134 AC
Third Person POV
The brutal decree had been issued, a stark, uncompromising edict that descended upon King's Landing like a sudden, chilling frost. "No more than four persons in public gatherings." It was a measure born of necessity, a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding wound of fear and fanaticism that the Shepherd had opened.
For two days, the city held its breath. The initial riots had been quelled with a swift, merciless hand, but the underlying resentment, the simmering fear of dragons, remained. The Gold Cloaks Pack, aided by the Wolf Pack, patrolled relentlessly, their dark armor a constant, visible reminder of the Crown's unyielding authority.
Any gathering, no matter how innocent, was immediately dispersed. Sometimes, it was with a stern warning from a grim-faced Gold Cloak. Sometimes, it was with the chilling, silent presence of a Northern warrior.
Often, it was with a brutal shove, a swift, no-nonsense enforcement that left no room for argument or defiance. The message was clear.
The common folk, still reeling from the shock of the Dragon Gate's fall and the Shepherd's grisly end, quickly learned the new rules. They learned them in the quiet fear of the streets.
The city's usual vibrant energy drained away, replaced by an unsettling hush. The markets, once a cacophony of shouts, laughter, and haggling, were now subdued. Vendors spoke in hushed tones, their eyes darting nervously.
Customers moved quickly, their faces wary, their purchases hurried. The vibrant tapestry of daily life in the capital had frayed, replaced by a threadbare quiet.
A profound silence descended upon the capital, a silence born not of peace, but of profound fear and simmering resentment. The usual chatter of neighbors, once a constant hum, ceased.
The boisterous games of children in the alleys, usually a joyful noise, were no longer heard. The casual gatherings outside taverns, once a nightly ritual, vanished entirely.
All ceased, utterly and completely. People moved with a desperate purpose, their eyes downcast, avoiding prolonged contact.
They were wary of being seen, wary of being noticed, above all, wary of being seen in a group larger than four. The very air seemed to prickle with unspoken tension.
The fear of the dragons, now unchained and roaring from the Dragonpit, mingled with the fear of the Crown. And, perhaps most insidiously, the fear of each other.
This stifling atmosphere hung heavy over the city for a full week. It was a long, agonizing seven days where the capital felt like a ghost town.
Its vibrant spirit, its bustling heart, seemed to have been utterly stifled by the heavy hand of martial law. The air was thick with the weight of unseen eyes, with the unspoken threat of swift reprisal.
Within the Red Keep, the tension was different. It was the tension of a siege, a fortress holding against an invisible enemy. Rhaenyra, though she had agreed to Cregan's harsh measures, felt the heavy burden of her people's fear.
She saw the drawn faces of her servants, the averted gazes of her guards. She knew the price of this brutal order.
Jacaerys looked visibly troubled by the measures. His youthful idealism, so recently ignited by the cause of his mother's ascension, clashed painfully with the brutal realities of governance. He struggled with the violence.
Cregan, however, remained impassive. He understood the raw necessity of it. This was not about popularity; it was about control. It was about crushing a potential rebellion before it could truly take hold.
A realm could not be ruled if its capital was a hotbed of sedition, if its people could be so easily swayed by a madman's words. The roots of the problem ran deeper than a single Shepherd. They needed to be severed.
Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the tensions in King's Landing began to cool. The initial shock wore off. The immediate, brutal enforcement had its desired effect.
The relentless patrols, the swift dispersal of groups, the undeniable, overwhelming power of the Crown's response – it began to sink in. The lessons of the past few weeks had been etched in fear.
The fear of the Wolf Pack and the Queen's wrath began to outweigh the fear of the dragons. The common folk, pragmatic in their daily struggles, prioritized survival.
People started to venture out more, cautiously at first, then with a growing sense of a fragile, uneasy normalcy. The markets regained a fraction of their previous bustle.
Though conversations remained hushed, and groups rarely exceeded the decreed limit. The city, though still wary, was no longer on the brink of outright rebellion. The immediate crisis had passed.
With the city now under a fragile, uneasy calm, the small council convened once more. The atmosphere was somber, the weight of the recent events pressing down on them all.
The immediate threat had been contained, but the underlying cause, the pervasive influence of the Faith, remained. It was a serpent in the heart of the realm.
Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her gaze sweeping over her council: Corlys, Rhaenys, Jacaerys, Maester Gerardys, Ser Luthor Largent, Ser Lorent Marbrand, and Cregan. Roddy, as always, stood silently behind Cregan.
"The city is quiet, for now," Rhaenyra began, her voice weary, but firm. "Prince Cregan's measures, though harsh, have proven effective in quelling the immediate unrest."
She paused, her eyes meeting Cregan's, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. "But this was merely a symptom. The true disease, it seems, lies deeper. The Shepherd's words, though paid for, resonated because the ground was fertile. The Faith."
A collective sigh went around the table. The Faith of the Seven, with its pervasive influence, its vast wealth, and its deep roots in every corner of the South, was a power that even kings and queens had historically struggled to control.
"We cannot allow this to happen again," Jacaerys said, his voice firm, his youthful resolve hardened by the recent violence he had witnessed. "The people's fear of dragons, their belief in these prophecies of doom... it's dangerous."
"Indeed," Rhaenys agreed, her expression grim. "The Faith has always held a certain sway over the common folk, a power that sometimes rivals the Crown's. It was same during Maegor's reign. Twice have they actively incited such violence against the royal house."
"The Maesters' conspiracy," Corlys added, stroking his beard, his eyes narrowed in thought. "And the Faith's rhetoric against magic. They are two sides of the same coin, both seeking to undermine the Targaryens. We have dealt with the Citadel. Now, we must deal with the Faith."
Rhaenyra looked at Cregan, her gaze expectant. "Prince Cregan, you spoke of curbing their power. How do we do this without plunging the realm into a full-scale religious war, which we can ill afford?"
Cregan leaned forward, his gaze steady, his voice calm but resolute. "The conclusion is simple, Your Grace. The power of the Faith must be curbed. Severely. They must be reminded, unequivocally, that nobody is above the King's Law."
Maester Gerardys shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers nervously fiddling with his chain. "Your Grace, the Faith holds immense spiritual authority. To challenge it directly... that is a perilous path. The common people revere the gods. They may see this as blasphemy."
"Spiritual authority is one thing, Maester," Cregan interrupted, his eyes cold, cutting through the old man's protests. "Political power is another. The Faith Militant was disbanded by Jaehaerys the Conciliator for a reason. They grew too powerful, too arrogant. This is a similar threat, albeit one wielded through words rather than swords, for now."
"How do we make them know it?" Ser Luthor Largent asked, his hand resting on his sword hilt, a knight more comfortable with blunt force than political maneuvering. "The High Septon is a powerful figure. His word carries immense weight throughout the land."
"We make examples," Cregan stated, his voice devoid of mercy. "Publicly. Any member of the Faith, from the humblest septon to the highest Septon, who defies a royal decree, who preaches sedition against the Crown, who incites violence among the populace, will be arrested, tried, and punished under the King's Law. No special courts, no appeals to the gods. Just the Crown's justice, swift and uncompromising."
"This would be a radical departure," Corlys mused, his brow furrowed. "The Faith has always had its own jurisdiction, its own laws, since the coming of the Andals. It's an ancient tradition."
"And those laws have allowed them to grow beyond their station, beyond their rightful place," Cregan countered, his voice sharp. "They will learn that their 'spiritual authority' does not grant them immunity from the laws of the land. The Crown is the ultimate, sole authority in Westeros. Not the Faith. Not the Maesters. Only the Crown."
"We will need to issue new edicts," Rhaenyra said, her brow furrowed in deep thought, weighing the immense implications of such a move. "Clearly stating the Crown's supremacy in all matters of law and governance. And ensure every lord, every septon, hears them and understands them clearly."
"And enforces them," Cregan added, pressing the point. "Any lord who harbors a defiant septon, or who allows seditious preaching within their lands, will face the Crown's wrath. Make the consequences clear. Make them absolute. The message must be uniform and uncompromising across the entire realm."
"The people turn to the Faith out of dissatisfaction with current Westeros," Jacaerys observed, his voice thoughtful, his idealism still intact amidst the harsh realities. "They seek solace, hope, answers in a world that often seems cruel and unjust. If we simply crush the Faith, will they not find another outlet for their discontent? Perhaps a darker one?"
"Precisely, Prince Jacaerys," Cregan acknowledged, giving the young prince a rare, approving nod. "The people are unhappy. They feel neglected, powerless. The Faith fills that void. The only way to stop this long-term is by improving the lives of the people and ensuring that they know to credit the Crown with those improvements."
"How do we do that?" Rhaenys asked, her gaze sharp, ever practical. "The realm is still recovering from the recent war. Resources are strained. Our treasury, though replenished from Casterly Rock, is not limitless."
"It's a long-term strategy, Princess, not a quick fix," Cregan explained patiently. "It won't happen overnight, but the groundwork must be laid now. We rebuild faster. We invest heavily in the infrastructure that directly benefits the common folk."
He began to list specific initiatives. "First, we improve the drainage problem of Kings Landing, then the Roads, for safer travel and trade. Granaries, publicly managed, to store food and prevent starvation in lean years. Wells, to provide clean water. Orphanages for the destitute. Even basic health centres, where simple ailments can be treated, not just by septons but by healers trained by the Crown."
"Public works," Corlys nodded, understanding dawning. "That would put men to work, stimulate the economy, provide tangible benefits."
"Exactly," Cregan confirmed. "And as these improvements are made, we ensure the people know who is responsible. Not the septons, not the gods, but the Queen. Royal decrees announcing new granaries, new wells, new roads. Public ceremonies where the Queen, or her representatives, dedicate these improvements. Bards singing not of the High Septon's prayers, but of the Queen's foresight, her benevolence, her commitment to her people. We must make the Crown the undisputed source of their prosperity, their security, their hope."
"Information," Rhaenys stated, a wry smile touching her lips. "Propaganda, by another name."
"Truth, presented effectively, Princess," Cregan corrected, a faint smirk playing on his own lips. "The Faith promises salvation in the next life. We offer improvement in this one. We show them that the Crown provides tangible, immediate benefits, while the Faith offers only promises of an afterlife. We make the Crown the source of their prosperity, their security, their very future."
"And about their donations," Rhaenyra said, her voice thoughtful, remembering one of Cregan's earlier points. "They receive vast sums from lords and smallfolk alike. That fuels their wealth, their power, their influence."
"That stops," Cregan stated flatly. "The flow of coin to the Faith must be cut off. Lords are to only donate food and clothes to the Faith. Not coin. Not gold. Not silver. Only provisions, necessities."
Maester Gerardys's eyes widened in alarm. "But... but the Faith relies on those donations for its very functioning! For the upkeep of septs, for the training of septons, for the care of its own poor!"
"Then they will learn to manage their resources differently," Cregan retorted, his gaze chillingly dismissive of the Maester's protests. "Their functioning is not the Crown's concern, beyond their basic spiritual duties. Their wealth allows them to operate outside the Crown's control, to build their own power base, to bribe, to influence. That ends."
"And if a lord defies this?" Corlys asked, his voice low. "If they continue to donate coin?"
Cregan's eyes narrowed. "If they donate coin, they should pay twice the amount as a penalty to the Crown. An immediate fine, levied directly from their own coffers. A clear, painful consequence for defiance. No exceptions. No excuses."
This specific penalty sent a ripple of shock through the council. It was a direct attack on the Faith's financial lifeblood, and a severe test of the lords' loyalty.
"This will be met with strong opposition from the High Septon and the devout lords," Ser Lorent Marbrand cautioned, his face grim.
"Let them oppose," Cregan said, his voice hard. "They will learn. The Crown, for too long, has allowed the Faith to dictate terms. That era is over. The King's Peace, and the Queen's Law, will prevail."
"And what of the Faith's leaders themselves?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice hardening, her eyes reflecting the growing steel in her resolve. "The ones who preach against us, who hold sway over the masses, who refuse to bend?"
"We point out the Faith's leaders' own inadequacies and failures to live by their own doctrine," Cregan stated, his voice chillingly pragmatic. "Even if it needs to be falsified."
Maester Gerardys gasped again, his face paling further, almost green. "Prince Cregan! To falsify information against holy men... that is a grave sin! It is deceit! It is blasphemy!"
"Sin or not, Maester," Cregan retorted, his gaze fixing on the trembling Maester, his eyes devoid of warmth. "It is effective. The common folk are not stupid. They are quick to turn on those who preach virtue but live in vice. We find their weaknesses, their indulgences, their moments of avarice, their secret lusts, their hidden bastards. We expose them. Publicly."
"But if the accusations are false?" Jacaerys interjected again, his youthful idealism still struggling against the grim realities of power. "What if they are good men falsely accused?"
"Then they are presented as truth, Prince," Cregan said, his voice flat, utterly devoid of emotion. "The truth is often inconvenient. The perception is what matters. We paint them as greedy, as power-hungry, as living in luxury while their flock starves. We show them as failing to live by the very laws they impose on others. We make them odious in the eyes of the common folk. We destroy their moral standing."
Rhaenys nodded slowly, a grim understanding in her eyes. "A smear campaign. It would certainly undermine their moral authority, leaving them with nothing but empty robes."
"Precisely," Cregan confirmed. "Their power comes from their perceived piety. Shatter that perception, and their influence crumbles. We use whispers, pamphlets, carefully placed 'witnesses.' We turn the people against their own shepherds, not with fire and sword, but with disillusionment. We sow distrust where there was once blind faith."
"And for the truly dangerous ones?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice low, her eyes meeting Cregan's, the grim question hanging heavy in the air. "The ones who cannot be swayed, who will continue to preach sedition, who will actively work against the Crown, who will not bend, who will not break?"
"For them," Cregan stated, his voice dropping to a near whisper, cutting through the silence of the chamber, "we quietly disappear key figures in the Faith."
Another sharp intake of breath from Maester Gerardys, a soft gasp from Jacaerys. Ser Luthor Largent's hand involuntarily tightened on his sword hilt, his knuckles turning white. This was beyond even the public executions in Oldtown; this was a chilling, unseen hand of power, reaching into the shadows.
"No public trials," Cregan explained, his voice chillingly calm, as if discussing mundane logistics. "No martyrs. No grand pronouncements. They simply vanish. One day, a septon is preaching fire and brimstone, his voice loud and defiant. The next, he is gone. Vanished into thin air. No trace. No body to rally around. No shrine to visit. No cause to mourn."
"The message will be clear," Cregan continued, his eyes unwavering. "Defy the Crown, and you cease to exist. The fear of the unknown, of a quiet, unseen demise, is often more potent than the fear of the sword. It breaks the will, not just of the target, but of all who hear the whispers."
"This is... extreme," Jacaerys said again, his face pale, struggling with the concept.
"This is necessary, Prince," Cregan countered, his gaze unwavering. "The Faith has proven it can incite rebellion. It can undermine the Crown's authority. It can turn the people against their rightful rulers. We cannot afford to be gentle with a threat that seeks to destroy the very fabric of the realm, that seeks to plunge us back into chaos. We are at war, Prince Jacaerys. A war for the heart and soul of Westeros. And war requires hard choices. We secure the throne not just with dragons and armies, but by breaking the will of those who would see it fall, by any means necessary."
Rhaenyra listened intently, her face a mask of deep thought. The methods were ruthless, undeniably so. But Cregan had delivered Oldtown, had captured Daeron, had brought the treasury back. He had quelled the riot. He had proven his pragmatism, his brutal effectiveness. And the threat from the Faith was real, immediate, and insidious.
"Very well," Rhaenyra finally said, her voice firm, though a shadow of weariness remained in her eyes. "These measures will be implemented. Maester Gerardys, you will begin drafting the decrees regarding the King's Law and the Faith's new limitations on donations. Ser Luthor, you will work with Prince Cregan on the enforcement and the... disappearances. This will be a long process, a difficult one, but it begins now."
Cregan nodded, a grim satisfaction settling in his heart. The realm would be reshaped, not just by fire and blood, but by cold, calculated strategy. The Faith would learn its place, and the people would learn to look to their Queen, not their septons, for their salvation. The Dance was far from over, but the rules of the game were being rewritten, decisively, by the North.