"The Order of Wolves"
Chapter 35 – "The Order of Wolves"
Six moons had passed since Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Frosthall, took command of the City Watch. What began as a reluctant appointment had become a campaign of reform, discipline, and cleansing—King's Landing had never seen its streets so quiet, nor its Gold Cloaks so sharp.
A New Face of Order
Gone were the lazy patrols, the slouched shoulders, and the bribe-stuffed pockets. The new City Watch marched in black and grey cloaks, trimmed with wolf sigils on one shoulder and stag with crown on another—a quiet but bold statement of Cregan's influence. Crime had plummeted. The brothels and merchant alleys still buzzed, but they buzzed under rule. Thieves whispered of a Watch that bit harder than the Kingsguard.
And the man behind it all?
Unflinching. Unapologetic. Unbowed.
Cregan Stark had become a name the smallfolk whispered with respect. And the corrupt feared with quiet dread.
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Council Whispers and Political Shifts
"Three moons and not a single market riot," Grand Maester Pycelle croaked, adjusting his chains.
"And yet Lord Stark has spent more time with his blades than his books," Littlefinger added smoothly, swirling his wine.
"Because unlike some, I fix problems with action, not ledgers," Cregan replied, not even glancing at him.
The Small Council chuckled—Robert among them. "Gods, I love that wolf. He speaks sense and pisses off Baelish in the same breath."
"Order is a fine thing," Varys murmured, his eyes thoughtful. "But power shifts when order does. The city listens to new voices now."
Jon Arryn observed quietly, noting the balance of power in the room. Cregan had earned Robert's praise, the court's attention, and the people's respect. But praise and power attracted knives as surely as they did laurels.
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The Little General
"You there! Why are your boots muddy?"
The Gold Cloak straightened, almost reflexively. Before him stood not a knight, nor a noble lord, but a little girl with wild black curls and eyes as fierce as storm clouds.
"You're part of my uncle's army," Lyanna declared. "His wolves don't wear filth."
"Apologies, m'lady," the guard muttered.
"I'm not a lady. I'm a general. You call me Commander Lyanna."
It wasn't rare to see her in the streets these days. With a black scarf tied around her shoulders like a makeshift cloak, Lyanna would march through the barracks, inspecting rows, pointing at helms too shiny or boots too loose.
And the Watch listened.
To them, she was the little general—the tiny whirlwind that spoke with her uncle's confidence and fearlessness. Most found her hilarious. Some found her terrifying.
But all respected her. Because they know their commander is sucker for her demands and actions.
"She's like a wolf pup raised in a den of hounds," said Sergeant Halmar. "Gods help us when she grows teeth."
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Beneath the Gold and Silk
Not everyone shared the admiration.
In the Merchant's Guildhouse near the Street of Silk, Petyr Baelish sat in a private chamber, joined by four guild leaders.
"Cregan Stark's reforms have cut into shipping tariffs, closed three smuggling docks, and frozen our 'sponsored' watchmen," grumbled Master Lonnel, a silk trader.
"And his wolves scare off the collectors," said another. "The ones we paid to ignore our... creative accounting."
Littlefinger steepled his fingers. "You can't cage a wolf with coin. But you can starve him. We create a shortage—withdraw shipments from key ports. Stir unrest in the dockyards. Let the smallfolk grow restless. And when complaints rise, the King will start to wonder if our northern friend is more warlord than warden."
They agreed, uneasily. Petyr smiled, hiding his disdain for the merchants and their cowardice.
He didn't just want Cregan out.
He wanted him broken.
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The Prince's Bruised Pride
Joffrey had never liked being told what to do. But he especially loathed being told what not to do.
The City Watch now barely flinched at his outbursts. When he shoved a baker's cart, they made him apologize. When he insulted a noble's son in the market, they escorted him away.
Worse yet, one of them had laughed when Lyanna Stark 'allegedly' called him "Ser Chickenlegs" in the training yard.
He threw a fit that night. Cersei seethed.
"That mongrel and his cub mock my son. And the court cheers."
"Because they fear the wolf more than they respect the lion," Jaime replied, not unkindly.
Cersei's eyes burned. "Not for long."
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The Council Reckons
Six moons had passed. And in that time, the capital changed.
Cregan finally returned to the Keep more regularly. Now, dressed in black-trimmed council robes, his demeanor remained as blunt as ever—but there was a calmness to him. A quiet control.
"You've become more civilized," Ser Blackhand joked during a meal.
"Don't spread that rumor. I have a reputation to uphold," Cregan quipped.
In council, his reforms received both applause and scorn. Varys praised the drop in organized crime. Jon Arryn nodded at improved tax enforcement. But Littlefinger countered with concern:
"You've removed nearly half the previous watchmen. That's dangerous."
Cregan leaned forward. "Only if you're friends with criminals."
Chuckles followed, but the room felt tenser than before. Littlefinger smiled thinly.
"You'll find, Lord Stark, that change breeds resistance."
Cregan didn't blink. "Then let resistance learn to kneel."
---
Cregan steps into the courtyard, where Lyanna waits, standing on a crate, commanding two Watch officers to "sweep the cobblers' alley or be eaten by Shadow."
He smiled. A little general. A northern storm in a southern city.
And the wolves had just begun to run.
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