The air in the Throne Room lay heavy with cold resolve.
Judgment came swiftly, and without mercy. This was the justice of the Wolf of Winterfell.
Prince Aegon sat the Iron Throne, its blades framing his still form. He did not shift nor speak as the grim procession advanced, one condemned man brought forward after another, only to be dragged away once the sentence was pronounced. The scrape of boots and the clink of chains echoed like a dirge.
Some cast desperate, pleading looks toward the prince regent, clinging to the hope that mercy might yet be found there. Those hopes were dashed as quickly as they were born. Cregan Stark's judgments were carried out openly and with Aegon's full assent. Whatever rot had festered in King's Landing during the war was being carved out, bone-deep.
"Grand Maester Orwyle," Cregan Stark declared, his voice level and cold, "you supplied the poison to Larys Strong. You are complicit in regicide. The sentence is death."
Orwyle's knees buckled. He clawed at his chain, eyes wild. "Lord Tyland," he cried hoarsely, twisting his head toward the benches. "Save me. For the sake of all the councils we shared, for all the years of service."
No one answered. Northern soldiers closed in, iron hands seizing his arms. Orwyle shrieked as he was hauled away, his dignity stripped as easily as his chain, his protests dissolving into pitiful noise.
Ser Tyland Lannister swallowed hard, the fox watching the hare meet its end. His fingers twitched against his cloak as he turned to Cregan, forcing himself to speak. "Lord Stark," he said softly, "might I beg… some consideration."
Aegon leaned forward, resting one gauntleted hand against the arm of the throne. His voice, when it came, was calm and unyielding. "Ser Tyland requires care. Let the maesters see to him."
The words were mild. The meaning was not. Tyland's shoulders sagged in relief too soon, and the Wolf did not correct him. Thus, Ser Tyland received his consideration.
Cregan Stark did not linger. He turned his gaze upon the white cloaks. "Ser Gyles," he said. "You failed in the sacred duty of a Kingsguard. The king was murdered. A knight who survives such a crime has no right to draw breath. Death."
Ser Gyles' jaw tightened, but he did not speak.
"And your four sworn brothers," Cregan continued, his gray eyes unblinking. "Death as well."
The white cloaks stiffened as one. One crossed himself. Another stared at the floor. None protested.
Twenty-two more were condemned alongside them. First came the king's litter-bearers and messengers, then the keepers of the royal cellars, and the servants charged with keeping the king's cup ever full. After them were brought the poison-taster Umit, who had slain the king, the man who murdered Tongueless Tom, and the brute who drowned Ragged-Beard Tom, the father, in a vat of ale.
Most were gutter knights, sellswords, masterless men-at-arms, and street bravos, dubiously knighted during the chaos by Ser Perkin the Flea. Each one swore he had only followed orders.
Perkin himself shouted until he was hoarse. "I was pardoned," he insisted, face red and slick with sweat. "My crimes were forgiven."
"I did not pardon you," Cregan Stark replied, his hand resting on the pommel of Ice. "Nor did Prince Aegon."
Then Larys Strong was brought forth.
Clubfoot offered little in the way of defense. He stood straight upon his twisted leg, hands folded calmly before him, eyes half-lidded. When the sentence of death was spoken, he merely inclined his head, as if acknowledging a social slight.
"Larys," Cregan said, "Grand Maester Orwyle has confessed to supplying the poison at your behest. Ser Perkin admits he acted under your command. Your guilt is proven."
"When have direwolves ever had patience for sophistry," Larys replied mildly. His mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. He neither denied nor confessed.
Northern soldiers stepped forward, hands closing on his arms.
"Lord Larys," Aegon said suddenly.
The soldiers paused.
Larys lifted his head. "Your Grace."
Aegon studied him, his violet eyes intent. "The riot at the Dragonpit. Those who led it. The Shepherd. Hobb the Hewer, who slew Syrax. The Burning Knight, who killed Morghul. The men who butchered dragons. Was that your design? Or mere chance."
Larys met his gaze, unflinching. "A man practiced in whispers is also practiced in spreading lies," he said. "Queen Helaena's death, yes. The tale that she was murdered by the queen was my work. But the riot itself? I do not know who lit that fire. Dragon-slaughter is not my craft. If you seek answers, ask those who train men to kill."
He paused, then added softly, "I have no reason to lie now."
Aegon's jaw tightened. "So you admit you spread the lie that the queen murdered her sister."
"The lie was mine," Larys said smoothly, "but it took root because the ground was already poisoned. Had the queen ruled with mercy, such a tale would have withered."
Aegon regarded him for a long moment. "One final question. My father's death. There are rumors of Alys Rivers, and her sorceries. What do you know of her. Was she a Strong."
Larys' fingers flexed once. "I do not know her true age," he said after a pause. "It must be great. My father claimed she nursed him at her breast. Whether that makes her a Strong, I cannot say. But she wielded sorcery. Else she could not have preserved her youth, nor bound the One-Eye so fully."
Alys Rivers remained an enigma. It was never proven she was the bastard daughter of Lyonel Strong.
Aegon knew only what the tales claimed of her magic. The keeping of youth, and visions in flame. She saw Prince Daemon in fire and shadow, in mountain ravines at dusk, in the hearth-fires of supper halls. Alys Rivers saw many things in flame, and some of them had come to pass.
Grand Maester Munkun and Septon Eustace both believed her to be a daughter Lyonel Strong had sired in his youth with some nameless woman. Munkun claimed the mother was a castle serving woman, learned in simples, potions, and the half-remembered charms of river folk. Eustace insisted she had been a hedge witch of the woods, steeped in sin and old gods' blasphemy.
Mushroom told a darker tale. He swore Alys Rivers was far older still, that she had served as wet nurse not only to Harwin and Larys Strong, but perhaps even to their father before them. He named her a black-hearted sorceress who bathed in the blood of maidens to preserve her youth. None of the children she bore, Mushroom claimed, ever lived.
"The Strongs were never known for sorcery," Larys said at last, his voice unhurried. His fingers rested lightly atop his cane, knuckles pale. "But the first lords of Harrenhal were Hoares, and the Hoares were not ironborn as other men understand them. Harrenhal stands close to the Isle of Faces. Old powers linger there. Perhaps the wet nurse found something by chance."
Aegon inclined his head. "I am grateful for your answers."
Larys smiled faintly and bowed, as best his twisted leg allowed. "I shall dance in hell, then. Perhaps I will find my father and brother waiting for me."
As the guards led him away, chains whispering across the stone, Cregan Stark's brow furrowed. He watched the retreating figure until it vanished through the doors, then turned to Aegon.
"A treacherous wet nurse with an ample bosom," he said dryly. "Why does Your Grace trouble himself over such a woman."
Aegon's gaze lingered on the doorway. "Because the witch's fire still burns, Lord Cregan," he said quietly. "And she remains at Harrenhal."
Later, the clangor of steel rang through the training yard.
Aegon welcomed the ache in his arms, the bite of cold air in his lungs. Across from him stood Cregan Stark, greatsword in hand, his breath steaming as he settled into a low, predatory stance.
Rhaena, clad in blue wool and silver trim, watched from the edge of the yard, her hands folded tight before her. Above the walls, the Cannibal crouched like a living nightmare, vast and jagged, green eyes gleaming with a malice that never slept. The dragon had become the terror of the Red Keep. Even seasoned guards avoided the yard when he stirred. No one could say how the prince had bent such a monster to his will.
Aegon wore a sleeveless gambeson, darkened with sweat, his muscles standing clear beneath the fabric. He rolled his shoulders once, loosening them, then raised his blade.
The northern lords and soldiers looked on with narrowed eyes. They had come south with their old judgments intact. To them, southern swordplay was all flourish and courtesy. In the North, steel decided matters quickly. There was no pageantry in killing.
Cregan Stark embodied that truth. The Wolf of Winterfell moved with brutal economy, every step purposeful, every cut meant to end a life.
And yet, Aegon met him blow for blow.
Steel rang. Sparks flew. Aegon gave ground, then took it back, his movements sharp and precise. He did not waste strength on needless swings. He waited, watched, and struck.
Strength. Speed. Awareness. Endurance.
When each was honed to its limit, swordplay ceased to be art and became execution.
Cregan pressed him hard, forcing him back three steps. Aegon let the pressure build, then slipped inside the arc of the greatsword, his blade flashing up in a blur.
He struck after his opponent and arrived first.
Cregan halted, eyes widening a fraction as Aegon's edge kissed his gorget.
For a heartbeat, the yard was silent.
Then Cregan barked a laugh and stepped back, lowering his sword. "Given time, Your Grace," he said, admiration plain in his voice, "you will be the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms."
Aegon grinned, chest rising and falling. "But for now," he said, easing his blade down, "this is still your age, Lord Cregan."
His stamina had always been exceptional. His talent undeniable. Now, tempered by relentless training and sharpened vigilance, it promised something more. Something dangerous.
But he had no time to wait for perfection.
Aegon intended to kill the Red Kraken.
In his own reckoning, Cregan Stark stood alone at the summit. Had Prince Daemon still lived, he might have challenged him. Now, perhaps only the Shadow of Lys could compare.
If he required a true master, he might yet have to dig that shadow out of Lys itself.
"Your Grace. Lord Cregan."
Both men turned as the Lord Steward approached, bowing low. "The Westerlands delegation has arrived."
Aegon slid his sword back into its scabbard beside Cregan's. "Send them in."
It was submission in all but name.
The great lords of the west, once aligned with the Greens, had been ground down by the Red Kraken until pride no longer mattered.
Now, they sought only to yield. Quickly.
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