"Steel and Silk"

Chapter 38 – "Steel and Silk"

Silk Under the Wolf's Shadow

By the seventh moon of his station in King's Landing, Cregan Stark had earned many names: the Northern Reformer, the Black Wolf, Lord Commander Frost, and to the whispers in back alleys, simply Trouble. What had once been a city drowning in corruption and chaos was now quiet, efficient, and visibly watched.

And now, he set his eyes on something untouched for decades: the pleasure houses of King's Landing.

They were one of the most lucrative yet lawless parts of the city. Girls were beaten, coin was stolen, bodies vanished, and under the surface, Littlefinger's fingers reached deep. But no more.

Cregan called a private session in the barracks of the City Watch. He stood before a chalk board as if in a war council.

"There are no free rides," he said, pointing at a map of the city's brothel districts. "You sell a product. That product earns coin. The crown sees none of it."

A captain raised a hand. "Won't that stir trouble with the brothel owners? And the... clients?"

"I'm not here to stop their business," Cregan said, voice even. "I'm here to regulate it."

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A New Order of Silk

Under Cregan's reforms:

All brothels were now required to register and pay taxes on earnings.

A standard code of treatment for workers was established.

In return, brothels were granted regular protection by City Watch patrols.

Abusers and clients who refused payment would be blacklisted.

Many proprietors were hesitant. But the infamous Madam Chhatya of the Sapphire Den was among the first to adapt.

"So long as the guards don't harass my girls," she told a Watch officer, "we welcome the Wolf's protection. I've had four nobles refuse to pay this moon alone."

Soon, others followed.

But not all were pleased.

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Littlefinger's Outrage

Littlefinger stormed into Cregan's office like a kicked-up storm of silk and smug.

"You've gone mad," he began, voice sharp. "Do you even understand the balance you've upset? These houses have operated under unwritten rules for decades!"

Cregan didn't look up from his paperwork. "Unwritten rules are exactly the kind that rot a kingdom from the inside."

"They bring in coin."

"They bring in your coin," Cregan corrected. "But they've brought nothing to the crown."

Littlefinger paced, jaw tight. "You tax silk, and silk will tear. These women are not soldiers, nor are their clients simpletons."

"They're citizens," Cregan replied. "And they deserve laws to protect them, not chains."

Littlefinger narrowed his eyes. "Some of us have agreements. Long-standing exchanges of courtesy—"

"Oh, you mean you were getting it for free," Cregan said dryly. "And now you pay like the rest."

Littlefinger's mouth clamped shut. His silence said more than any lie could.

"And if you try to undo this," Cregan added, leaning forward, "I'll assign a Watch patrol to your doorstep. Let's see how many courtesies survive that."

Littlefinger left with a stiff bow and fire in his chest. He would not forget this insult.

---

Butterknives and Boiling Blood

The rumors spread faster than wildfire.

They said Cregan Stark had reforged a Valyrian blade. That he made a dagger for his niece. That the girl carried it openly, like a badge of defiance.

But in the Red Keep, reality was even more maddening. Lyanna Frost-Stark, barely four years old, strutted through the halls with her "butterknife" tucked in her belt, her direwolf Shadow always nearby, two City Watch guards in tow like her own personal retinue.

The guards, Ser Garnen and Roff, had come to adore her. The men joked she was their "little general."

"She gave me orders this morning to arrest a pigeon for stealing her biscuit," Garnen said with a grin.

"She asked me to train her in interrogation," added Roff. "She practiced on the cook."

"She made him confess to hiding sugar."

They chuckled—but always kept a close eye. Lyanna might have been young, but her uncle's enemies would use any weakness to wound him.

---

Prince and Predator

On a warm afternoon, Lyanna played near the garden's edge, practicing pretend sword drills. "Strike! Parry! Stab the monster!"

She wielded her butter-knife with glee, charging into bushes, waving it above her head.

That was when Joffrey Baratheon arrived.

He strode into the garden like a lion into a den of cubs. Behind him marched Ser Meryn Trant and four Lannister guards.

"What's that?" Joffrey demanded, voice echoing. "You're playing with Valyrian steel?"

Lyanna didn't look up. "It's mine. Uncle made it for me."

"You're not allowed to have it. Give it to me."

"No."

"I am the prince! I command you."

"And I am General Lyanna, Queen of Biscuits," she said proudly, waving the butterknife like a banner. "You have no power here!"

Joffrey's cheeks turned red. "You filthy little rat! I'll take it myself!"

He lunged forward. The City Watchmen stepped between him and the girl.

"Hold, Your Grace," Garnen said, steady. "She is under Commander Stark's protection."

"You DARE block my way?!"

Trant shifted, uncertain.

"Take it from her," Joffrey ordered. "Teach them what happens when you defy the Crown!"

The Lannister guards moved.

One grabbed for Lyanna.

And then—Shadow moved faster.

The direwolf tore from the shadows of the hedge, slamming into the Lannister soldier with the full weight of fury. Fangs sank into his neck. Blood burst across the grass.

The garden exploded in chaos.

Two more Lannisters rushed forward—one clashed with Roff, the other tried to shield the prince.

Garnen pulled Lyanna back just as another blade slashed near her face.

Shadow pivoted and lunged again. He slammed another Lannister into a pillar, his jaws locking on the man's arm—crack!—bone shattered.

"STOP THIS MADNESS!" Trant bellowed, blade half-drawn but unmoving.

Roff was down, bleeding from the shoulder. Garnen stood his ground, sword pointed at the last Lannister, who hesitated.

One guard whimpered, arm useless. Another lay dead, eyes wide.

Shadow stood over him, growling, muzzle dripping red.

Joffrey backed away, face pale. "You'll all be executed! You hear me?! This is TREASON!"

"Your Grace," Trant said sharply. "We need to go . You laid hands on a Stark under Watch protection."

"I AM THE PRINCE!"

"And the wolves are watching," Garnen said quietly, still holding his blade.

Shadow snarled. Lyanna clutched his fur, face buried in his neck.Lyanna little scared on the brink of tears but still trusts shadow to protect her

The garden fell silent save for the wind and shallow breathing of the wounded.

The Watch had drawn blood. A prince had been humiliated.

And now—there would be hell to pay.

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