The Red Keep's council chamber was heavy with tension. The King had summoned not only the Small Council, but the great lords of the realm—or their chosen n. Such gatherings were rare, and always heralded storms.
The cause of this council was no re border feud nor tax levy. It was a whisper grown too loud to ignore—rumors of dragons.
Varys, the Spider, glided forward, his soft hands folded. His tone was mild, but his words struck like a blade wrapped in silk.
"My little birds sing of strange tidings from across the Narrow Sea. A rcenary war in Slaver's Bay and Volantis, and—"
Before he could weave more, Edmure Tully cut across, as headstrong as ever. "Dragons? Pah. Dragons are long dead, Lord Varys. As for rcenaries, they fight every other fortnight in Essos. Useless gossip."
The words drew stares, sharp as daggers. None spoke, but more than one lord gave a curt nod.
Varys only smiled, eyes glittering. "That is where you are mistaken, Lord Tully. One rcenary company in that war was owned and commanded, in part, by none other than Lord Cregan Stark. And there, amid fire and sand, he t Daenerys Targaryen—and saw with his own eyes creatures long thought ash."
The hall hushed. Every gaze turned northward.
Cregan Stark did not flinch beneath their stares. Tall, broad-shouldered, his voice ca even and cold. "Owned is a heavy word, Lord Varys. My business in Essos was threatened by rivals, and I dealt with it. The Company of the Rose bore the brunt, as their commander will tell you." He paused, his eyes flicking—pointedly—to Tywin Lannister. "Yes, I parleyed with Daenerys Targaryen. And aye, she commands dragons. Three of them. Small yet, sa sizes as ponies."
The silence was deafening. A murmur rippled like wind through dry leaves. Even Robert Baratheon, who had sprawled lazy and sour through most of the debate, sat upright as if struck.
"Seven hells," he growled. Wine sloshed as he slamd his cup. "You should've killed her then, Stark—killed her and her beasts while they were small enough to gut like piglets!"
Cregan's reply was still as iced steel. "It was no mont for treachery, Your Grace. I had no chance No chance worth the dishonor."
Robert's face darkened red, rage and old ghosts stirring alike. "Dishonor? I told you years past to end her when she cowered among savages—no eggs, no dragons, no armies. She was a whelp then, and now look! She is hailed as queen, with fire at her back. And here you stand, calling it honor!"
"I stand by my choice," Cregan said, his face unreadable.
The King roared, slamming fist to oak. "Then you're a bloody fool! To arms—we go to war!"
The chamber erupted, lords speaking over lords.
Tywin Lannister's voice cut through: asured, golden, commanding. "Your Grace, charging blindly across the sea serves no one. We will need allies in Essos, if war is to be won at all."
Yohn Royce, speaking for the Vale, nodded grimly. "The lion speaks true. To fight on foreign sands without support would bleed us dry before steel even touched dragonfla."
Eddard Stark's words were deep and weary. "And strike ereen outright? The Free Cities will rouse like a stirred hornet's nest. We risk waking the whole East against us."
Cregan shook his head. "You speak sense, all of you. No host, be it ten thousand or fifty, could storm ereen. Not from the outside."
The King sneered. "What's this, wolf? Afraid? Where's that fad wolf's blood now?"
Cregan held his silence, but Varys did not. The eunuch's tone teased like a cat with cornered prey. "Surely not fear, Lord Cregan? The Wolf of the Ruins, cowed by the thought of a siege? The Essosi lords must be laughing still."
At that, Cregan barked a sharp laugh of his own, eyes narrowing upon the Spider. "No, Lord Varys. They will not be laughing. They would be more afraid."
Confusion curled through the chamber. A dozen lords frowned at the title whispered: Wolf of the Ruins.
Robert grunted. "Speak it plain, damn you."
Varys spread his hands like silk curtains. "Once, Your Grace, Lord Cregan was not lord of North, but a sellsword's commander. He rose high in the Company of the Rose, a host founded long ago by a Stark who rejected dragonlords. In ti, Cregan won command, and carved such a na that Essos called him the Wolf of the Ruins. Company of Rose is one of the most popular rcenary group in Essos."
Robert's eyes went wide with interest, flashing to Eddard.
Eddard's reply was quiet, heavy with mory. "He was young, reckless. Ran east to fight as a rcenary instead of holding his place in the North. The Rose takes Northn's blood back generations. And he rose farther than any of ours before him."
The King's dark mood was pierced by sudden hunger. "You have an army in Essos? Seven hells, then we have our spear across the sea! With the Wolf at their head, the Targaryen bitch will wither."
"Perhaps more than that," Varys pressed smoothly. "If Lord Cregan calls for war, countless magisters and princes will bend ear. Many fear dragons' rebirth, but all fear owing a man like him their silence more."
Cregan's eyes narrowed. Was the eunuch binding him in silks unseen? He let no trace of doubt show.
Robert all but bead, reckless joy on his face. "Better! A Stark's sellsword host, joined with Westeros. Send words at once, boy!"
But Cregan's voice grounded them like a hamr's fall. "Your Grace, no. Not while ereen is guarded by Unsullied."
The na alone sent a ripple through the lords.
Prince Oberyn Martell, who had held his tongue till now, leaned forward with a curl of lips. "Ah. Yes. The Unsullied. Cockless, voiceless, yet the deadliest spears in all the world. To march against them would be folly."
Robert snorted, spittle flying. "Folly? They're eunuchs! Cockless slaves! You'd quake before bedwarrs with spears?"
Cregan's reply was like steel on stone. "Those 'slaves' stood three thousand strong at Qohor and faced twenty thousand Dothraki screars. When the sun set, they Killed more than 14000 Dotharkis The khal was dead, his bloodriders hacked apart, and the horselords fled them in terror. Dothraki do not flee. The Unsullied taught them fear. Even the Khals call them the n of Iron."
The chamber fell to silence once more, and it was Cregan's voice alone that carried. "Give one hundred thousand from Westeros. I can summon as many across the sea. With such a host, aye, we might win. But listen well, Your Grace—of the n who march, not one will return the sa. If they return at all."
Oberyn Martell's voice was quiet but edged like poisoned steel. "The wolf speaks true. To move against Unsullied is to embrace death. They do not yield. Not to any man."
Varys inclined his head, almost pleased. "A tale oft told—the day three thousand broke a khalasar. Even the horselords whisper it still."
Cregan's face was grave, his words deliberate. "So yes, Your Grace… we may kill her. Kill her dragons. Burn her city to ash. But the price will be everything you hold dear. Will you pay it?"
The chamber sat heavy with silence. The lords of Westeros—n who had broken crowns and toppled dynasties—faced the truth of it. Dragons might return, but to fight the Unsullied was to march into the grave.
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Gary Brennan has been here from the starting days man. Thanks you all for the support.
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