134 AC
Third Person POV
It took a week for Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, to return to King's Landing. His arrival was met with a fervent reception, a stark contrast to the grim tension that had permeated the city before Cregan's arrival. The Gold Cloaks, many of whom had served under Daemon in the past and had now swiftly declared for Rhaenyra, were particularly enthusiastic, their cheers echoing through the streets as Caraxes, his red dragon, landed in the Dragonpit.
Daemon, ever the showman, dismounted with a flourish, his dark eyes sweeping over the cheering crowds. He greeted Queen Rhaenyra first, a long, tender embrace between husband and wife, then embraced Jacaerys, his heir. He shared a knowing nod with Rhaenys and a firm handshake with Corlys, acknowledging their efforts in holding Dragonstone.
After the initial, public greetings, Daemon made his way into the Red Keep, the small council and other key figures gathered in the throne room to formally welcome him. He exchanged brief, sharp words with Maester Gerardys, a curt nod to Ser Luthor Largent, and a dismissive glance at Simon Staunton. His eyes, however, lingered on Cregan Stark.
Later that evening, after the formal pleasantries had concluded and the Red Keep had settled into a cautious calm, Daemon found Cregan in a private solar, a goblet of wine in his hand, staring out at the city lights.
"Prince Daemon," Cregan began, his voice calm.
Daemon turned, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Prince Cregan. Or should I say, the Wolf of Winterfell who brought the Dragon's Breath to King's Landing." He raised his goblet in a mock salute. "I hear you've been busy. Oldtown, the Hightowers, Maesters... and a dragon larger than Vhagar."
Cregan inclined his head. "The realm required a firm hand, Prince. And a swift one. The Westerlands, I hear, required similar persuasion."
Daemon chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. "The Lannisters are rich, but soft. Their gold was easier to extract than their teeth. Though I confess, the thought of their treasury being emptied for Rhaenyra's coffers brought a certain satisfaction." He took a sip of wine. "You moved with remarkable speed. And with... Saphira. The Ice dragon. I admit, I did not expect that."
"Asgard has its own ways," Cregan replied. "And its own power. My oath to Princess is absolute."
"An oath," Daemon mused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "A powerful thing, for a Stark. And for a Targaryen." He paused, then: "I hear you're to marry Visenya."
"With the Queen's blessing," Cregan confirmed. "She is a fine woman and I love her, Prince Daemon."
Daemon nodded, a flicker of something akin to approval in his gaze. "She is. My stepdaughter. A good match, perhaps. A wolf and a dragon. A strong alliance, if the realm survives." He looked back out the window. "This war... it could have dragged on for years. You cut it short. Drastically short. A bold strategy, Prince."
"The Maesters' conspiracy needed to be rooted out," Cregan stated. "And the Faith's influence over the Crown curtailed. Oldtown was the nexus of both."
Daemon turned back, his eyes sharp. "I never trusted those grey rats, But I didnt imagine this long game from them, So in the end otto was just a tool."
"Otto was a tool, Prince Daemon," Cregan said, his voice cold. "A willing one, yes, but a tool nonetheless. The Maesters' agenda is to eliminate magic, to control knowledge, to ensure the realm is ruled by men, not dragons. They played a long game. From poisoning Queen Aemma to the 'accidents' that befell others. They sought to weaken House Targaryen from within, to make us fight ourselves."
Daemon's jaw tightened, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "I always suspected them. Whispering in the ears of kings, always so 'wise.' But to conspire to that extent..." He shook his head. "You have done the realm a great service, Prince Cregan. One that few would have dared, or even understood." He raised his goblet again, this time with genuine respect. "To the Wolf of Winterfell. And to the future of the realm."
Cregan raised his own, un-filled, hand in acknowledgment. The conversation continued for a while longer, a rare moment of shared understanding between two fiercely independent and formidable men.
Three days later, the small council convened once more, the air now thick with the scent of victory and the anticipation of finality. The main topic: the Stormlands.
Queen Rhaenyra, looking more confident than she had in moons, presided. "The Westerlands are secured, the treasury recovered. Oldtown is purged. Now, we turn our attention to the Stormlands. Borros Baratheon defied my son, Lucerys, and declared for the usurper. That cannot stand."
Corlys, ever the pragmatist, laid out the maps. "Storm's End is a formidable fortress, Your Grace. But with the Lannisters broken, and the Hightowers extinguished, Borros stands alone. His allies are gone."
"Daemon," Rhaenyra said, looking at her husband, "you will lead this final campaign. Take a significant portion of the Crownland armies. And Jacaerys, you will go with him. Ride Vermax. Show the Stormlands the might of the rightful heir."
Jacaerys's eyes lit up. "Yes, Mother! I am ready."
"We will not burn Storm's End to the ground," Rhaenyra continued, her voice firm. "But Borros Baratheon will answer for his treason. And to ensure the Stormlands' loyalty, my son, Aegon the Younger, will marry one of Borros's daughters and be made Lord of Storm's End."
The plan was swift, decisive, and familiar. The council quickly agreed. The war, which had begun with such uncertainty, was now being brought to a brutal, efficient close.
But the peace was fragile.
Three days after Daemon and Jacaerys left, a subtle unease began to stir in the lower districts of King's Landing. Whispers, like tendrils of smoke, curled through the alleys and taverns. Whispers of Valyria's doom, of dragonfire, of the arrogance of those who rode the beasts.
Then, the murmurs became voices, and the voices coalesced around a single, charismatic figure. A man known only as the Shepherd began preaching on Cobbler's Square. He was a gaunt, wild-eyed man, with a voice like thunder and a terrifying conviction.
"Hear me, good folk of King's Landing!" the Shepherd cried, his voice echoing off the surrounding buildings. "The dragons have returned! And with them, the doom!"
Crowds, initially curious, then wary, began to gather. He spoke of the Valyrian Freehold, of its fiery end, of the arrogant dragonlords consumed by their own power.
"The Targaryens preach of peace, of order!" he boomed, his arms flailing. "But look around you! What have they brought but fire and blood? Brother against brother! Uncle against nephew! And now, the dragons are back, darkening our skies, reminding us of the hellfire that consumes all!"
His words struck a chord, tapping into ancient fears deeply embedded in the Andal population. The Faith, whose authority Cregan had so recently undermined in Oldtown, had long preached against magic and abominations. The Shepherd, though not of the official Faith, echoed their deepest tenets.
"Only by cleansing King's Landing of dragons and their masters," the Shepherd railed, his voice rising to a fever pitch, "could the Seven Kingdoms avoid a doom similar to that of Valyria! They are demons! Abominations! They bring destruction!"
The crowd, growing larger by the hour, began to chant with him, their fear turning into a volatile, dangerous fervor. The Gold Cloaks, accustomed to routine arrests and petty squabbles, found themselves faced with a swelling tide of religious fanaticism. They tried to disperse the crowd, to arrest the Shepherd, but their numbers were too few, and the people's anger too great.
Stones began to fly. Shouts of "No more dragons!" and "Valyria!" rent the air. The unrest spread like wildfire from Cobbler's Square, spilling into the adjacent streets, fueled by years of pent-up resentment, economic hardship, and the deep-seated fear of Targaryen power.
Cregan, within the Red Keep, felt the shift in the city's pulse. He heard the distant shouts, the growing cacophony of a city on the brink. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was not merely a riot. This was something far more dangerous. This was the dark underbelly of the South's fear, unleashed. And he was the only one in King's Landing with the ruthlessness to face it.
The distant roar of the crowd grew, no longer a mere murmur but a rising tide of collective anger. From the Red Keep, Cregan Stark could feel the city's pulse quicken, a dangerous fever taking hold. The shouts, once individual pleas, now coalesced into a unified, ominous chant. "No more dragons! Valyria! Doom!"
He watched from a high window, his face grim. The Gold Cloaks, even those loyal to the Queen, were overwhelmed. Their attempts to disperse the gathering were futile, like trying to stem a river with a cupped hand. The Shepherd's fiery words had struck a deeper chord than any believed possible.
Cregan knew this was no ordinary riot, no mere outburst of discontent. This was fear, centuries old, weaponized. It was the fear of the Targaryens, of their unnatural power, of the very beasts that symbolized their claim. And that fear, once unleashed, would demand blood.
His mind raced, calculating the immediate threats. Rhaenyra was within the Red Keep, protected by the Kingsguard and the loyal Gold Cloaks. But the dragons... the dragons in the Dragonpit were vulnerable. Young, untrained, and often confined, they were the very target of the Shepherd's venom.
He turned from the window, his expression hardening into the cold, resolute mask of the North. His orders would be swift, brutal, and utterly necessary.
"Roddy!" Cregan's voice cut through the nervous quiet of the Red Keep's inner chambers, sharp and clear. "Gather the Wolf Pack. Every man."
Roddy was at his side in an instant, hiss sword already seeming to hum in anticipation. "My Prince?"
"The Dragonpit," Cregan commanded, his eyes burning with an icy intensity. "The crowds are getting restless, and their eyes are on the dragons. We cannot allow them to reach them."
"We guard them, my Prince?" Roddy asked, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"More than guard, Roddy," Cregan stated, his gaze meeting his trusted companion's. "We secure them. And we release their chains."
Roddy's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he didn't question the order. "Release their chains? But... they are wild."
"They are dragons," Cregan corrected, his voice a low growl. "And they are far safer unleashed, ready to defend themselves, than trapped and vulnerable to a mob. They are living symbols of power, Roddy. Let them remember that."
"But the damage, my Prince?" Maester Gerardys stammered from a corner, his face pale with alarm. "Unchained dragons within the city walls... the destruction could be immense!"
Cregan spared him a cold glance. "The destruction of a few buildings is preferable to the death of the Queen's dragons, Maester. And preferable to the total loss of control. A frightened mob, armed with pitchforks and hate, is a far greater threat than a dragon defending its lair."
"The Gold Cloaks are struggling to hold the gates, my Prince," Ser Luthor Largent reported, his voice strained. "The numbers are swelling. They have breached the outer walls in places."
"Then the Wolf Pack moves now," Cregan declared, his decision final. "Roddy, take half the pack. Go directly to the Dragonpit. Secure it. Release the chains on the dragons. Make sure they are free to defend themselves. No one, not the mob, not even those trying to help, is to enter that pit once the dragons are unchained."
"And the other half, my Prince?" Roddy asked, his gaze unwavering.
"They stay with me," Cregan stated, drawing his sword. "We will lead a detachment of loyal Gold Cloaks. We will meet this Shepherd. This madness began with his words; it will end with his silence."
Roddy nodded, a fierce light in his eyes. "As you command, my Prince." He barked orders, and the Wolf Pack, moving with silent efficiency, split, one half following Roddy towards the looming dome of the Dragonpit, the other assembling around Cregan.
The decision was made. No more passive defense. The time for deliberation was over. The Wolf of Winterfell would meet the Shepherd's madness with cold steel and unleashed fire, hoping to quell the riot before it truly consumed King's Landing.