Cregan Stark was the first to thunder through the gates of King's Landing, his horse surging forward as if it sensed the weight of fate itself. Behind him marched eight thousand Northmen, their boots striking the stones in grim unison. They did not shout. They did not cheer. Their silence was heavier than any war cry.
Direwolf banners snapped overhead. Against the pale sky, the silver-gray wolves seemed almost alive, running endlessly across fields of white cloth, tireless and unyielding.
The smallfolk needed no herald to name the man at their head. The Wolf of Winterfell was unmistakable. Long-faced and broad-shouldered, tall and lean, with dark brown hair worn loose and eyes the color of cold iron, Cregan Stark looked less like a courtly lord than a predator loosed from the frozen wilds. There was frost in his gaze, and something fierce beneath it, a restrained violence that set men uneasy.
Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaena rode out to meet him beyond the Gate of the Gods, their horses flanked by guards in black and red. The crowds gathered as well, but their welcome was muted. No flowers were thrown. No food was offered. The riverlords had been greeted with praise and open hands. The Northmen received wary stares and hurried silence.
They looked too old to the south, too harsh. Mail showed beneath their furs, and their faces were hidden behind thick beards. They spoke little, ignored septons, and made no sign of the Seven. These were First Men, bound to the old gods, and they did not bother pretending otherwise.
Cregan swung down from his saddle in a single smooth motion. Up close, he seemed even larger, his presence filling the space before the prince. He bowed, stiffly but correctly.
"Welcome, Lord Cregan," Prince Aegon said, his voice steady. Princess Rhaena inclined her head beside him.
"The North salutes you, Regent Aegon, and Queen Rhaenyra," Cregan replied. His voice was low, roughened by cold winds and command. "The North does not forget."
Aegon smiled and answered with measured courtesy, and for the first time that day, some of the courtiers allowed themselves to breathe. The Wolf spoke plainly, but he did not snarl. Perhaps winter could be softened after all.
Yet the city remained uneasy. For days now a great dragon had circled above King's Landing, its shadow passing over streets and towers, its roar echoing like a warhorn. It was a reminder that the Dance was not yet laid to rest.
...
Cregan's arrival transformed the council chamber.
Aegon sat at the head of the table, young but composed, his hands folded before him. To his left sat Cregan Stark, the riverlords and their kin, including Lord Kermit and his brother. Cregan took the seat nearest the prince without pause or hesitation, his fur cloak brushing the floor as he settled, eyes never leaving Aegon's face. To the right sat the Sea Snake, his back straight but his features drawn, with Larys Strong and the remaining ministers beside him.
When Cregan entered, Bloody Ben looked suddenly smaller, his earlier bravado fading. Lord Kermit shifted in his chair, clearing his throat too often. Even the Sea Snake seemed diminished, age pressing heavily upon his shoulders.
Aegon rose.
"My lords," he said, his gaze sweeping the table, "I speak now with the authority of the Prince Regent. I appoint Lord Cregan Stark as Hand of the King."
Silence followed. Not a chair creaked. Not a breath stirred.
By any measure of arms and loyalty, Cregan was worthy. Yet everyone present understood the truth of it. A Northman as Hand meant iron justice, not reconciliation. It meant the war's final reckoning had merely been delayed.
The Sea Snake stood slowly, leaning on the table with both hands. "Your Highness," he said, choosing each word with care, "no one doubts Lord Cregan's loyalty to the Blacks. But the realm is bleeding. The king is dead. The worst has passed. After slaughter should come a gentler season. Let Lord Cregan serve, yes, but not as Hand."
Cregan rose at once. The scrape of his chair sounded like a blade drawn.
"I would ask," he said, his gray eyes moving from face to face, "who decided the king's death ended all debts, and who declared this war finished?"
No one answered.
"The war was not begun by me," Cregan continued, his voice calm but edged like frost, "but it will be ended by the Regent and by my hand. I have brought eight thousand men. They are young. They are fierce. They have marched south to die if need be."
He planted one broad hand on the table. "We have a dragon as well, one whose fire rivals any now living. Now is the hour of dragons."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
"I will lead the Regent's vanguard," Cregan said. "Storm's End first. Then through the Reach. Oldtown will answer for its treason, and House Hightower will be broken. From there we turn west, along the Sunset Sea, until even Casterly Rock bends the knee."
His words fell like hammer blows.
All eyes turned to Aegon.
The boy-regent did not speak. He did not frown. He did not object.
He only nodded.
And in that small, terrible motion, they understood.
Hearts sank throughout the chamber. The pact of ice and fire still held, young dragon and direwolf bound together, each hungering for blood and renown.
"Storm's End. Oldtown. Casterly Rock." Lord Kermit spoke at last, his voice careful, almost timid. He folded his hands together as if to keep them from trembling. "They are as strong as Winterfell. Stronger, perhaps. Such castles cannot simply be taken."
"We have a dragon," Cregan said. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. "The Eyrie is the highest castle in the realm, yet even it cannot bar a dragon's path."
"The dragon cannot fight without end," Bloody Ben burst out. His youthful face was flushed, his fists clenched atop the table. "You would lose half your men."
Cregan turned his head slowly. When his gray eyes settled on the boy, the air itself seemed to harden.
"They died the day they chose to follow me," he said. "Child."
Bloody Ben swallowed. At thirteen, he was brave enough to speak but not brave enough to hold Cregan Stark's gaze. He shrank back into his chair, his defiance guttering out.
"Reconciliation, pardons, peace," the Sea Snake said, pushing himself to his feet. His hands rested heavily on the table, knuckles pale. "These things are swifter than swords. Your Highness seeks vengeance, and Lord Cregan feeds that fire. Enough blood has been spilled. Storm's End, Oldtown, Casterly Rock. Their lords are dead. What remains are widows and children. They pose no threat to the realm."
"War or peace is decided by the victors," Aegon replied. His voice was calm, but there was no warmth in it. "And by the defeated's submission. Not by compromise. My patience is limited. Gold, lands, hostages, and fines. That is reconciliation."
The Sea Snake looked into the boy's eyes and saw iron there, cold and unyielding. The courteous prince he had once counseled was gone, replaced by something sharper and far more dangerous.
He let out a long breath. "Look at my hair," he said quietly, lifting a hand to the silver threaded through it. "I lost my son, three grandsons, and a grandson by marriage in this war. My wife. Our boy Addam. My wealth. My fleet. No man has bled more for the Blacks than I have. This cannot go on forever. End it."
"I am grateful for your loyalty, Lord Corlys," Aegon said. He inclined his head, a perfect gesture of courtesy. "But this is the game of thrones. We are already upon the board."
"Children grow," Cregan said. He rested both hands on the table, his broad fingers splayed. "Even babes at their mother's breast drink in hatred. If evil is not cut out by the root, then in twenty years those children will raise swords to avenge their fathers. Those of us still alive will curse today's mercy."
"The usurper Aegon and his mother Alicent spoke much the same," the Sea Snake replied. His voice tightened. "Narrow hearts win few allies. Had they chosen amnesty earlier, this war might already be done."
"You poisoned the usurper for that so-called peace, did you not?" Cregan asked. His tone was mild, almost detached. "You slither between sides, bearing fangs and venom. You served a weak king and reached for coward's poison. Such acts are dishonorable. They demand payment."
A low murmur rippled through what remained of the council.
Cregan straightened and turned toward the prince. "Your Highness, I formally request a full investigation into the poisoning of the usurper. Though he broke oaths and stole the crown, he did sit the Iron Throne. To poison a king is the lowest of crimes."
Aegon raised his hand. "Granted."
He rose then, slow and deliberate, his chair scraping softly across the floor. "Let this be known. A king may fall in battle, or by judgment. But not by poison."
Several councillors went pale. One gripped the edge of the table as if his legs might fail him.
"This matter shall be placed in Lord Cregan's hands," Aegon continued. "As for Lord Corlys, his service to the realm is great. He may continue to attend council."
The Sea Snake inclined his head. "I am old," he said quietly. "I will return to Driftmark and await your judgment."
As he turned to leave, the guards hesitated. Then the Northmen moved. They surged forward like great bears rising onto their hind legs, swords drawn but held low.
Lord Corlys was treated with courtesy, escorted safely from the Red Keep. He was, after all, the grandsire of a future queen.
The others were not shown such restraint.
Larys Strong. Grand Maester Orwyle. Perkin the Flea. The remnants of the Green council were swept away like autumn leaves before a winter gale.
When the doors finally closed, the chamber felt cavernous and bare.
"My lords," Aegon said, surveying the empty seats, "now we may speak of war and peace."
No one answered.
This was no longer a council of equals.
The Wolf Hour had come, the darkest hour before dawn, and all within the Red Keep knew it.
-------
A/N: Some reviews would be really appreciated, Thanks Guys!!
Read ahead on Patreon, 23 advance chapters available, with the first 2 free.
patreon.com/Captain_Lag