133 AC
Cregan Stark POV
The small council chamber was alive with the low hum of strategy and the rustle of maps. Queen Rhaenyra presided, her hand Corlys beside her. Rhaenys, Jacaerys, Roddy, Simon Staunton, and I completed the circle. The grim reality of the treasury's state and the Maesters' pervasive conspiracy had solidified our resolve.
"So, Oldtown and the Westerlands," Rhaenyra began, her gaze moving between Corlys and me. "How do we strike effectively?"
"Oldtown first," I stated, my voice firm. "We need to hit the root of this treachery. And we need to hit them hard and fast. No prolonged siege."
Corlys stroked his magnificent white beard. "Oldtown's defenses are ancient and formidable. The Hightowers are rich and have many sworn swords."
"They have stone walls," I countered, a cold smile forming on my lips. "We have an ice dragon, and a different kind of war." I leaned forward. "Your Grace, I suggest we send word to Dagon Greyjoy."
A flicker of surprise passed over Rhaenyra's face, and even Corlys seemed taken aback. "Dalton Greyjoy?" Corlys repeated, his brows furrowed. "The Lord Reaper? His loyalty is... famously mercurial."
"Precisely," I said, a glint in my eye. "He smells blood and opportunity. This isn't about loyalty to the Iron Throne, not yet. This is about plunder and vengeance."
"Vengeance for what?" Jacaerys asked, confused.
"The Maesters despise the Ironborn," I explained. "They preach against their ways, their gods. Dagon will relish the chance to sack the Citadel, to burn the Starry Sept, to strike at the very heart of the Faith and learning that demonizes his people. It's a war of opportunity for him, and vengeance for us."
Rhaenys considered this, a faint smile playing on her lips. "A devil's bargain, perhaps, but a pragmatic one. The Ironborn are unmatched at sea and in landing assaults."
"My plan is this," I continued. "Send a raven to Pyke. Tell Dalton Greyjoy that Prince Cregan Stark, with an ice dragon, is making his way to Oldtown. Tell him that we expect his fleet to move simultaneously, to meet us there. We will attack from land, with Saphira. He will attack from the sea. Oldtown will be caught in a vice."
Rhaenyra looked at me, a mixture of wariness and grudging admiration in her eyes. "You would trust the Ironborn to follow through?"
"I'd trust them to take what they want, Your Grace," I clarified. "And what they want is Oldtown's wealth and the opportunity to strike at the Citadel. Their goals align with ours for this one singular purpose."
"And the consequences?" Corlys interjected, ever the strategist. "A ravaged Oldtown, looted by Ironborn... The realm will cry foul."
"Let them," I said, shrugging. "The realm cries foul now, too. They cry for Aegon, they cry for my swift justice. Better they cry for an Ironborn sacking than for a Targaryen burning. And the Citadel, with its vast knowledge and influence, needs to be purged of this festering conspiracy. A cleansing fire, or in this case, ice and salt."
Rhaenyra looked to Corlys, then to Rhaenys. They exchanged silent glances. The idea was ruthless, brutal, but undeniably effective. It would send a clear message throughout the realm: those who conspired against the Targaryens, even those seemingly untouchable by virtue of their ancient order or their piety, would face a reckoning unlike any seen before.
"Very well," Rhaenyra finally said, a grim set to her jaw. "Send the raven to Dalton Greyjoy. Make it clear the prize is Oldtown, and the target is the Citadel and the Hightowers' wealth. Offer him the right to plunder as he sees fit, within certain limits I will specify."
"And the Westerlands?" Jacaerys asked, eager.
Corlys, who had been listening intently, now spoke. "Daemon is already at Harrenhal, Your Grace, gathering men from the Riverlands. I can send additional soldiers to him from the Crownlands forces. We will ensure he has overwhelming numbers. He will make quick work of the Westerlands and recover that treasury. The Lannisters will pay dearly for their insolence."
I nodded, satisfied. "It's a two-pronged attack, Your Grace. Swift, decisive, and hitting them where it hurts most: their wealth, their power, and their pride. Once the Lannisters are broken and Oldtown neutralized, the Baratheons will have little choice but to bend the knee."
Rhaenyra leaned back, a heavy sigh escaping her. The weight of the crown was evident on her face, but there was also a spark of fierce resolve. "Then let it be done. Let the usurpers feel the true wrath of the dragon and the wolf."
The rest of the day was consumed by logistics. Maps were unfurled, troop movements discussed, supply lines meticulously planned. The sheer scale of what we were attempting—a two-pronged assault on the Westerlands and Oldtown—was daunting, but the fury ignited by the Maesters' conspiracy fueled our resolve.
After a mid-day meal that felt more like a hurried sustenance, I made my way to the training grounds. My Wolf Pack members were already at it, their Northern steel glinting as they honed their skills. I joined them, sparring against one of the younger, eager recruits. The clang of steel, the grunt of effort, the precise movements of Demon Slayer breathing techniques – it was a familiar comfort, a stark contrast to the political machinations of the Red Keep. I disarmed my opponent with a flick of my wrist, his practice sword skittering across the dirt.
"Has anyone defeated you yet?" a familiar voice asked, laced with a playful challenge.
I turned, seeing Jacaerys Targaryen standing there, a thoughtful expression on his face. He'd grown from the boy I knew at the academy, but his eyes still held that earnest light. "Not a warrior in the Seven Kingdoms right now who can defeat me, Jace," I said, with a slight smirk.
Jace chuckled, then picked up a training sword. "Shall we go a round, then?"
"As you wish, Prince," I replied, a flicker of genuine amusement. We saluted each other, and then the dance began.
Jace was quick, much quicker than most men I'd faced in the South. He moved with a dragon's grace, his parries sharp, his thrusts precise. He pressed me hard, feinting, trying to find an opening, but my defense was unbreakable. My movements were fluid, effortless, honed by years of relentless training and the enhanced awareness of my Lycan blood. I deflected his blows with minimal effort, my own movements economical. He tried to draw me in, to trick me, but every attempt was met with an unyielding shield or a sword that seemed to appear from nowhere to block his path. His breath grew ragged, his movements a touch less sharp, while I remained perfectly composed. He was skilled, but I was on a different plane entirely.
Finally, after what felt like an endless flurry of his attacks met by my impenetrable defense, Jace cried out, "Yield!" His chest was heaving, sweat pouring down his face.
I lowered my sword, offering him a hand. He took it, and I pulled him effortlessly to his feet. "Still as brutal as you used to fight in the academy," Jace said, panting, a rueful grin spreading across his face. "Can't you at least act like you're tired?"
I chuckled. "Where's the fun in that?"
We both laughed, the sound cutting through the grunts of the other sparring men. We walked over to a nearby bench, grabbing waterskins and settling down.
"So," Jace said, taking a long drink, "how's my sister doing?"
"Visenya is well," I replied, a softness entering my voice. "A little overwhelmed by everything, as you'd imagine, but she's strong. She's adapting quickly to the chaos of the South." I told him about her spirit, her resilience, and how she was trying to aid her mother despite her personal grief.
"Good," Jace said, a genuine warmth in his eyes.
Then I ask, "That's good to hear. And... how's Luke doing?"
He sighed, the mirth fading slightly. "The fever is still a concern. He hasn't woken yet. But Maester Gerardys is tending to him carefully. He'll fight through it." We talked for a while longer, about the future of the dragons, the remaining loyalist houses, and the daunting task of rebuilding the realm.
After a comfortable silence, Jace turned to me, his expression thoughtful. "Cregan, what do you truly think of the Faith? And... what should be done with it, now that the Greens' influence is broken?"
I considered his question carefully. This was a sensitive topic. "They can't be eliminated, Jace," I said, "not outright. Their hold on the common folk is too strong, too deeply ingrained. But they can be suppressed. We must ensure they have no say in ruling the realm. Their power comes from the Crown, not the other way around. They can't get donations from lords or smallfolk in the form of coin or precious metals. If they receive donations, it should be in the form of grain or clothing, nothing more. This will starve their coffers and prevent them from funding their plots."
"Furthermore," I continued, "their Grand Septon must be a man loyal to the Crown, appointed by the Queen, not chosen by some shadowy council. Their laws must always yield to the King's, or Queen's, justice. Any septon or high septon found preaching sedition or inciting rebellion should face the same justice as any lord. And their armed forces, the Faith Militant... they must never be permitted to rise again."
Jace nodded slowly, his expression growing serious. "No say in ruling... no gold donations... that's a bold stance, Cregan."
"It's the only stance, Jace," I concluded, my gaze firm. "Magic exists. Dragons exist. Your House is living proof of it. If the Faith continues to preach that as an abomination, then your House will always be in conflict with the very religion it claims to defend. It's a poison that's been festering for centuries, and it needs to be cut out."