134 AC
Third Person POV
It had been one moon since the small council meeting in King's Landing, a period of intense preparation and relentless marching. Now, Cregan Stark and his formidable Wolf Pack were but a day's ride from the ancient city of Oldtown, the very heart of the Hightower's power and, as Cregan believed, the root of the Maesters' insidious conspiracy.
The air grew milder with each league they traveled south, losing the crisp bite of the North. The landscape softened, giving way to rolling hills and fertile fields, a stark contrast to the rugged, unforgiving lands they called home. Anticipation, a grim, eager beast, gnawed at Cregan.
They made camp that night on a low ridge overlooking the distant glimmer of Oldtown, its towering Hightower piercing the twilight sky like a needle. The men were quiet, their faces hardened by the long march, but their eyes held the familiar glint of warriors on the cusp of battle.
Cregan himself stood apart, his gaze fixed on the distant city. He thought of Visenya, of his oath, and of the cold, calculated revenge he was about to unleash upon those who had conspired against her house. This was more than just war; it was a surgical strike.
The next morning, the sun rose, painting the sky with hues of orange and gold. Cregan's host was already stirring, preparing for the final push. They broke camp with practiced efficiency, the clatter of steel and the low murmurs of men filling the dawn air.
As they approached the outer walls of Oldtown, a raven, swift and dark, descended from the sky, landing on Roddy's outstretched arm. It carried a message, a single, terse scroll. Roddy quickly unrolled it and read.
"My Prince," Roddy announced, his voice carrying clearly, "Lord Dalton Greyjoy sends word. His fleet is in position. Ready to attack from the sea."
A grim satisfaction settled over Cregan. The devil's bargain was holding. The Ironborn, true to their nature, were here for the plunder and the blood.
Just as he absorbed the news, a mighty roar tore through the sky, a sound that vibrated in the very bones. Cregan looked up, his eyes narrowing.
A dragon. A magnificent, shimmering blue dragon, its scales like polished sapphires, soared above the city. It was Tessarion, the Blue Queen, ridden by Daeron Targaryen.
Saphira, who had been flying high above, a silent, watchful guardian, heard the challenge. A deep, guttural roar, filled with a chilling, predatory hunger, erupted from her. It was a sound that made the very air vibrate, a sound of pure, unadulterated ice and power.
Tessarion, hearing the terrifying roar of the larger, unknown dragon, faltered. The blue dragon, perhaps sensing the overwhelming power of its unseen foe, or perhaps commanded by a rider whose courage had failed, turned its tail.
With a desperate beat of its wings, Tessarion flew back towards the south, a streak of blue disappearing into the distant clouds. It was a retreat, a clear sign of fear.
Cregan's lips curled into a cold smile. Saphira had done her job. The psychological impact of an ice dragon was already proving its worth.
"Saphira!" Cregan commanded mentally, his voice resonating through their bond."Blow open the main gates of Oldtown. And then, Urges, saphira! "Chase that blue dragon! Capture it! Do not kill it!"
Saphira's mental assent was a powerful surge of cold determination. With a deafening roar, she dove towards the city, a white blur against the clear morning sky.
Below, the ground trembled as Saphira unleashed a torrent of dark blue flame. The massive wooden gates of Oldtown, ancient and thick, groaned under the impossible cold. They splintered, cracked, and then exploded inwards, shards of frozen timber scattering like shrapnel.
Simultaneously, from the sea, the blare of Ironborn horns filled the air. A vast fleet of longships, their black sails emblazoned with the golden kraken, swarmed towards the harbor. The Ironborn, true to their word, were attacking from the sea.
"Wolf Pack!" Cregan roared, drawing his sword. "For Glory! Charge!"
With a savage yell, the three hundred men surged forward, a disciplined wave of black armor and Northern steel pouring through the shattered gates. The defenders on the walls, caught utterly by surprise by the dual assault, scrambled in panic.
Inside the city, chaos erupted. The Wolf Pack moved like a blizzard, their Demon Slayer breathing techniques allowing them to fight with impossible speed and endurance. They were a whirlwind of steel, cutting down every Hightower guard, every city watchman, every levy that dared to stand in their path.
Saphira, having demolished the gate, was already soaring after Tessarion, a ghostly white hunter pursuing its blue prey. Her presence in the sky alone was enough to sow terror among the Hightower forces.
From the harbor, the screams of the Ironborn raiders mingled with the cries of the Oldtown defenders. Dalton Greyjoy's men, brutal and efficient, swarmed ashore, their axes and swords gleaming. They were not interested in holding ground, only in plunder and destruction.
The Hightower forces were caught in a vice. Their attention divided, their morale shattered by the sudden, overwhelming assault from both land and sea, they offered little coordinated resistance. The streets became a bloody labyrinth, a testament to the North's brutal efficiency.
Cregan fought at the vanguard, his sword a blur of motion. He moved with a cold, almost detached precision, every strike fatal, every parry effortless. He was a storm of steel, a harbinger of the North's wrath.
Roddy, leading a detachment of the Wolf Pack, was a whirlwind of destruction, his axe a blur as he cut down Hightower knights. "They're soft, my Prince!" he roared, his voice filled with savage glee. "Soft as summer snow!"
The blue flames of Saphira, though distant now, still cast a chilling light on the battle, a reminder of the power that had broken their gates and hunted their dragon. Men caught in the lingering cold of her breath froze where they stood, their faces contorted in silent screams.
The Hightower defenders, once proud and confident behind their ancient walls, now broke and fled, their discipline crumbling. The city was falling, swiftly and brutally.
The cries of the dying, the clash of steel, the distant roar of the Ironborn, all blended into a symphony of conquest. Oldtown, the bastion of the Faith and the Citadel, was being consumed.
The battle turned into a rout. The Hightower banners fell, replaced by the direwolf and the kraken. The initial resistance had been fierce, but short-lived, overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity and unexpected nature of the attack.
With the city largely subdued, Cregan led his core force directly towards the Hightower, the colossal beacon that dominated the city's skyline. This was the seat of their power, the home of the conspirators.
The Hightower itself offered a final, desperate resistance. Guards, knights, and even household servants, armed with whatever they could find, tried to bar their path. But the Wolf Pack was relentless.
They breached the inner sanctum, their boots echoing on polished marble floors. In the grand hall, they found Hobert Hightower, the Lord of Oldtown, surrounded by his family. He stood defiant, though fear flickered in his eyes.
"Lord Hobert Hightower," Cregan stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "You stand accused of treason against the rightful Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, and of conspiring with the Maesters to undermine House Targaryen for decades."
Hobert, his face pale, spat. "You are a barbarian, a savage! You have no right here! We serve the true king, Aegon!"
"Your 'true king' is dead, Lord Hightower," Cregan replied, his gaze cold. "And your loyalty has cost you everything." He turned to Roddy. "Secure Lord Hobert and his family."
The Wolf Pack moved. Hobert and his male kin of age were quickly seized. "All male line of age," Cregan commanded, his voice echoing in the grand hall, "are to be executed. Here. Now."
A gasp of horror went through the Hightower family. Hobert roared in protest, but it was futile. One by one, the Hightower men, from Lord Hobert himself to his adult sons and nephews, were brought before Cregan. He personally oversaw their swift, brutal end.
"The children," Cregan then ordered, his voice chillingly calm, "the male children, are to be sent to the Wall. Every last one. Let them serve the Night's Watch, and forget the names of their treacherous fathers."
Then, he turned to the Hightower women, their faces white with terror and grief. "The women," he decreed, "are to be sent to the Silent Sisters. Let them live a life of penance, burying the dead, and contemplating the ruin their house brought upon itself."
The Hightower, once a symbol of ancient power and learning, was now a testament to the North's unforgiving justice. Its ruling line was broken, its future erased.
Just as the last of the Hightower male line fell, a raven arrived, its message urgent. "My Prince," a Wolf Pack member reported, "a scout from Saphira. Tessarion has been injured. Daeron Targaryen has fallen unconscious from the fight. They are down in the hills to the south."
Cregan felt a flicker of satisfaction. "Good. Send a few of our swiftest pack members to their location. Capture them. Bring them back alive."
Soon after, a figure emerged from the chaos of the city, walking with a swagger that was unmistakable. Dalton Greyjoy, the Lord Reaper, approached, his eyes gleaming with a savage triumph, his armor splattered with blood and grime.
"Prince Cregan," Dalton greeted, a wide, predatory grin on his face. "A fine day for a raid, wouldn't you say?"
"Lord Reaper," Cregan returned, nodding. "The gates were... accommodating."
Dalton laughed, a harsh, guttural sound. "And the coffers of Oldtown are even more so! My men are having a grand time. Never seen so much gold in one place, outside of King's Landing, perhaps." He gestured back towards the city. "Your ice dragon certainly cleared the way. Never thought I'd see the day a dragon ran from another."
"Saphira is unique," Cregan stated, a hint of pride in his voice. "She serves a unique purpose."
"Indeed," Dalton said, his eyes glinting. "So, the Hightowers are dealt with. What's next for the Lord Reaper's pleasure?"
"The Starry Sept," Cregan commanded, his voice cold and precise. "And the High Septon. Destroy it, Lord Reaper. Burn it to the ground. And kill anyone who stands in your way. The Faith has meddled in affairs of state for too long. Their power, their influence, ends here."
Dalton's grin widened, a gleam of pure, unadulterated glee in his eyes. "The Sept? And the High Septon? My Prince, you speak my language! My men will relish this. The Drowned God will be pleased with such a sacrifice." He turned, barking orders to his men, who, with renewed fervor, began to march towards the towering Sept.
The sounds of the Sept's destruction soon echoed through the city, the crash of falling stone, the roar of flames, and the screams of those who tried to defend it. The High Septon, the voice of the Faith, would meet his end in the very heart of his power.
The next day, with the Starry Sept a smoldering ruin, Cregan made his way to the Citadel. Its imposing, ancient walls seemed to mock him, a symbol of the Maesters' entrenched power.
He entered the vast courtyard, his Wolf Pack at his back. He commanded all the Maesters in the tower to come outside. They emerged, a bewildered, shuffling throng of grey robes and chains, their faces a mixture of fear and academic indignation.
"You will all remain here," Cregan stated, his voice echoing in the courtyard. "Half of the Wolf Pack. Search every corner of the Citadel. Every scroll, every book, every hidden compartment, every secret room. Leave no stone unturned. We are looking for any letters, any documents, any evidence of conspiracy."
The search was meticulous, painstaking work that lasted for three weeks. The Wolf Pack, trained for exhaustive searches and relentless pursuit, left no corner unexamined. They unearthed hidden passages, secret archives, and countless incriminating documents that the Maesters had tried to conceal.
During this time, Cregan ordered all the Maesters to be confined within the Citadel itself, effectively locking them up within their own institution. They were prisoners in their own halls, their power stripped, their influence nullified.
Once the search was complete, and the vast trove of documents had been gathered, Cregan dedicated himself to reviewing every letter, every scroll, every piece of correspondence. It was a monumental task, a week of relentless reading, sifting through decades of carefully coded messages and subtle manipulations.
The depth of the conspiracy was staggering. The Maesters, particularly a shadowy inner circle, had indeed been playing a long game, subtly undermining Targaryen rule, fomenting dissent, and even orchestrating "accidents" and "illnesses" that had plagued the royal family for generations. The names, the dates, the methods – it was all laid bare.
The following day, with the evidence irrefutable and the identities of the conspirators clear, Cregan returned to the Citadel. He ordered every Maester who was part of this vast conspiracy to be brought out. Their faces were pale, their eyes filled with a desperate, dawning realization.
"You have sought to extinguish magic from the world," Cregan stated, his voice resonating with cold fury. "You have plotted against kings and queens. You have murdered and manipulated from the shadows. Your order, your very existence, is a blight upon this realm."
One by one, he executed them, his sword rising and falling with grim finality. Their heads, symbols of their supposed wisdom and their actual treachery, were then placed on spikes outside the Citadel, a stark warning to any who would dare to plot against the Crown or the very essence of magic in Westeros.
With Oldtown secured, cleansed of its corruption, and the Maesters' conspiracy laid bare, Cregan's mission was complete. He gave the order to prepare for departure. The Wolf Pack, weary but triumphant, began their march back to King's Landing, a new chapter in the Dance of the Dragons having been brutally written.