134 AC
Third Person POV
It took Cregan Stark and his weary, but triumphant, Wolf Pack a full moon to return to King's Landing. The march back was less hurried than their journey south, allowing for a more deliberate pace, but the weight of their recent actions, the sheer scale of the victory at Oldtown, settled heavily upon them. The city they returned to was calmer, more orderly, its streets now patrolled by Gold Cloaks loyal to the Queen, and the Red Keep firmly under the control of the Northern contingent.
After two days of much-needed rest, allowing the men to recover from the relentless campaign and Cregan to shed the last vestiges of his Lycan transformation's drain, a small council meeting was convened. The air in the chamber was different now, charged not with desperation, but with the quiet hum of a realm beginning to reclaim itself.
The attendees were a mix of familiar faces and new additions. Queen Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her expression a blend of relief and grim determination. To her right sat Corlys Velaryon, Hand of the Queen, his face etched with the burdens of state. Rhaenys Targaryen, Lady of Driftmark, sat beside him, her presence a powerful symbol of the Targaryen strength. Prince Jacaerys, heir to the Iron Throne, sat opposite his mother, his gaze earnest and attentive.
New faces included Maester Gerardys, a loyalist maester who had replaced the executed Orwyle, his demeanor cautious and observant. Ser Luthor Largent, a seasoned knight, now served as the acting Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, his armor gleaming. And finally, Cregan Stark, Prince of Winterfell and Lord of Asgard, sat at Rhaenyra's left, his presence a stark reminder of the North's decisive intervention. Roddy Dustin, though not a formal council member, was present at Cregan's insistence, a silent, watchful presence.
"We begin," Queen Rhaenyra announced, her voice clear, "with Prince Cregan's report on Oldtown. Tell us, Prince, what transpired?"
Cregan leaned forward, his voice calm and measured, detailing the swift assault, the dual attack by land and sea. He spoke of Saphira's terrifying arrival, the retreat of Tessarion, and the subsequent destruction of the city gates. He recounted the brutal efficiency of the Wolf Pack.
He described the fall of the Hightower, the capture of Lord Hobert and his family. He did not shy away from the grim details of the executions. "Lord Hobert Hightower and all male members of his line of age were put to the sword," Cregan stated, his gaze unwavering. "Their children, the boys, have been sent to the Wall. The women, to the Silent Sisters."
A collective gasp went around the table. Maester Gerardys blanched, and Ser Luthor Largent's hand instinctively went to his sword hilt. Even Jacaerys looked disturbed, though Rhaenys remained impassive, her eyes fixed on Cregan.
"You... you extinguished the entire Hightower line?" Jacaerys asked, his voice barely a whisper. "The second oldest house in the Seven Kingdoms?"
"They were traitors, Prince Jacaerys," Cregan replied, his voice devoid of remorse. "They plotted against your house for generations. Their influence, their wealth, and their very existence were a threat to the stability of the realm and the legitimacy of the Crown. The root of the conspiracy had to be severed completely."
Corlys stroked his beard, his expression thoughtful. "A harsh hand, Prince, but perhaps a necessary one. The Hightowers were deeply entrenched."
"And Daeron Targaryen?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice tinged with concern. "What of him and Tessarion?"
"Tessarion was injured during the fight with Saphira," Cregan explained. "She fled, and Daeron fell unconscious. I sent men to capture them. They are both secured. Daeron is recovering from his injuries, and Tessarion is being held in a secure cavern outside the city, under Saphira's watchful eye."
Rhaenyra sighed, a flicker of relief mixed with sorrow crossing her face. "So, the Hightower line is extinguished. What then, of Oldtown itself? It is a city of immense wealth and strategic importance. It cannot be left without a lord."
"Indeed," Corlys agreed. "But who can we trust to hold such a prize, given its history?"
Cregan spoke, his gaze falling on Rhaenyra. "Your Grace, I have a proposal regarding Oldtown, and indeed, the future of the realm. Daeron Targaryen."
Jacaerys frowned. "My uncle? After he rode with the usurper?"
"He was a boy, Prince Jacaerys," Cregan countered. "Used by Otto Hightower. He is a Targaryen, and he rode a dragon. He is a symbol. Make him Lord of Oldtown. But with conditions."
Rhaenys leaned forward, intrigued. "What conditions?"
"He must relinquish all claims to the Iron Throne, for himself and his descendants, no descendants of his will be given a dragon," Cregan stated. "And he must take a new name. A new house. One that signifies his new loyalty and his break from the Hightowers. He will be a loyal vassal, tied to the Crown by blood, but without the ambition for the throne."
Rhaenyra considered this, her brow furrowed. "A Targaryen on the Hightower seat... it would certainly send a message. And remove a potential rival claim."
"It would also keep a dragon in the South, loyal to the Crown," Cregan added. "And prevent the Hightower name from ever rising again."
After a brief discussion, the council, though wary of the implications, agreed to the proposal for Daeron, seeing the strategic advantages.
"Now, the Citadel," Rhaenyra said, her voice hardening. "The evidence you brought, Prince Cregan, was damning. What do we do with an institution that has plotted against my house for generations?"
"They cannot be eliminated entirely, Your Grace," Cregan stated. "Their knowledge is vast, and the realm needs maesters for healing and communication. But their power must be broken. Their influence over kings and lords must end."
"How do you propose we do that?" Maester Gerardys asked, his voice trembling slightly.
"We replace them," Cregan said, his gaze sweeping over the council. "We build a new institution. A college, like Winterhold, but in the South. Where future lords and ladies study, one dedicated to true learning, innovation, and the spread of knowledge, not its hoarding or manipulation."
Corlys looked skeptical. "Build a new college? Where? And who would staff it? The Maesters are the only ones with such knowledge."
"There is currently a castle in Westeros, larger than any other, without a lord," Cregan announced, a glint in his eye. "A place tainted by blood and shadow, but ripe for new purpose. A place that can become a sanctuary for learning and innovation, a beacon for the South."
"Which castle?" Jacaerys asked, leaning forward eagerly.
"Harrenhal," Cregan stated, the name hanging in the air.
A collective gasp went around the table. Harrenhal, the cursed castle, a ruin since Aegon's conquest, a symbol of hubris and destruction.
"Harrenhal?" Rhaenys exclaimed, her eyes wide. "That place is cursed! And too vast to ever properly staff or defend!"
"It is vast, yes," Cregan agreed. "But its size makes it perfect for a new kind of institution. And its curse is a story, easily rewritten. We will make it a sanctuary for reading, for learning, for innovation. We will relieve every maester of their oaths to the Citadel and make them teach at this new college at Harrenhal. Those who refuse will be dealt with. This will be a place where younger minds are encouraged to think, to innovate, to question, not just to memorize dogma."
"And its defense?" Corlys asked, still wary.
"We make a new rule," Cregan declared, his voice firm. "Anyone who ever makes a move against this college, their whole lineage will be put to the sword. A warning etched in blood, just as the Hightowers learned. Harrenhal will become a symbol of the Crown's commitment to true knowledge, and its unwavering defense of it."
Arguments erupted around the table. Maester Gerardys protested the dissolution of the Citadel's authority. Corlys worried about the logistics and the cost. Jacaerys was intrigued but hesitant. Rhaenys, however, seemed to weigh the strategic implications.
"It would break the Citadel's monopoly," Rhaenys mused aloud. "And create a new power base loyal directly to the Crown, free from the old machinations."
Rhaenyra listened to the arguments, her gaze moving between Cregan and the other council members. The idea was radical, unprecedented, but it offered a solution to a problem that had plagued her house for generations. After a long, heated debate, where Cregan calmly countered every objection with logic and the undeniable evidence of the Maesters' treachery, Rhaenyra finally raised a hand, silencing the room.
"It is a bold plan, Prince Cregan," she said, her voice firm. "But a necessary one. We will establish the new college at Harrenhal. Maester Gerardys, you will oversee the transition. You will begin drafting the decrees to relieve the Maesters of their oaths and to establish the new rules for Harrenhal. The Citadel will remain, but its power will be broken. Its influence will be replaced by a new beacon of learning, loyal to the Crown."
A collective sigh, a mix of resignation and grudging acceptance, went around the table. Cregan felt a surge of satisfaction. Another piece of the future was being reshaped.
"Now," Cregan said, turning to Corlys, "what happened in the Westerlands? Did Daemon succeed in recovering the treasury?"
Corlys nodded, a grim satisfaction on his face. "Indeed, Prince Cregan. Daemon has won a decisive victory against the Lannisters. Jason Lannister was put to the sword."
Jacaerys looked surprised. "Jason Lannister? Dead?"
"Aye," Corlys confirmed. "Daemon was... thorough. His son, Loreon Lannister, is but five years old. He will be made Warden of the West, with a loyal regent appointed by the Crown."
"And the terms of surrender?" Rhaenyra asked.
"All the wealth in the Lannister treasury is to be sent directly to the Iron Throne," Corlys stated. "And they will pay double the taxes for the next ten years. A heavy price, but a necessary one for their treason."
"Daemon will be back by next week," Rhaenyra added, a faint smile touching her lips. "He sends word that the Westerlands are now secured."
"Excellent," Cregan said. "That leaves the Stormlands."
"Borros Baratheon," Rhaenyra said, her voice hardening, "must answer for his defiance and his refusal to aid my son, Lucerys. And for his overt support of the usurper."
The council discussed the strategy for the Stormlands. Given the swiftness of the victories in Oldtown and the Westerlands, and the psychological impact of the dragons, a direct, overwhelming assault was deemed most effective.
The conclusion was swift and brutal. "Borros Baratheon will be put to the sword," Rhaenyra declared, her voice firm. "And to secure the Stormlands, and unite the houses, my son, Aegon the Younger, will be marrying one of Borros's daughters. He will then be made Lord of Storm's End, ruling as a loyal vassal under the Crown."
The pieces were falling into place. The Dance of the Dragons, which should have consumed the realm in fire and blood for years, was being brought to a swift, decisive end, reshaped by the cold, calculating foresight of a Stark from Asgard.