"Shadows in the Ledger"
Chapter 36 – "Shadows in the Ledger"
The seventh moon had waxed and waned since Cregan Stark had taken command of the City Watch. King's Landing had not been the same since. In back alley taverns and candle-lit noble halls alike, the name of the northern wolf echoed—feared by the corrupt, admired by the common folk, and grudgingly respected by even his enemies.
But peace was never still in the capital. Beneath the surface, schemes festered.
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Ledgers and Claw Marks
Cregan sat hunched over a thick stack of ledgers in the quiet of his study, his grey eyes narrowed beneath a furrowed brow. The flickering fire cast long shadows on the parchment. A thick silence, broken only by the scratching of ink and the occasional soft growl from Shadow, filled the room.
"Three crates of Dornish lemons, rerouted through Gulltown," he muttered. "On a route that passed through the Stormlands?"
He flipped the page, sniffed, then nodded to himself.
"You don't bring lemons through the snow unless you want the lemon to freeze."
He marked the ledger and tossed it aside. The next one smelled faintly of rosewater and perfume. Merchant seals, handwriting too neat, and transaction notes that danced around taxes with a practiced hand.
"Littlefinger's rats," Cregan said to Shadow. "They've gotten lazy. Or arrogant."
Shadow huffed in agreement, curling tighter by the fireplace.
It wasn't only numbers that told Cregan stories. It was the smell of ink, the pressure of the quill, the rhythm of the coin. When he had spent those first brutal months overhauling the Watch, he had planted seeds—spies among the street urchins, whispers in the silks, hands in the ledgers.
Now, those whispers spoke.
A plot was blooming.
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The Lion's Cub Roars
It began with a scuffle. Two of Cregan's Watchmen stood bloodied, their helms dented. Prince Joffrey, flanked by two Lannister guards, had been hurling stones at smallfolk in the market. When confronted, he turned his ire on the guards.
"I am the prince!" he screamed, lip curled. "You are nothing!"
The guards restrained themselves. Barely.
Cregan arrived not long after, Shadow at his heels.
"What is this?"
"They questioned me," Joffrey snarled, pointing. "Me! Like some gutter dog!"
Cregan's eyes narrowed. "And you raised your hand to my men?"
"I am the blood of kings—"
"And they're the shields of this city. My shields."
He stepped forward until his shadow covered the prince. Joffrey stumbled back.
"Next time you strike one of my men, you'll be wearing black in the Wall, prince or no."
The Lannister guards looked ready to draw steel. Shadow growled.
Joffrey fled in a storm of red-faced rage. Cregan turned to his men.
"Next time, don't hold back. A prince should bleed if he acts like a bandit."
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The Spider and the Coin
From the shadows, Varys watched. He knew men like Cregan Stark didn't play the game of thrones.
They disrupted it.
And yet, they were needed.
The streets were cleaner, the people calmer, the Watch transformed. But what Varys respected most was how quickly Cregan struck rot from stone. Corruption, bribery, extortion—all burning beneath the wolf's flame.
But others… others did not share the Spider's admiration.
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Whispers in the Council
"You're exceeding your mandate," Littlefinger said, voice silky, fingers steepled.
"And yet here we are. With fewer corpses on the cobblestones and more coin in the crown's purse," Cregan replied.
The Small Council chamber was tense. Jon Arryn looked weary. Pycelle blinked slowly.
"You've removed nearly two hundred watchmen," Littlefinger pressed. "Many of whom had… ties to important guilds. Influence. Wealth."
"And corruption," Cregan said plainly. "Ties to your merchants, no doubt."
Varys coughed lightly. "It is true that the streets have not known such peace in a generation."
"Peace by force," Cersei interjected, eyes icy. "And the people grow used to it. They call him the Black Wolf of the Gate."
Robert laughed. "Better a wolf than a weasel."
Littlefinger's jaw tightened.
Cregan stood, black cloak sweeping behind him. "I was given full authority over the Watch. If any man here wishes to strip it, speak plainly."
No one did.
Cregan nodded, then sat again. "Then I suggest we move on."
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Shadows on the Silk Road
Littlefinger's plot deepened. Merchants in his pocket raised prices in select markets. Food shipments were delayed. Whisper campaigns began—faint rumors that Cregan's Watch would soon start taxing the poor. That he had northern ambitions. That he answered to no one.
Cregan watched it unfold with quiet fury.
But his merchant network, cultivated in Essos and across the North, responded. Food from Frosthall came in cheap and in bulk. Merchant lords loyal to Cregan opened shops and flooded the markets. Littlefinger's gambit collapsed.
Worse—Cregan bought up the seized cargo and flipped it through his own channels.
The wolf was not just biting.
He was hunting.
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Letters and the Laughter of Cubs
Among the seriousness, there came warmth. A letter from Frosthall arrived—Jon Snow's spiky script scrawled in northern black ink.
> You left me with wolves and ledgers, and not the pretty kind. You owe me three barrels of mead and two months of sleep.
Torrhen painted a portrait. It's called: 'Me and Uncle Bite Lions.' I've mounted it on the main hall. Pray the gods it doesn't curse us all.
Blacksteel forge progresses. Wolves are restless. We await your word.
Cregan smiled. The letter folded neatly, pressed against his chest.
Another item arrived—a scroll-sized parchment from Torrhen. Crude shapes, stick figures, one massive gray blob labeled 'Uncle' and a tiny one labeled 'Me.' Between them, three mangled lion shapes with red crayon dripping from them.
He showed it to Shadow. "We've raised an artist."
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A Dire Plan Foiled
When another 'accidental' blockade struck the harbor, Cregan moved fast. He traced the ships to a narrow holding company in the Street of Sisters. Inside, hidden beneath wine manifests and perfume imports, was a collection of falsified logs—all leading back to Baelish's front.
Cregan struck hard.
Three arrests. Two merchant licenses revoked. Property seized.
Littlefinger's expression at the next council meeting was carefully blank.
"You seem disturbed, Lord Baelish," Cregan said.
"I had a poor night's sleep."
"Perhaps less scheming before bed."
Laughter. Robert slammed his cup. "HA! God's teeth, I want a whole army of Starks!"
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A Storm from the East
Jon Arryn arrived late that day. He looked tired—older than Cregan remembered. Varys handed him a scroll with a silent nod.
The Lord Hand unrolled it, read carefully, then spoke:
"Viserys Targaryen is dead. Crowned himself in Vaes Dothrak and was executed by the Dothraki for offending their customs. Daenerys lives. She is pregnant."
A cold silence settled.
Robert stood. "Then she dies too. Mother and child."
Pycelle mumbled about legality. Varys made no protest. Cersei said nothing—but her smile was razor thin.
Jon Arryn looked to Cregan.
The Northman's voice was quiet. Steady.
"No."
Robert turned to him, fire in his eyes.
"She's a girl across the sea. You've never seen a khalasar move. I have. They're riders. Raiders. But they're not Westeros. Our walls and steel would break them like waves on stone."
"She is the dragon's heir," Robert growled.
"And your war is over."
The king's hands clenched. But he said nothing.
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A Tired Hand
After the meeting, Jon Arryn lingered.
He said to himself. "I fear the wolf sees clearer than we do."
Jon touched the scroll again. "The war never left Robert. And this city… it moves faster than I can study. I haven't even begun sorting his bastards. Between Baelish's poison and Cregan's fire, the realm is changing faster than I can contain it."
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