The sun had only just crested the cliffs when Cregan met Davos Dayne in the training yard. Wind whispered through the canyon arches of Starfall, carrying salt and dust and the long memory of the Torrentine.
"I'll not keep you," Davos said, handing him a small scroll sealed in white wax. "If Arthur sends word, I'll copy every line. And if he doesn't…"
"Then we'll know that too," Cregan finished, slipping the scroll into his coat.
Nearby, Edric Dayne ran circles around a stable boy, brandishing a stick like it was Dawn itself. Allyria watched with a quiet smile, her arms folded, her tone unreadable.
Cregan stepped toward her. "When the boy comes of age," he said quietly, "if you'd ever have him see snow, I'll make a place for him. As a ward or to foster or just for a visit. Please don't hesitate to send for me if you need. We are family.
Allyria blinked. "You'd take him?"
"If he wishes to come," Cregan said. "And if you trust me."
Davos chuckled. "You're too young to speak like your grandfather."
"I've lived longer than I look."
They clasped arms, then parted with nothing more than a nod. Words were wasted on endings.
---
Benjen
They stood together on the stony pier as the Wolf's Wake rocked gently beside them.
Benjen adjusted his gloves. "So what's your plan?"
"Show strength," Cregan said. "But speak little. Let them ask why we came."
"They'll expect deference."
"They'll get silence."
Benjen raised a brow. "Even from Jon Arryn?"
"Especially from Jon Arryn."
"And Robert?"
"If he greets me properly, he'll earn a proper reply."
"And if he doesn't?"
Cregan turned toward the ship. "Then we leave the city with more than we arrived with—and fewer illusions."
---
At Sea
The coast of Dorne fell away behind them as the Wolf's Wake turned northeast. Her sails caught the wind like wolf pelts, and her hull cut clean across choppy green.
The crew was quieter than they'd been sailing to Oldtown. The weather was calmer, but the mission heavier.
Benjen took the prow watch most nights, eyes turned to the dark horizon. Myra Reed wrote in a longbound book during every dusk. Harrion Karstark sharpened his blade. Torrhen Umber napped loudly in the hold.
Cregan sat beneath the mainmast one night, letting the ship speak to him—the creak of boards, the snap of sailcloth, the soft murmur of Northern voices among Reach waves.
He missed Winterfell, the cold and quiet, the ability to trust all who are around him.
---
Landing
They arrived in the Blackwater Bay under the watch of gold-armored Lannister men, standing bored on the stone docks. The Red Keep loomed high on the hill, all red brick and arrogance. King's Landing stank of heat and tanneries and sweat.
No banner greeted them. No royal escort waited. No cloak of courtesy extended from the keep.
Cregan stepped off the plank without comment.
Benjen followed, jaw tight. "Deliberate?"
"Of course."
"What now?"
"We rent a house. A manor with walls. Two moons."
"And then?"
"Then we let them come to us or we leave and when questioned speak the truth, we were here as asked. Yet never received."
---
The Manor
It was an older manse, not far from the Street of Sisters—quiet, shadowed, and built in the style of the old Andal families. Cregan paid in silver and Northern timber bonds. Within the day, his guard was stationed on the outer walk, and the door reinforced.
No ravens were sent. No messages dispatched.
The smallfolk whispered of a wolf-lord living quietly behind stone and shadow, speaking in Old Tongue and keeping strange hours.
And then, twelve days after landing, the Keeper of the Vale arrived.
---
Jon Arryn
Jon Arryn came dressed in blue and silver, with a pair of house knights at his back and a long silence in his step. He entered without waiting to be announced.
Benjen offered a cool bow. Cregan did not rise.
"My lord of Winterfell," Arryn began. "You arrive without notice. You fail to attend court. And you remain in the city for nearly two weeks without presenting yourself."
Cregan looked at him without blinking. "Your ravens work. You knew I was here."
Arryn frowned. "The king expected you at the Red Keep."
"The king sent no welcome."
"He assumed you would come."
Cregan tilted his head. "Assumption is a dangerous habit. One would think he'd have learned that from the last rebellion, who would have thought the royal family would be murdered by they're loyal subjects in there very own keep, I mean I heard that Little Rhaenys was stabbed half a hundred times. Thank God the man who gave the orders was appropriately punished... oh wait he was rewarded with his daughter as a queen how assumptious of me to presume the South full of honorable knight's who sing of valor and courage would punish such acts.
Arryn's face stiffened and quickly changed the subject "There are courtesies, you should have presented yourself to court, You should also have brought less guards, the red keep is safe and we have our own force to keep us safe"
Cregan stood now, slowly, arms folded behind his back. His tone was ice.
"The last time a Stark came unguarded to this city," he said, "he was burned alive. While his son strangled himself with his own chains trying to save him."
The silence that followed was cold as the Neck.
Jon Arryn said nothing for a long breath.
Benjen broke it, voice low. "We came prepared. Not hostile. Not begging."
Jon's eyes searched them both. Then he straightened.
"The king will receive you in three days. At his solar. Small Council present."
Cregan nodded once.
"No guards beyond the gates."
"My own guards remain within arm's reach," Cregan said flatly. "That is non-negotiable."
Jon turned to go, his cloak flaring behind him.
At the door, he stopped.
"You speak as if you carry a grudge."
Cregan looked down at the ring on his hand—silver and wolf's head. His father's.
"I carry memory."
---
The morning sun struck gold across the Red Keep's towers as the Northern column reached the great gates. Fifty guards, handpicked and iron-disciplined, stood behind Cregan Stark in dark leathers and layered mail. Their boots echoed off cobbled stone like thunder.
At the inner yard, a line of gold cloaks stood barring the entry. And at their center, leaning lazily on a long, polished blade, stood Ser Jaime Lannister.
His armor gleamed, white cloak flew in the wind.
"You've brought quite the army for a royal meeting, Stark," he drawled.
Cregan didn't blink. "I bring protection. The last Stark to come south without it was burned alive, I seem to remember you were her and stood still as an innocent man was burned before you. What happend to your vows to protect the innocent?"
"He's good at forgetting his vows aren't you kingslayer" Benjen cut in scathingly
Jaime's smile thinned. "The throne has rules. You'll enter with three guards. The rest stay here."
"Then I won't enter at all."
The gold cloaks stiffened.
Benjen stepped up beside Cregan, eyes flat. "We're not here for your pageantry, Kingslayer."
A murmur stirred beyond the gates—word had spread. Lords and courtiers were gathering for the session. And the North stood silent, unmoving.
Then the heavy doors creaked open.
Jon Arryn stepped through, pale and pinched, lips drawn tight.
"What is this?" he asked.
Jaime didn't look at him. "They refuse to enter without half a hundred blades."
Jon turned sharply to Cregan. "My lord, this is neither necessary nor—"
"I've seen the Red Keep's hospitality," Cregan said coolly. "I find my own men more reliable."
Jon looked between them, calculating. Then sighed. "Let them pass. All of them."
Jaime's mouth twitched. "And if the king objects?"
"He won't," Jon said, brushing past.
Benjen smirked as they entered. "Good dog," he murmured to Jaime.
The Kingslayer's expression turned to stone.
---
The Hall of the Iron Throne
The great hall was already full—Small Council, high lords, hedge knights and emissaries. Banners lined the walls: Baratheon, Tyrell, Arryn, Tully… and looming to the left, gold on crimson—Lannister.
Robert sat upon the Iron Throne in a black and gold doublet, his face heavy with wine, but his eyes still sharp under that great mane of coal-dark hair. A hound dozed at his feet. His hammer leaned against the dais.
As Cregan approached, the crowd murmured. The wolf of Winterfell stood taller than they expected.
Robert raised a hand. "Lord Stark," he said, loud enough to hush the court. "The last time I saw you, you were barely to my knee. Now you stride in with a wolf pack and a look that'd chill wildfire."
Cregan bowed once, deeply but without warmth. "Your Grace."
"You come when summond yet you sit outside my court in a manor you rent And now you arrive with half the North behind you. Tell me, lad—should I be flattered or afraid?"
"That depends, Your Grace," Cregan said evenly. "On what kind of king you mean to be."
Robert grinned at that, though the smile didn't reach his eyes.
---
Jon Arryn stepped forward, voice formal. "We begin with the matter of the Citadel's complaint. Lord Stark executed Maester Walys—citadel-trained, crown-sworn—without appeal to crown or conclave."
Murmurs swept the room.
"His crime?" Robert asked, gaze flicking downward.
Jon hesitated. "The poisoning and subsequent murder of a stark. Undermining Northern stability. Religious agitation."
"And?"
"And a documented confession under duress. A public hanging."
Robert nodded slowly. "Your North hangs spies often?"
Cregan's voice was ice. "My North remembers them, and will execute them in way to honor our gods, hung in a hearts tree and his entraisl fed so the roots can return his body to the grounf."
"And this wasn't the first such… incident," Jon said. "Your Grace, we received the report years ago regarding the Septa Lord Tully sent with his daughter. Her tongue was removed and she was sent back to the South in disgrace. Her only crime was preaching of the Seven who are one to Catelyn's and Neds Children and warning them of the dangers of bastards born of sin and lust"
Gasps now. Several knights murmured prayers.
Robert looked at Cregan. "Is this true?"
"Indeed, shes lucky she left the north at all,she was never meant to be there in the first place, the contract between my grandfather and Lord Tully explicitly forbid it" Cregan replied. "How convient that this contract was found hidden with a number of other correspondence with southern parties when we search our Measters Quarters"
Benjen stood silently in the crowd, taking note of all the houses who seemed to fidget and drain of colour when the letters were mentions
Jon's mouth tightened. "The Faith has long served—"
"The Faith has no place in the North, a religion who shames and punishes innocent children, leaves the poor with no way of uplifting themselves and had knights as honorable as Gregor Clegane representing them is no true faith!"
-
The debate continued until King Robert stood with a sigh.
"I'll speak with the Small Council," Robert said at last. "We'll consider what punishment, is fitting—"
Cregan laughed then. Once. Coldly.
The sound stopped the hall.
Jon's brow furrowed. "You find this amusing?"
"I find it curious," Cregan said. "That you speak of punishment for a wolf who killed a confessed murderer."
His eyes moved slowly—deliberately—across the room.
"And yet… there sits a man whose history is not whispered, but sung in screams."
All eyes turned.
Tywin Lannister sat near the base of the dais, his hands clasped over a lion-headed cane, his face unreadable.
Cregan went on.
"A man who has never won a war without massacre and receipt. Whose solution to rebellion was to drown entire halls—men, women, septons, and children alike."
Jon went still.
"You speak of justice," Cregan said. "Then let us speak of justice."
Robert opened his mouth, but Cregan did not stop.
"During your rebellion, that man hid in his mountain until the fighting was finished. His crowning glory was to ride into a city that welcomed him with open arms, he then set the place ablaze, thousand of small folk were raped and murdered, livelihoods lost and to top it off he then orderwd the brutal murder the royal family at that time. His son the kingsguard murdered his king yet still now stands next to you like the good dog he is.
Gasps now. A low curse from one of the Tyrell knights.
Cregan took one step forward.
"Princess Elia Martell was raped and cut in two her children. Her children were Butchered. Smashed against stone and stabbed over and over—"
"That's enough," Jon said, pale.
"Is it?" Cregan asked. "Because I haven't heard the punishment yet."
He turned back to the dais.
"Tell me, Your Grace—what was Tywin Lannister's punishment?"
Robert's jaw clenched.
"Oh yes," Cregan said softly. "He was rewarded with a crown. His son on your guard. His coffers not drained to rebuild the city."
"And the North?" His voice sharpened. "We execute one poisoner and one liar, and the court calls it barbarism."
Silence fell. Thick and suffocating.
Tywin's face did not change. But the rage behind his eyes shimmered like flame on oil.
Jon Arryn looked faint. Lord Tully lowered his gaze.
And Robert Baratheon… sat very, very still
.--
The moment Robert stepped off the dais, he knew the court was no longer his.
Not truly.
His boots echoed on the marble as he descended from the Iron Throne, but the silence clinging to the hall was heavier than steel. He didn't look at Tywin. Didn't look at Jon. Didn't look at Cregan Stark, who still stood like a cold monument in the heart of the room.
He only said, "Court is ended. All of you—out."
He didn't shout it. He didn't need to. It landed like a slap.
The room didn't so much move as scatter. Nobles scrambled to their feet in a blur of silk and whispers. Septons clutched their chains. Pages fumbled for banners. Even the Goldcloaks looked uncertain as they formed up.
And Robert… Robert walked.
The halls of the Red Keep were cooler, quieter. But his blood was still roaring.
Ser Barristan followed, calm as ever. "Your Grace," he began, but Robert waved him off.
"Don't," he said. "Don't tell me I handled it well."
"I wouldn't," Barristan said evenly. "Because you didn't."
Robert turned sharply, one hand curling into a fist. "He embarrassed my court."
"He spoke the truth," Barristan replied.
Robert flinched like he'd been struck. "That's the problem."
They reached the solar. Robert slammed the door shut behind them, then leaned both hands on the map table.
"He named the Lannisters, Barristan. Said the names—Elia, Rhaenys, Aegon—in my hall. And I let him."
"Because you knew if you didn't, the court would turn on you," Barristan said. "You saw their eyes. Half of them agreed with him."
Robert grabbed a cup, filled it, and drained it in one pull.
"Seven hells," he muttered. "He's a boy."
"He's Brandon Stark's boy," Barristan said quietly. "And Ashara Dayne's."
Robert blinked. Then sat heavily.
"I saw Brandon in his jaw. But I heard… something else in his voice."
"Conviction."
"No," Robert said. "Judgment."
He rubbed his temple, groaning.
"How do I punish him for saying what we all know?"
"You don't," Barristan said.
Robert snorted. "Then I suppose I drink"
‐---------
Tywin Lannister did not rise when the court dispersed.
He remained seated, a statue carved from pride and granite, while the chaos of nobility ebbed around him. His jaw was clenched, hands folded tightly on the lion-headed cane he never needed. Kevan stood nearby, fidgeting as if the silence itself might shatter him.
"Brother," Kevan said quietly. "We should—"
"No," Tywin said, his voice cold and sharp as a drawn blade. "Not yet."
His eyes tracked Cregan Stark, who still stood, unshaken. Not gloating. Just… waiting. Like a hunter who had loosed the arrow and was watching the beast stumble.
This was not how it was supposed to go.
Tywin had expected posturing. Northern bluster. A petulant boy with delusions of grandeur. What he received was an ice-edged indictment carved with surgical precision.
He replayed the words in his head.
He never won a war without massacre. Drowned men, women, children, septons. And was rewarded with a crown.
Tywin's fingers tightened.
He had spent years erasing that version of history. He had paid for it with gold, with alliances, with cold-blooded patience. And this child—this Stark—had undone it in ten breaths.
Worse, he had not lied.
Remind me, my king, what the punishment was for that?
A whisper of motion made him blink. Kevan was watching him cautiously.
"We should leave," Kevan said again. "Before more eyes turn on us."
"They already have," Tywin muttered.
And for the first time in years, he felt the stirrings of something unfamiliar.
Not fear. Not shame.
Inconvenience.
Because now he would have to respond.
Not with words. No, not with speeches or courtly denials. That was beneath him—and ineffective. The boy had made a fool of the court, but more than that, he had provoked response.
Silence would be seen as admission.
Revenge would be seen as confirmation.
And yet… he could not allow it to stand.
Kevan shifted. "What will you do?"
Tywin rose, finally, cloak flowing behind him like a shadow reborn. He walked without speaking, each step measured and unhurried. The lion's mask slipped back into place.
At the doorway, he said only:
"Nothing, for now..."
Then he vanished into the halls of the Red Keep, already planning.
Jon Arryn sat in the solar of the Tower of the Hand, staring into a cup of wine he had not touched.
The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that screamed.
Outside, the Red Keep hummed with tension—servants whispering behind doorways, stewards pretending not to repeat every word they'd heard, courtiers deciding how much loyalty they could afford to shed.
He closed his eyes and let Cregan Stark's words echo again in his mind.
"Why is it the North is being punished for executing a confessed murderer when that coward is sitting as a guest of honor in this very hall?"
It wasn't just the accusation that had landed like a hammer.
It was the tone. Calm. Confident. Inevitable.
Like a man who had measured every word beforehand and chosen them as carefully as a dagger in the dark.
Jon had underestimated the boy.
That, more than anything, weighed on him now.
He had believed Cregan to be sharp, yes. Strong. Perhaps even shrewd. But still a youth. Still moldable. Still someone who could be shaped into a lord who understood the game of thrones.
But Cregan had not come to be shaped.
He had come to judge.
And now, the realm was watching the fallout—not of treason, not of rebellion, but of truth.
Jon rubbed his temple.
This wasn't just about Tywin. Or Walys. Or the damn septa whose tongue had come back in a box.
This was about control.
And now that control was slipping. One thread at a time.
The Citadel would be furious. The Faith had already sent inquiries. And the Lannisters… they would not let this insult pass quietly.
And yet, Jon could not bring himself to summon Cregan for rebuke.
Because what would he say?
"You embarrassed the court with honesty"?
"You reminded the people of what their kings have chosen to forget"?
He sighed deeply and stood, walking to the window that overlooked the city. The domes of the Sept of Baelor shimmered in the distance. The bells did not toll. Not yet.
But he could feel them waiting.
"Brandon Stark's son," Jon whispered. "And something more."
He had seen kings rise and fall. He had seen rebellion destroy kingdoms and peace be bought with silence. But in all his years, he had never seen someone so young wield truth as if it were a sword.
It wasn't just dangerous.
It was disruptive.
The kind of thing that split realms down the middle.
He turned back toward his desk and picked up a blank scroll thinking of what needs to be done to keep the realm secure.
---
The tap at the door was soft as breath. Only one man in the Red Keep knocked like that.
Jon Arryn didn't look up. "Come, Lord Varys."
The Master of Whisperers entered without a sound, robes drifting behind him like fog. He made no pretense of pleasantries. He never did.
"You've heard," Jon said.
"Everyone has," Varys replied smoothly. "The song has already begun. The wolf spoke. The lion said nothing. And the king said too little, too late."
Jon took a long drink of wine, then finally looked up. "He's young. But he's not a fool."
"No," Varys agreed. "And that makes him very dangerous."
"He won't stop," Jon said. "He's made that clear."
"No," Varys said again. "Because he hasn't started."
Jon grimaced. "He's already pulled apart the facade of this court."
Varys smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You built this court on what you had. What you inherited. It was always going to buckle under truth."
Jon said nothing. The silence dragged.
Then Varys tilted his head. "But there may be a… solution."
Jon turned sharply. "Do you have something?"
"A distraction," Varys said. "The Ironborn are stirring."
Jon's face tightened.
"Whispers out of Pyke," Varys continued. "Balon Greyjoy is gathering ships. Raiding again along the western coast. Their captains speak of kingship."
"They always speak of kingship," Jon muttered.
"But this time, the words are being listened to," Varys said. "The Westerlands are stretched. The Reach is still nursing old wounds. The North has eyes turned inward. And now—" he gave a small smile, "—we have a wolf's howl echoing through every corridor of power."
Jon rubbed his jaw. "A foreign threat would shift focus."
"Exactly," Varys said. "A war against a foe everyone despises. Unambiguous. Safe. Honorable."
Jon looked at him. "And you think Robert would leap at it?"
Varys's smile deepened. "Robert would welcome a target he doesn't have to justify."
Jon stood and walked to the window again. This time, the bells of the Sept tolled once—long and low.
"You'll keep the rumours to yourself, let them have a chance to build their strength and strike somewhere. We need the realm united." he asked.
"Naturally" Varys said.
Jon turned back toward the fire, the flicker of it casting long shadows behind him.
"Gods forgive us," he said.
Varys bowed slightly. "The gods have never ruled Westeros, my lord. Men like you have."
He turned and left the room in silence, already composing a new letter for Pentos for an old friend.
----
Benjen found Cregan alone in a side chamber of the Northern manor, seated at a stone table lit only by one flickering candle.
"What the fuck was that?" Benjen snapped, slamming the door behind him.
Cregan didn't flinch. He didn't even look up right away.
"You humiliated Tywin Lannister," Benjen said, stepping forward. "In front of Robert. In front of every House that matters. Are you trying to start a war?"
Cregan's voice was calm, almost tired. "No. I'm trying to make sure when war comes, we choose where it begins."
Benjen slammed a fist against the wall. "Speak to me before hand! Tell me what your thinking, your not alone anymore Cregan, do you think they now see you as more than they did before? They will still see you as a child playing Lord.
Cregan looked up at last, eyes like still water under ice. "Im the Stark of Winterfell. And I don't forget what happens when we come south alone we needed something to take away the attention from ourselves.."
Benjen fell quiet, breath sharp.
"I needed them to hear it," Cregan continued. "I needed to say what no one else would."
"And what? Provoke the lion into biting?" Benjen asked.
"To see who flinched," Cregan said. "To see who rushed to defend, who looked away, who stayed silent. You watched them. So did I."
He stood now, folding his hands behind his back.
"I needed the South reminded they're judged, too. That their past won't stay buried. But more than that—I needed to divide them."
Benjen frowned. "Divide them how?"
Cregan paced slowly.
"The Vale and the Reach think of themselves as holy and honorable. Jon Arryn wants peace. The Tyrells want favor. They'll all scramble now to distance themselves from the Lannisters. That leaves Tywin isolated."
"And dangerous," Benjen said.
Cregan nodded. "He's already dangerous. Now he's exposed, too. Everyone saw him silent."
"And the rest?"
"The Riverlands are weak and divided. Hoster Tully is old and tired. His bannermen don't agree on anything."
"And the Stormlands?"
Cregan's mouth twitched. "Ruled by Renly. And according to our own reports, he spends more time parading through the Reach than sitting in Storm's End."
Benjen exhaled.
"I want them distracted," Cregan said. "Panicking over their reputations. Scrambling to polish their banners while we finish what matters."
"Which is?"
"Moat Cailin," Cregan said. "And the fleet. The moment those are done, the North is untouchable."
Benjen narrowed his eyes. "And Tywin?"
"I've already told Ned to increase surveillance on the Boltons."
Benjen blinked. "You think he'll go through them?"
"He won't strike directly. Not yet. But if anyone will sell out the North for gold and revenge, it's Roose."
Benjen sat down across from him at last, still fuming—but listening.
"You still should have warned me," he muttered.
"You would've tried to stop me."
Benjen sighed. "You're all I have left of Brandon, of course I'm going to try to protect you."
-----
Robert Baratheon stood at the window of his solar, staring down at the city as if it were a battlefield.
When Cregan entered, flanked by two of his guards and silent as the grave, the king didn't turn.
"Do you know what I saw when I looked out into that hall?" Robert asked.
"No, Your Grace."
"A boy with a wolf's tongue and no fear of lions."
Cregan stepped forward, calm as ever. "Then you saw rightly."
Robert finally turned, his face drawn. The tankard in his hand was untouched—a rare sight.
"You made a bloody mess, boy. Court's shaken. Tywin's sharpening daggers with his teeth. Jon Arryn's pacing like a rat in a grain bin. The whole Red Keep is whispering."
"They were whispering before," Cregan said. "Now they're listening."
Robert raised a brow. "You think I didn't know what Tywin's done? That I need a child to lecture me on corpses and fire?"
"No," Cregan replied. "But they needed to hear it. From someone who wouldn't flinch."
Robert stared at him for a long moment. Then he walked slowly to the table and slumped into the chair beside it.
"You're not wrong," he said. "But you've put me in a corner."
"You still sit on the throne."
"Do I?" Robert asked bitterly. "Or do I sit in Tywin's shadow whilst Jon Arryn runs the realm?"
Cregan said nothing.
Robert poured himself a drink at last.
"I should send you home in chains," he muttered.
"You won't."
"No," Robert said. "I won't."
He downed the drink and looked up again. "Because I'd have the North banging on my front door, and dorne on my back before I could finish my fucking drink"
He leaned forward.
"But listen close, Lord Stark. The truth makes enemies faster than lies. And while the first earns respect… the second keeps your head on your shoulders."
Cregan inclined his head slightly. "I'd rather bleed for truth than live in cowardice."
Robert cracked a bitter smile. "You are so your father's son, remeber it got him killed young"
He stood again, walking toward the door, as if to end the meeting.
"You may return to your manor. With all your guards. I won't stop you."
Cregan turned to go, but Robert's voice stopped him.
"Next time you come south," he said, "try not to set the realm on fire before breakfast."
Cregan glanced over his shoulder.
"Next time, Your Grace, I expect the realm to be ready for the cold."
And then he was gone, leaving only silence—and the king, still staring at a throne that hadn't felt like his in years.