King's Landing – The Spider's Web

Varys sat alone in his private chamber deep beneath the Red Keep, the candlelight casting long shadows across the parchment in his hand.

Reports. Dozens of them. Whispers, sightings, merchants' accounts, rumors—every thread in Essos seemed to echo the name of Cregan Stark.

Or rather, as they called him beyond the Narrow Sea—the Bloody Wolf, or more ominously, the Wolf of the Ruins.

Varys had long known the North had grown strong under House Stark's banner, and he knew Cregan held influence in trade, mercenary circles, and blacksteel. But this… this was different.

Cregan wasn't just powerful. He was beloved by killers, feared by pirates, and respected by Essosi princes and mercenary captains. His name was whispered with both reverence and dread.

"Warrior, merchant, madman…" Varys murmured.

His fingers drummed the table thoughtfully. "A man like him could be an asset. Or a weapon. Or a wildfire waiting to burn."

And then there was Young Griff.

Would the Wolf of the Ruins bend the knee? Or bite the dragon?

The Spider sighed. "He will have to be dealt with… one way or another. But carefully. Very carefully."

He glanced to another scroll—this one sealed in black wax.

Dragons live again.

But the realm was not yet ready to hear it.

---

Winterfell – Frost and Courtesy

Myrcella Baratheon sat in the Godswood, bundled in furs and listening to Lady Catelyn, who teach her of Northern customs and house traditions. She had already spent time with Arya and Rickon, observed Maester Luwin's lessons, and learned the names of Stark ancestors from Old Nan.

But even amidst the serenity of Winterfell, Myrcella was nervous.

She was to marry a man she had never met.

Cregan Stark.

Her future husband. A man whose name sent fear into south and inspired reverence in the North. She had heard and seen tales—of battles fought , wolves at his side, and his paramours

He was a Stark. He was not soft.

But Myrcella was a Baratheon—and she was determined to be a good wife, to understand the North, to learn their gods and ways. Not because she was forced to, but because it was right.

"I hope…" she whispered into the icy breeze, "we can find peace, somehow."

---

King's Landing – Ned Stark's Burden

Lord Eddard Stark leaned over a desk buried in parchment and sealed letters. The crown's debts were astronomical. The treasury was hollow. Littlefinger's smirks had become daily poison.

Ned rubbed his eyes. "Damn you, Robert."

The king was drunk more days than not, leaving Ned to patch holes in a sinking ship. Worse still, the prince—Joffrey—had taken Sansa's rejection as a personal insult. He sneered at Ned in court, caused disturbances, and acted with the arrogance of one who believed himself untouchable.

Ned was grateful now, more than ever, that his sons had refused the proposal. Robb's level-headedness. Cregan's blunt honesty. Even Jon's steady presence in Winterfell—each had spared their sister a cruel fate.

Still, Ned had his doubts. Doubts about Joffrey's bloodline. Doubts about the rightful heir.

But until truth was certain, the game must be played carefully.

---

Meereen — The Day of the Duel

Cregan flexed his fingers around the leather-wrapped hilt, the surface worn smooth by years of callouses and battle. The Meereen sun bore down, heavier than any northern storm, sweat already tickling down the back of his neck before the first sword was raised. His shirt, simple and loose, clung to him, the faint thread of home stitched into its seams. Around the pit walls, the crowd pressed close—faces smeared in anticipation, hands waving coins, the air thick with expectation and dust.

Across from him, Daario Naharis looked every inch the sellsword—loose in his stance, gold tooth glinting, eyes sharp and quick as a cat's. His smirk was sharp, but in his gaze lingered the chill calculation of a man who'd survived countless fights.

Neither man spoke. They needed no words. The intensity between them replaced any ritual or prayer.

The Early Exchange

The fight began without flourish—a simple circling, each man searching for opportunities. Their steps kicked up swirls of sand. Steel met steel with the first cautious blows, each testing the other's guard.

Cregan's Point of View

I forced myself to breathe steady. Every instinct screamed for caution—the way Daario's sword flickered, skimming past my guard, never quite committing at first. I kept my shield high, remembering a dozen northern duels where patience won the day. His strikes came faster than most men could see, but I blocked and countered, refusing his invitation to lunge heedlessly.

Daario feinted at my shoulder. I followed his wrist, not his blade, and twisted away from the true attack landing at my hip—a shallow slice, but a good lesson. He grinned as blood welled. The crowd roared at the first hint of red.

Daario's Point of View

He didn't rattle. Most men faltered after a taste of their own blood, but not Stark. He was built like a frozen river—strong, careful, impossible to move by force alone. I slid left, tried to catch his chin with my hilt, but his shield retaliated, ramming into my ribs. Air whooshed from my lungs. Good—he could hit. That made it more interesting.

I battered his shield with a flurry of fast, pit-fighter blows, striking high, then stomping toward his shins—a move honed in the sands, not the training grounds. He stepped back, not breaking his defense, face unreadable. Gods, I admired that. I whispered to him, low so only he could hear, "Don't blink, wolf."

Neither man gave ground easily. Sweat dripped from temples and forearms, weapons already dusted with blood. Every move counted now.

Daario lobbed a handful of gravel into Cregan's eyes. Blinded for a heartbeat, Cregan blinked away stinging grit as a blade sang near his face. He ducked, felt the hiss of steel too close to his cheek. His next swing was full of fury, driving Daario back.

He pressed the attack. Cregan's northern strength forced Daario near the boundary of the pit, but the sellsword twisted sideways and lashed out at Cregan's thigh, drawing another bloody streak. Cregan's eyes narrowed. He barreled forward, shield-ramming Daario, sending him staggering.

Cregan's Point of View

My lungs burned. Each cut hurt, but pain always made me sharper. He was clever—never where you expected, each cheap trick layered into a real threat. I let him circle, let him think I was flagging, then caught him off guard—slamming my shield downward onto his wrist when he reached for another hidden dagger. His cursed blade clattered into the dust.

"Getting slow, ?" I panted, swallowing blood and sand.

Daario's Point of View

He might've moved slow, but he always moved right. Faultless defense, little waste. When I slipped, he punished fast—shield to wrist, the jolt ringing up my arm. I gasped back, grinning through clenched teeth. I tried a feint knee to his gut, but he caught me with an elbow, snapped my head sideways. Brilliant.

The crowd was a dull roar, fading into the background. It was just him and me, now. I felt the weariness mounting, my left hand throbbing, legs cramping from circling so long. No tricks left—time for raw survival.

The Turning Point

The next exchanges grew brutal. Cregan lunged, grabbing Daario's forearm, locking it between those iron fingers. Daario twisted and spat, boots slipping in sand. They grappled, bodies pressed—every movement desperate, more dirty wrestling than clean swordplay.

Cregan kneed Daario in the gut; Daario cursed but managed to ram a shoulder beneath Cregan's chin in defiance. They crashed to the sand, rolling—teeth bared, hands scrabbling for hold of anything, both battered and dust-streaked. Finally, Cregan pinned Daario and overpowered him and pinned his arms to ground with the help daggers and swords.

Cregan's Point of View

I could feel the fight leave him—all bluster gone. Only human now, sweat and pain and exhaustion binding us for a moment. I pressed my blade to his chest, meeting his glassy, defiant eyes. I didn't gloat. I spoke quietly: "The North remembers."

With deliberate care, I cut a direwolf—the Stark sigil—into the flesh over his heart. His jaw tightened, dignity refusing to give way to screams. When it was done, I put him out of his misery with a clean thrust to the heart.

Daario's Final Moments

He held my gaze even as he marked me. Pain screaming in my body as carved a wolf in my chest, humiliating me .

The Aftermath

For a heartbeat, the world was silent—two figures tangled, blood-smeared, the taste of metal thick in the air. Then the crowd erupted into a cacophony of awe, horror, and wild acclaim.

Cregan staggered to his feet, dagger still dripping, every limb aching. There was no triumph—only grim clarity and rage of his blood.

Cregan directly looked at the crowd "This is the result when you poke the wolf and his pack."He spoke loudly.

Cregan fixed Daenerys with a steady gaze, unwavering and firm. "You may see this as disrespect, or interpret it as you will. But hear me well—this is advice born not of defiance, but of hard truth. History matters. Tradition matters. The North remembers. My namesake remembered ; my father remembered—each of them shaped by Thier circumstances, yet bound by the same unyielding legacy.

Oaths are not one-sided—they bind both the giver and the receiver. If you truly seek to conquer and endure, you must study your real history and understand the culture you claim to lead. Because right now or in the future, no matter how vast your dragons' wingspan, victory will not love you. We both carry names important to our family history and namesakes to legendary names—names that command respect, not just fear. And it is through understanding those names and what they stand for that true power is forged."

Cregan bathed in blood leaves the city with his men .

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