133 AC
Cregan Stark POV
I sat on the simple chair at the foot of the Iron Throne, my sword resting at my side, my eyes sweeping over every face in the throne room. There was a palpable tension in the air, a mix of fear and anticipation.
"Bring forth the traitors," I commanded, my voice cutting through the silence.
The Wolf Pack members pushed the imprisoned Small Council members forward. The first was Jasper Wylde. His face was pale but defiant.
"Jasper Wylde," I began, my gaze piercing. "You stand accused of treason for helping Aegon Targaryen usurp the rightful Queen Rhaenyra. How do you plead?"
He met my gaze unflinchingly. "I followed the ancient traditions. A king's son should succeed him, and that is what I did. If that is treason in your eyes, then so be it."
"So be it," I echoed, my voice flat. I gestured to two Wolf Pack members. "Fetch a stump. Place Jasper Wylde's neck upon it." The men moved with swift efficiency. As they secured him, I slowly unsheathed my sword, the Northern steel hissing softly as it left its scabbard. "In the name of Cregan of House Stark, I sentence you to die."
With a swift, clean swing, my sword arced downwards. A sickening thud, and Jasper Wylde's head rolled across the black marble floor. A collective gasp rippled through the room.
"Next prisoner," I ordered, my voice showing no emotion.
Larys Strong was pushed forward, his clubfoot dragging. He eyed me with a mixture of fear and that usual calculating glint.
"Larys Strong," I stated. "You stand accused of treason for your perfidious machinations against the rightful Queen."
"I accept I did," he rasped, his eyes darting towards his fallen comrade's head. "Though I served what I believed was the future." His voice dropped, a strange request emerging. "But when I am dead, my Prince, I have one last plea. Hack off my clubfoot with that great sword of yours. I have dragged it with me for all of my life."
It was a peculiar request, but I simply nodded. My sword arced down once more. "Bring the next prisoner!" I commanded, ignoring the last wish.
Tyland Lannister was brought forward, his expensive silks now stained and rumpled. His golden lion's pride remained, however.
"Tyland Lannister," I said, leaning forward slightly. "Three-quarters of the royal treasury has gone missing. Do you have anything to say about it?"
He sneered, his gaze filled with contempt. "I have nothing to say to you, Northern heathen."
I studied him for a long moment, a slow smile spreading on my face. "Ah, still some fire in him, Good. Roddy." I waved a hand. "Take him to the dungeons. This one still has some fire in him. We should make sure that fire is doused before his execution." Two Wolf Pack members seized the protesting Lannister and dragged him away.
Then, Grand Maester Orwyle was brought forward, his face pale and trembling. He was old, and his fear was palpable.
"Grand Maester Orwyle," I said, my voice cold. "You served the usurpers. You aided in their lies and their schemes. You are guilty of treason."
Orwyle stammered, his voice weak. "My Prince, I... I was only doing my duty! I am a maester! I serve the realm!"
"You served a false king," I retorted, my voice flat. "And for that, you will pay the price." My sword rose and fell once more. Another head rolled.
Finally, the last prisoner was brought forth. Otto Hightower. He stood tall, his eyes burning with defiance, his silver hair a stark contrast to his pale face.
"Last, but certainly not least," I drawled, my voice laced with sarcasm. "Ser Otto Hightower, grand architect of this usurpation. How does it feel to have the plans you meticulously made through the decades fall apart in a single moon?"
Otto's eyes flashed, and he began to rant, a torrent of words about Rhaenyra's unfitness, the ancient traditions, and the sacred right of kings. "You barbarian! You've destroyed everything! You'll never hold this city! The realm will rise against you!"
I let him finish, my expression turning serious, cold as the Northern winds. "Ser Otto Hightower," I cut him off, my voice sharp and final. "You stand accused of treason. How do you plead?"
"Not guilty!" he spat. "I have followed the traditions set since ancient times by my ancestors, and I stand by it!"
I merely nodded. "Place him on the stump." The Wolf Pack members moved to obey, their movements quick and brutal.
"You've doomed us all!" Otto roared, even as they forced his neck onto the block.
My sword swung, a flash of steel. The sound of the blade was swift, mercifully brief. As Otto's head rolled, his defiant eyes still wide in death, a choked sob erupted from the side of the room. Alicent Hightower, who had been watching in silent horror, now crumbled, her face buried in her hands, Helaena Targaryen beside her, equally distraught.
"Wolf Pack," I commanded, pointing. "Escort Queen Alicent and Princess Helaena back to the maidenvault. Ensure they are secured."
Then, I addressed the entire throne room. "Disperse. Everyone to their duties. The maesters, begin sending ravens. The Gold Cloaks, return to your posts and restore order. The loyal lords, meet with Roddy to begin the tally of resources."
As they began to move, the room emptying, I rose from my chair, the strange monstrosity of the Iron Throne looming behind me. I began to roam through the Red Keep, my Wolf Pack members already moving through the castle, ensuring our control. As I walked, I spotted the lingering symbols of the usurper. "Maids!" I called out, my voice echoing. "Remove all the seven-pointed star banners hanging around the Red Keep. They defile these walls."
They obeyed immediately, scurrying to do my bidding. The Red Keep was now under Northern command. The Dance had truly turned.
After ensuring the initial chaos in the Red Keep was being managed, I made my way towards the dungeons. The stench of stale air and misery clung to the stone walls, a familiar scent in such places. I found the cell where Tyland Lannister was being "convinced" to speak. He was strapped to a rough wooden bench, his face pale and glistening with sweat, but still stubbornly silent.
I looked at the Wolf Pack member in charge of the interrogation. "Has he given us anything?" I asked, my voice low.
The guard shook his head. "No, my Prince. He's a stubborn one. Claims he knows nothing."
I dismissed the guard with a nod and moved closer to Tyland. I pulled up a stool and sat directly in front of him, meeting his defiant gaze. "Where is the rest of the treasury, Tyland?" I asked, my voice calm, almost conversational.
He glared at me, his eyes burning with hatred. "I don't know, you Northern heathen."
I leaned back, a cold, predatory smile spreading across my face. "Oh, you will say. One way or another." My voice dropped, becoming a chilling whisper. "If you say it now, it ends quickly for you. A swift death, perhaps even a merciful one. If not..." I paused, letting my words hang in the air, allowing the true horror of my threat to sink in. "Your Lannister line will fall because of your stubbornness. I will kill every last one of your line who is of age. The women will be sent to the Silent Sisters, to bury the dead and live a life of eternal silence. And the boys, the young boys, will be sent to the Wall, to freeze and forget their names."
Tyland's defiant mask began to crack. His eyes widened, a flicker of genuine terror passing through them. The Lannister pride, the thought of his esteemed house utterly destroyed, was a far greater torment than any physical pain.
"And Casterly Rock," I continued, pressing my advantage, "will be turned to an ice mountain. A monument to your folly. All of it. Unless you give me the information."
A look of utter horror contorted his face. He swallowed hard, his throat working. The fire in his eyes died, replaced by a desperate, beaten despair. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse, trembling.
"One third... is in the Iron Bank," he choked out. "Another third... at Casterly Rock itself. And the last third... in Oldtown, hidden away in a secure vault."
I leaned forward, my smile widening. "See? That wasn't so hard. All you had to do was paint a picture of what would happen if you didn't agree, and the information starts to roll." I stood up, nodding to the guards. "Secure him. We'll verify this information. And then, he can join his friends in the hell."
I waited. Two days passed in King's Landing, a whirlwind of securing the city, consolidating our position, and sending out ravens to every corner of the realm, proclaiming the victory at Rook's Rest and the fall of the usurper. The captured Green loyalists were interrogated, their information carefully documented. Tyland Lannister, having yielded his secrets, was still in the dungeons, awaiting his final fate. The city slowly, cautiously, began to breathe again under the stern but orderly hand of the Wolf Pack.
Then, on the second day, a sight that made the Gold Cloaks cheer and the newly freed Black loyalists weep with joy: Queen Rhaenyra arrived. She descended from the sky, not alone, but with her full might. Three dragons soared above the city, a testament to her power and the legitimacy of her claim. I recognized Syrax, her golden dragon, leading the charge. Beside her flew Meleys, the Red Queen, carrying Princess Rhaenys, a survivor of the day thanks to Saphira's intervention. And finally, the green scales of Vermax, Prince Jacaerys's dragon, a vibrant sign of her sons.
Her army, a formidable host of Velaryon, Celtigar, and other loyalist banners, marched through the newly repaired Dragon Gate, their faces filled with relief and triumph. The capital, stained with the blood of usurpers, was now finally hers. The true Queen had come home.