"Council Clashes"

Chapter 27 – "Council Clashes"

The small council chamber was bathed in morning light, warm and deceptively peaceful. Sunlight filtered through high arched windows, illuminating dust motes that danced like the lies so often told within these walls.

Lord Cregan Stark, dressed in deep grey trimmed with the silver of his house, sat near the end of the table. His grey eyes scanned the chamber with measured calculation. Even here, in the heart of southern politics, he was unmistakably Northern—quiet, intense, and unmistakably blunt.

King Robert Baratheon sat at the head of the table, goblet in hand, already halfway through his second drink. His voice boomed across the chamber as he slammed the goblet down.

"They're still alive! The Targaryen whelps. That silver-haired bitch and her simpering brother. Across the Narrow Sea, hiding behind their horse-lord."

Jon Arryn, ever the calm steward of chaos, spoke with measured tone. "Your Grace, the girl has married a Dothraki khal. There's no evidence that he intends to cross the sea."

Robert waved his hand. "You say that now. But what if he does? What if she bears him a son? Another bloody dragon prince! I won't have another war. I want them dead."

Silence followed his words. Even Renly looked uncomfortable. Pycelle coughed into his sleeve.

Then came the low, cool voice of Cregan. "The Dothraki are not the threat you think they are."

Robert turned, one brow raised. "Oh? Is that so, Northern pup?"

Cregan didn't rise to the bait. "They are savage, yes. Fearsome riders, unmatched in open plains. But Westeros is not grassland. We have mountains, rivers, stone keeps, steel, and discipline."

Pycelle stroked his beard. "You've seen them firsthand?"

Cregan nodded. "I fought them in Essos. Their strength is in mobility, numbers, terror. But they don't wear armor, and their blades chip on northern steel. Against cavalry, maybe they excel. But against walls? They fail."

"Walls won't stop fire and blood," Robert grunted.

"There is no fire," Cregan replied, eyes steely. "No dragons. Only fear, puffed up by rumor and bad wine."

Jon Arryn tapped his fingers. "The question remains whether an assassination is wise."

Cregan nodded once. "Kill them, and you give the Dothraki reason. Leave them, and they remain exiles, chasing shadows."

Robert looked torn. Anger still burned behind his eyes, but the certainty was shaken.

Varys, ever serpentine, murmured, "Lord Stark's point is sound. Provocation could be worse than patience."

Robert slammed his cup down again but said no more. He stood and muttered, "I need air."

As he stormed out, the tension slowly dissolved. Renly leaned back with a half-smile. "You've stirred the lion's mane."

"He needed it," Cregan replied.

Jon Arryn cleared his throat. "Let us move on. The crown's finances. Lord Baelish?"

Littlefinger rose with his usual smirk. "The coffers remain... flexible. We've gained from the Gulltown tariff reforms and the new leasing of shipping contracts in the Reach."

"Flexible," Cregan repeated, leaning forward. "The tariffs on Gulltown gates were increased fifteen percent."

Baelish raised an eyebrow. "A modest adjustment."

"Not to the merchants. You've rerouted trade flows through more southern ports. Northern merchants are being taxed twice. Once when entering the Vale, again on the Goldroad."

"A regrettable side effect," Baelish said. "But profitable for the crown."

Cregan's voice was flat. "Profitable? We're deeper in debt than the last quarter. Your profits are cosmetic. Your spending on the naval contracts in Lannisport alone is leaking coin."

Baelish chuckled lightly. "Surely a Northern lord doesn't claim to understand the intricacies of southern finance?"

"I understand when money disappears," Cregan snapped. "And when the same names appear across three ledgers for unrelated shipping accounts. Convenient coincidence, no?"

Jon Arryn glanced sharply at Baelish. "Is that true?"

Baelish bowed slightly. "Accounting anomalies, my lord. I will address them."

Cregan wasn't done. "The Reach contract for port grain? Redirected through your own brokers. House Redwyne didn't negotiate with the crown. They negotiated with you."

Baelish's face flickered.

"A man who profits both as servant and merchant isn't a servant," Cregan said. "He's a leech."

Pycelle let out a snort before disguising it as a cough. Varys smiled behind his fingers. Renly grinned outright.

Baelish tried to recover. "And what does the wild wolf of the North suggest?"

Cregan met his eyes. "Cut naval contracts not tied to active fleets. Audit the Redwyne port deal with outside scribes. Stop rerouting trade that undermines loyal lords. And establish northern shipping stations in White Harbor and Eastwatch."

Jon Arryn looked thoughtful. "That would stabilize grain access to the North. And curb Reach influence."

Pycelle nodded. "And restore Gulltown trade."

Varys offered a delicate clap. "How rare. A northern lord who bites and balances the books."

Littlefinger forced a grin. "We shall look into it."

As the meeting drew to a close, Baelish passed by Cregan on the way out. "You play a dangerous game, Lord Stark."

"You've been playing it too long alone," Cregan replied. "I just set the board straight."

---

Outside, in the Red Keep's inner gardens, Jon Arryn caught up with Cregan.

"That was bold."

"Necessary."

"You've made enemies."

"I have wolves."

Jon gave a rare smile. "And perhaps, allies now. Keep your sword sharp and your words sharper. King's Landing will need both."

Cregan looked toward the Tower of the Hand, where the city seemed to shrink behind him. "Then let them come."

---

By dusk, the whispers had already spread.

The wolf had not only howled.

He had bared his teeth.

And King's Landing—for the first time in years—listened.

---

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