134 AC
Third Person POV
Cregan Stark, with half his Wolf Pack at his back and a determined contingent of loyal Gold Cloaks, moved with grim purpose towards Cobbler's Square. The roar of the mob grew louder with every step, a monstrous, unified cry against his Queen and her dragons. He could already make out the gaunt figure of the Shepherd, standing atop a makeshift podium, his arms flailing, his voice a guttural sermon of hatred.
The narrow streets, usually bustling with merchants and common folk, were now choked with an angry, volatile crowd. Fear, suspicion, and decades of ingrained dogma had twisted their faces into masks of fury. They were not just a mob; they were a dangerous, fervent mass, ready to believe the worst.
Cregan pushed through the throng, his path deliberately direct, aimed squarely at the Shepherd. His presence, the dark armor of the Wolf Pack, the cold glint of their Northern steel, was an immediate challenge to the mob's rising fervor.
A few brave, or perhaps foolish, individuals tried to stop them. They raised hands, shouted protests, or even lunged, fueled by the Shepherd's words.
Cregan's voice, though not a shout, carried with chilling authority. "Any who come between us and the Shepherd will be killed!" he commanded, his words slicing through the din.
The people, however, did not listen. They were too deeply immersed in their righteous rage, too emboldened by their numbers, too convinced by the Shepherd's rhetoric. They pressed in, a wall of bodies, their eyes alight with fanaticism.
Cregan's expression hardened, his patience gone. This was not a negotiation. This was a direct assault on the Crown's authority, orchestrated by unseen hands.
He turned to his Wolf Pack, his gaze sweeping over their disciplined ranks. "Anyone who comes between the Shepherd and us will be killed," he repeated, his voice now colder, sharper, a command that permitted no quarter.
The words hung in the air for a breath, and then the Wolf Pack moved.
They moved not with wild abandon, but with brutal, efficient precision. Each man a honed weapon, they employed their Demon Slayer breathing techniques, their movements blurring, their strikes impossibly fast and effective.
Northern steel scythed through the press of bodies. There was no mercy, no hesitation. Those who tried to grab, to impede, to block their path, were met with swift, lethal force.
The initial shock of the mob was immediate. They had expected shouts, perhaps a few arrests, but not this cold, uncompromising savagery. This was not the Gold Cloaks. This was something else entirely.
Screams, not of rage, but of pure terror, began to ripple through the crowd. The mob, which moments before had been a unified, defiant force, began to fracture.
Bodies fell, a grim harvest in the packed square. The Wolf Pack carved a bloody swathe, a living battering ram. Their eyes were distant, focused only on the target, the Shepherd.
They were relentless, a dark tide of retribution. The sheer speed and ruthlessness of their assault caught the rioters entirely off guard. No one had anticipated such a direct, uncompromising response.
The Shepherd, still ranting, saw them coming. His eyes widened as the bodies piled up, as the screams intensified, as the blood began to flow. His voice faltered, his sermon replaced by a look of dawning horror.
The crowd around him, once his fervent disciples, began to recoil, pushing back, trampling over each other in a desperate scramble to escape the merciless advance.
Cregan was at the front, his sword a dark blur, not striking wildly, but precisely, eliminating any obstacle with grim determination. He was a storm of focused intent.
Finally, they reached the Shepherd. He stood frozen, his eyes wide with terror, his mouth agape, his thunderous voice reduced to a pathetic whimper.
A Wolf Pack member, moving with lightning speed, seized the Shepherd, pulling him from his podium. His words of fire and brimstone died on his lips.
"We have him," Roddy announced, his voice gruff, his axe still gleaming.
"To the Red Keep," Cregan commanded, his voice cold and hard. "Secure him."
The Shepherd, a trembling, pathetic figure now, was swiftly bound and dragged through the terrified, scattering remnants of his mob. The crowd, witnessing the utter ruthlessness of Cregan's actions, broke and fled in all directions.
The immediate threat on Cobbler's Square had been neutralized. The message was clear: rebellion would be met with an unyielding, brutal response.
The Shepherd was taken directly to a secure, forgotten chamber deep within the Red Keep. Here, away from the eyes of the court and the common folk, the true work began.
Cregan oversaw the interrogation personally. He was not interested in simple confessions of guilt; he wanted answers. He wanted to know who had pulled the strings.
The Shepherd, for all his fire and brimstone, was a coward underneath. He screamed, he begged, he cursed, but for a long time, he offered no names, no true answers beyond his vague ideology.
Cregan employed the full spectrum of persuasive techniques, some physical, some psychological, honed from long experience in the cold North where information was often vital for survival. The Wolf Pack members, accustomed to extracting truths from difficult men, assisted with grim efficiency.
Hours turned into a grueling, torturous ordeal. The Shepherd's conviction slowly, painfully, crumbled under the relentless pressure. His body, once so animated, became a broken mess. His spirit, once so defiant, was reduced to despair.
Finally, his voice a raw, broken whisper, he gave them what they wanted.
"A cloaked person," he croaked, his eyes wide with fear, staring blankly at the ceiling. "Came to me. In the night. Not from the city. Had a voice like sand, like stone."
Cregan leaned in, his face unyielding. "What did they tell you? What did they offer?"
"They gave me... ten dragons," the Shepherd confessed, the shame and terror mingling in his voice. "Ten golden dragons. To... to speak ill of the dragons. To ramble... of hate. To call for their death. To blame them for all ills. They said King's Landing would listen. They said the fear was already there."
"Ten dragons," Cregan repeated, his voice dangerously low. "For the ruin of a city. Did they give a name? A sign?"
The Shepherd shook his head weakly, tears mixing with the grime and sweat on his face. "No name. Just a voice... and the gold. They said... the doom of Valyria would come again if the dragons remained. Only by cleansing King's Landing... would the Seven Kingdoms be saved."
Cregan straightened, his gaze cold. The cloaked person, the ten dragons, the specific rhetoric echoing the Maesters' fears. It was a clear, insidious attempt to use the city's populace as a weapon against the Crown's dragons, to fuel the flames of a new, internal war.
"He's given us what he knows," Cregan stated, his voice flat. "He's served his purpose."
A Wolf Pack member, his face impassive, stepped forward. The Shepherd, seeing the lethal intent in the man's eyes, whimpered one last time.
Then, swift and silent, it was over. The Shepherd, the prophet of doom, was dead. His hateful words, his fleeting power, extinguished.
Hours later, the small council reconvened. The urgency was palpable, the recent riot a stark reminder of the simmering tensions beneath the surface of the conquered capital. Rhaenyra looked weary, but resolute.
Cregan recounted the Shepherd's capture and his confession. The revelation of the "cloaked person" and the payment sent a fresh wave of concern through the council.
"So, someone actively orchestrated this," Corlys mused, stroking his beard. "Fanned the flames of fear, turning the populace against the Crown's most potent weapon. This points to a deeper, more cunning enemy than just the Hightowers."
"It's a Faith's trick," Cregan stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "The same subtle poison that has always plagued your house. They may not have the power of swords, but they can wield the minds of men."
Maester Gerardys shifted uncomfortably in his seat, though he remained silent. Ser Lorent Marbrand, the new Lord Commander, clenched his jaw, his eyes grim.
"We cannot allow such unrest to spread," Rhaenyra declared, her voice firm. "Not with Daemon and Jacaerys in the Stormlands. Not while the realm is still healing."
"Indeed, Your Grace," Cregan agreed. "The common folk are easily swayed. We need to project an image of absolute control, of unyielding authority. And we need to break the mob's will to gather."
"How do we do that?" Jacaerys asked, his youthful face troubled by the events. "We can't just kill every single person who protests."
"No," Cregan replied, "but we can prevent them from forming into a cohesive, dangerous force. My proposal is this: for the next week, no more than four persons will be permitted to gather in any public space in King's Landing. Any larger assembly will be dispersed immediately, by force if necessary."
Maester Gerardys gasped. "Prince Cregan, that is an extreme measure! It will cause widespread resentment! It is a draconian law!"
"And a riot that sweeps through the city and threatens the Queen's dragons is an extreme threat, Maester," Cregan retorted, his gaze chilling. "Resentment can be dealt with later. Chaos cannot. This will break their ability to form mobs, to be inflamed by new Shepherds."
"It is a hard hand," Corlys conceded, "but the Prince speaks with sense. We need to re-establish order, completely and utterly."
"The Gold Cloaks are still recovering from the recent battles and the initial riot," Ser Luthor Largent stated, concerned. "They are stretched thin."
"My Wolf Pack will assist them," Cregan assured him. "They are disciplined. They will enforce the order without hesitation."
Rhaenyra listened intently, her eyes weighing the options. The prospect of further bloodshed within the city was unappealing, but the alternative – a city consumed by riot, her dragons vulnerable, her authority challenged – was unthinkable.
"For a week," Rhaenyra decided, her voice firm. "The decree will be issued immediately. No more than four persons in public gatherings. Any larger gathering will be dispersed. The Gold Cloaks, aided by Prince Cregan's Wolf Pack, will enforce this without exception."
"And once the week is over?" Jacaerys asked.
"Once the riots have calmed down, and the city has settled, the decree will be lifted," Cregan stated. "Then the city will function properly once more. But they will remember that the Crown's authority is absolute. And they will learn that fear, if wielded against the Crown, will be met with unwavering force."
The council, though some still looked uneasy, ultimately agreed. The lessons of Oldtown, the sheer ruthlessness of Cregan's methods, had instilled a new understanding of what it took to secure a kingdom. The city, unknowingly, was about to experience a week of martial law unlike any it had ever known, all in the name of peace.