Chapter 17 – "Whispers in the South"
King's Landing, Red Keep – 300 AC
The chamber of the Small Council was heavy with heat and tension. Summer still clung to the capital like a damp cloth, making every breath a labor. The chamber was dim, despite the hour—thick shutters closed to keep out the sun's worst.
Grand Maester Pycelle was already dozing in his chair. Lord Commander Ser Barristan Selmy stood near the back, silent and watchful. Lord Petyr Baelish lounged in his seat, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Lord Renly Baratheon tapped his fingers against the table impatiently.
"We must speak of the North," said Lord Varys at last, breaking the silence with a soft, oily voice.
"The North is always cold and full of wolves," Renly muttered, though his tone held curiosity.
"Indeed," Varys said. "But some wolves grow bolder. Cregan Stark, second son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Frosthall, is no mere boy now. His trade routes stretch across Essos. His armed men wear black steel. And now, even rumors of direwolves trained for battle."
"Stories," said Pycelle, suddenly awake. "Boys' tales and old wives' fears."
"Not stories," Baelish cut in smoothly. "I've seen the ledgers. Ships flying his crest—white wolves on grey sails—coming in and out of ports in Pentos, Braavos, and Myr. He sells Northern alcohol, rare furs, lumber, and something new... this 'Wolfsteel.'"
"Exaggeration," said Pycelle again. "There is no metal stronger than Valyrian steel."
Baelish gave a sly smile. "Valyrian steel is rare. Wolfsteel is not quite its equal, but far more available. Strong. Light. Resistant to fire and rust. The North grows wealthy... and armed."
Varys folded his hands. "He commands a personal force said to be over three thousand. Veterans, trained by Essosi captains, loyal to him—not to Winterfell."
"That's treasonous," Renly said, his voice sharp now.
"Not quite," Ser Barristan said at last. "Eddard Stark remains Warden of the North. There's no sign the boy means rebellion."
"Yet," muttered Baelish.
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Oldtown – Hightower Solar
Lord Leyton Hightower sipped a glass of Arbor gold while his eldest son, Ser Baelor, read from a raven scroll.
"...Cregan Stark is said to be constructing roads between abandoned Northern keeps. A network of communication and military transit, perhaps?"
Leyton raised an eyebrow. "The boy thinks like a conqueror."
"Or a builder," Baelor corrected. "He restores what time and war ruined. But yes, he's dangerous. If not to the crown, then to balance."
"The Reach will not be overshadowed by wolves," Leyton said, frowning. "Send word to House Redwyne. Begin offering lower rates on wine shipments to the Free Cities. Undercut him. Quietly."
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Storm's End – Hall of the Lords
Lord Renfred Dondarrion reviewed a map while Ser Cortnay Penrose pointed to the Neck.
"If the boy controls Moat Cailin outright..."
"He does," Dondarrion replied. "With Ned Stark's permission. He garrisons it. His men even pair with hounds and hawks—trained like old kingsguard hounds."
Penrose frowned. "Then the North has created its own special forces."
"That's what worries the lords of the Stormlands. We don't know what he wants."
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Small Council, Continued
"Let us not overreact," Varys said gently. "Cregan Stark has made no demands. He does not court the South. He builds his North."
"That's what makes him dangerous," said Renly. "He doesn't want anything from us."
"Perhaps we should speak to his father," Pycelle offered. "A diplomatic raven."
Baelish leaned back. "Ned Stark won't rein in his son. He may not even want to. I believe Eddard is proud of him—angry at his departure, yes—but proud."
"Would he ever come south?" Renly asked.
"Cregan despises Southerners," Varys said. "He trusts little outside the North and Essos. His stay in Braavos and the Company of the Rose made him unpredictable. They say he reads battlefields like books. He fights like a beast."
"Like a wolf," Selmy murmured.
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Harrenhal – Lady Whent's Council Room
"Our scouts confirm it," her steward said. "Frosthall alone can field nearly a thousand. The wolves that follow his banner are not just beasts. They obey."
"Tamed wolves?" Lady Whent said, skeptical.
"Not tamed. Loyal. Like a second army."
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Riverlands, Riverrun
Hoster Tully read a report from Lord Blackwood with mounting worry.
"He names Jon Snow as his heir?"
Brynden Tully shrugged. "He trusts him more than others. He builds something new."
Hoster looked northward. "Or something old."
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Iron Islands – Pyke
Victarion Greyjoy barked a laugh as the raven's scroll fell from his hand.
"Stark's brother has a keep now?"
"Half the North respects him more than Robb," a drowned priest growled.
Victarion spat. "Let the wolves howl. When we sail, they'll choke on salt."
But deep inside, he wondered. Could this second son be a threat? A wolf with a longer memory?
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Back in King's Landing – Small Council, closing remarks
Varys turned to the others. "We should monitor his trade. Perhaps... make offers. Draw his merchants into Crown interests."
Baelish's smile sharpened. "I'd rather buy his loyalty. Everyone has a price."
"Some wolves don't sell," Selmy said quietly.
Pycelle grumbled. "Then we wait?"
"We watch," Varys said. "And we remember. He is not just another noble's son. He is a Stark. And winter, my lords... comes quietly, until it roars."
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