she didn’t notice someone staring at her until she finally removed her focus from the King.
Adara locked eyes with Daryl Dixon of White Harbor and warmth crept to her cheeks. The slightest smile curled onto his face and she looked away, fearful of what would be said if someone spotted their interaction.
A hand found her shoulder and she jumped, quickly turning to her father, who seemed just as startled by the sudden movement. “A bit jumpy this evening, are we?” He tittered, crouching down to be eye level with his daughter. Adara shrugged. “I do not see how I couldn’t be when so many fearful things are going to happen soon.”
The Lord of Winterfell sighed and took her by the hand, forcing her to look at him. “It’s for the good of the realm, Adara. You know King Robert needs someone by his side that he can trust.” Adara frowned at her father. She saw all the honesty in the world behind those grey eyes that mirrored hers perfectly. The eyes of the Starks of Winterfell.
“Take me with you,” she blurted, her mind barely processing the words before they flew from her lips. Lord Stark raised an eyebrow at her. “Surely you’re jesting. I couldn’t name a person less interested in the south than you if I tried.”
Adara rolled her eyes playfully and squeezed her father’s hand. “I wouldn’t be going out of interest.” She motioned her head to Sansa and Arya, who appeared to be in the middle of an argument. “They need someone to watch them.”
“Septa Mordane is more than—“ Adara held her hand up to stop Ned’s jabbering. “Septa Mordane is advancing in age, Father. The woman is wise and wonderful, of that I have no doubt, but she could use someone with her best interests at heart just as much as the girls.”
Lord Stark seemed to think this over for a moment, his eyes dancing across Adara’s face, then to Arya and Sansa, and finally to King Robert, who was laughing heartily as a northern woman danced on his lap a mere 30 paces from the Queen. He met Adara’s eyes once again and narrowed his own. “Can you promise me that you’ll keep your temper in check?”
“You mean the Stark temper I inherited from you and Brandon?” She joked, making Ned laugh from his squatted position beside her. He never minded her calling her actual father by his name. They both knew she was biologically his, yet the bond between Adara and Ned was one of a true father and daughter.
Ned nodded lightly. “That one, yes. No arguing with your sisters, and make sure they don’t fight with each other, either. No mouthing off to anyone. Southerners are frustrating people. You will want to be crude. I know you all too well.” They both smiled at that and laughed at themselves. Adara glanced briefly to Lady Catelyn, whose eyes bore into her like a wolf to its prey. She ignored the bitter woman and turned back to her father. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior. You needn’t worry about a thing.”
Lord Stark stood to his full height and beamed at his daughter. “It’s settled then. I’ll go tell the staff.” With that, he promptly exited the Great Hall, leaving Adara to mull over the hasty decision she made and all the consequences that would surely come with it.
She couldn’t obsess over whether it was a mistake for very long before she felt eyes on her yet again. When she looked up, there Daryl was with that same gentle smile. Adara made sure nobody was looking before she smiled back. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to reciprocate the gesture with this fellow she didn’t know from the First Men, but the way she felt when he first looked at her earlier in the day was a feeling Adara wasn’t sure she’d ever had before. She wanted that feeling again.
As if someone else entirely was inside of her and controlling her movements, Adara stood from her seat and pulled her cloak from the back of her chair. She draped it over her shoulders and fastened the leather straps across her chest, her direwolf pin glinting in the light from the candled chandeliers.
Lady Catelyn and Queen Cersei were deep in conversation which offered Adara the perfect moment to make her leave. She stepped carefully around her chair and through the Great Hall, narrowly missing all the stumbling drunk northerners intent on feasting well into the night. Adara hoped Daryl had not lost sight of her, and sure enough when she searched for him he was in the same spot as before, only his head was turned as though he had followed her every move.
With one final look to the mysterious man from White Harbor, Adara opened the door to the courtyard and stepped into the night, hoping he was the type to read more than just words.
Fawn was at her side in an instant, her heavy breaths and the light stepping of her large paws a welcome comfort to Adara as they made their way to the godswood again. She saw Jon swinging his sword at one of the several straw men he and Robb used for practice. Fawn was one step ahead of her, already jumping into the shadows so they wouldn’t be seen. The pair picked up their pace as they moved through the tunnel and finally reached the woods, now much darker with only a few torch lights providing visual aid.
She waited for less than a minute before Fawn’s head moved to the tunnel. Adara saw nothing there at first, but then he stepped into the light of the nearest torch. Daryl stopped in his tracks when he spotted Fawn and Adara couldn’t help but laugh. She placed her hand on Fawn’s head and scratched behind her ear. “She’s harmless. Wouldn’t hurt a bug even if I begged her to.”
He seemed to let out a sigh of relief at her words. He took a few steps forward, but still kept a careful distance. Adara tried to hide her smirk. People never did get used to Fawn, but she supposed she couldn’t fault them. Somehow one of the smallest of the seven pups had grown to twice the size of her littermates in less than a month.
“I don’t know why I came out here,” Adara divulged, clueless as to why she spoke the words. Daryl didn’t seem to mind, his eyes traveling around the godswood. “I haven’t been to many parties, but if they’re all like that around here, I can’t say I blame you for sneaking away.” He moved closer to the heart tree, his steps crunching on the fallen leaves and stopping just before reaching the pond. Adara crossed her arms. “They aren’t usually so intense, but my father felt it pertinent to pull out the full hospitality of Winterfell for His Grace, King Robert.”
“That drunken fool? The one practically fucking another woman in front of his own wife?” Daryl’s words were so harsh that Adara moved faster than her mind allowed as she jumped to cover his mouth.
They both froze as soon as her hand cupped his lips, their eyes widening as neither of them knew what to do. For a beat, all Adara could hear was the thumping of her own heart and his hot breaths against her palm. She quickly yanked her hand away. “If anyone were to hear you say such things, they would have your head, Ser.”
Daryl scoffed as he rubbed his mouth with his fingers. “I doubt there’s a soul in that hall sober enough to remember any part of tonight.” He scratched the back of his neck in what appeared to be a nervous habit, his hand disappearing under his hair. “I’m not a knight,” he finally said, correcting her formal use of ser.
Adara was genuinely surprised by this. She thought for sure her father had forgotten to introduce him as such. His armor was polished and from a noble house. He carried himself with a peculiar air of confidence, yet she sensed a humility in him that he was trying not to show. He was clearly a few years older than her, likely a man of his middle 30s. His sword was sharp and clean and she remembered how tidy his horse appeared. Daryl had all the makings of a knight, yet his eyes showed pure truth.
“Are you a ward, then?” She questioned, and—noting his surprise—she continued. “I mean no offense, my lord, but I don’t believe I have ever encountered a ward so…wise before.” Adara smirked as she said it, and Daryl released a small laugh at her sly remark. She felt a fluttering in her chest just knowing she was the cause of the happy sound from a man that appeared so solemn.
He rested a hand on his sword as he spoke. “I’m a man in the service of my Lord Richard Grimes, nothing more and nothing less. Most of what I have I owe to him.” He looked as though he wanted to say more but stopped himself. They stood in a comfortable silence before Daryl spoke again, this time the one asking the question. “How is being a Lady of Winterfell treating you?” He seemed genuinely interested in her answer, those piercing eyes looking at her as if nothing else mattered until she replied. His gaze made Adara blush, and she looked to the heart tree before answering.
“23 years and I hardly have a complaint, though I don’t suppose I’ll be a ‘Lady of Winterfell’ for much longer,” she admitted, her eyes welling up as she slowly realized what leaving her home would mean. Adara sniffled and brought her hand to her mouth in an attempt to suppress the onslaught of emotions she felt so suddenly. Fawn, who’d been sitting beside her since Daryl entered the godswood, whined and nudged at her leg to try and comfort her mother.
Daryl reached into his pocket and pulled out a battered, old cloth. He held it out to Adara, and she smiled weakly as she took it. She dabbed at the tears that spilled from her eyes. “I’m terribly sorry, Daryl. It wasn’t my intention to drag you to the godswood so you could witness a hysterical woman.” When Adara dared to look at him, all she saw was empathy. He stared at her with such earnestness that it was difficult for her to keep her thoughts in line.
“You don’t need to apologize to me for having feelings, Lady Adara,” he breathed, taking a step closer to her. Adara examined the cloth in her hands for the first time and couldn’t help but giggle. “My goodness! Did you get this rag from the First Men, or is it an heirloom directly from the Children of the Forest?” At that, they both laughed, Adara throwing her head back in a way she rarely did unless she had a rare moment alone with her father or siblings.
The silence enveloped them again, but Adara enjoyed it. The loud warbling of the party in the Great Hall was so distant that she barely registered it. She felt as though they were the only two people in Winterfell. Part of her enjoyed the thought, and the other wondered why she felt so comfortable in it.
“Forgive me if I’m overstepping, m’lady, but is it your father’s new position that troubles you this much?” Daryl asked it in such a way that Adara briefly pondered how long he’d been thinking of the question.
She sighed deeply and nodded, gripping his cloth tightly as she spoke her soon-to-be new life into existence. “My father is to be Hand of the King, and I’m going with him.”
Daryl’s shock at this news was something Adara hadn’t expected. It was plain on his face, and he nearly took a step back. “You’re going to the capital? To King’s Landing…with the Lannisters?” The way he spoke the last name of the most powerful house in Westeros reminded her of the way her little brother, Rickon, spat out the garden peas that he hated so much.
“Yes, they’ll be around frequently I suppose. I’m not thrilled by the notion, but my sisters need more protection than my father will be able to offer them with how busy he’ll be. Sansa is naïve and Arya is as wild as anyone you’d meet Beyond the Wall,” Adara dictated. She thought she noticed Daryl’s eyes widen at the mention of Beyond the Wall, but decided the torch lights must’ve been playing tricks on her.
He chewed on his lip for a moment before speaking. “Will you at least be taking her?” Daryl motioned to Fawn, who was asleep on the ground beside Adara’s feet. “Such a loyal animal could come in handy in a snake pit like King’s Landing.”
Adara knelt down and ran her hand down Fawn’s strong back. “I’d do anything to take Fawn with me if I could, but the South is no place for a northern-born creature. She would only suffer in the heat and the closed spaces with so little greenery. Besides, I would be far too scared someone would harm her not knowing that she’s mine, and I doubt His Grace would allow her inside the castle anyhow.”
Daryl stepped closer to Adara as she stood straight again. When she faced him, they were nearly touching. Adara froze, unsure as to why he was so close, and yet some strange part of her she didn’t recognize was telling her she wanted to be even closer.
When she found his eyes, they were already looking upon her face. All she could read in them was the honest concern of a man who didn’t trust easily. She wondered what made him that way, but if history taught her anything, she knew there was hardly a man in the entire North who trusted the people of Kings Landing.
“When do you leave?” Daryl inclined, the warmth of his quick breaths brushing against her face. Adara barely heard the question with her heartbeats nearly screeching in her ears. She had never been so close to a man in all her life. She noticed the slight stubble along his jaw, and the way it clenched as he stared down at her. He smelled of summer wine and trees and the tallow soap they made inside the castle. “Not for a few more days. My father and brothers leave at first light for a hunt with His Grace tomorrow.”
Daryl opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by hoofbeats in the distance. Adara jumped back, both of them watching as a man on a dark horse rode into the courtyard. He wore the clothes of a Man of the Night’s Watch, and his black hair was half tied in the back, with a short beard on his face to match.
“My Uncle Benjen,” Adara sighed with relief. Jon approached him with a sword pointed to the earth, looking all too excited to see the uncle they only rarely encountered when he came down from the Wall to take men back with him.
Daryl wasn’t nearly as glad. He seemed to recoil as soon as Adara spoke her uncle’s name. She frowned, a question on the tip of her tongue, but he spoke before she could voice her concern. “The hour is late, m’lady, and I’ve had quite the journey. I believe I must head to my chambers.”
He took one glance at Benjen and Jon, who were too deep in conversation to notice them, and gently gripped Adara’s hand. Before she understood his plan, Daryl planted a light kiss on her fingers and moved into the shadows of another tunnel, sneaking through a door and into the halls of the castle.
Adara stood in the godswood dumbfounded, curious as to a thousand things, all of them linked to the wonderfully strange man she’d spent the last hour with. She smiled as she looked down at what was clenched in her unkissed hand, Daryl’s tattered cloth rippling in the gentle breeze of the night.
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