In this fic Dragons are weaker than thier Canon counterpart. Otherwise it would be too overpowered and overwhelming. They have been killed before by westoros after The conquest happen.

The chamber was heavy with silence after Lord Cregan Stark's words.

Robert Baratheon broke it with a growl. "Yes! I'll pay the price. I'll pay any price so long as that dragon-spawn is dead!" His fist slammed the arm of his chair like a war hammer on steel. But the flicker in his eyes betrayed him—Robert knew the truth: that price was too great. Even for a king.

Cregan exhaled, almost weary, and turned his gaze to his father and brother. Eddard sighed, knowing his son's mind.

"Your Grace," Ned began, voice steady but firm, "such a war is not possible. Not yet. We would bleed out in Essos long before we tasted victory."

Before he could finish, Robert barked like a wounded hound. "And what then, Ned? You'd have me sit on my arse and wait? Wait while she feeds those beasts on horseflesh and grows them big enough to carry her here? Do you want another Aegon the Conqueror swooping down on dragonback? No, damn you! We strike now—while the wyrms are small enough to burn like piglets on a spit!"

Murmurs rose. Lords shifted uneasily. None wanted the war. None could deny the King's fear either.

But Cregan's voice broke their stirrings, cold and calm. "Actually, Your Grace… that would not be so bad."

The words stunned the hall.

Cregan pressed on, unshaken. "The Unsullied are born for defense, dug into their spears and walls. But in the open, I could break them. They are iron, I'll grant you. But I know how to break iron. As for dragons—aye, they grow more dangerous with size. But also slower. Bigger targets for sharper spears. Do not forget, Your Grace, dragons have been slain before. Five, six—killed by steel in the hands of men no better than us."

Whispers rose. Lords stared. To speak of killing dragons so lightly—it struck them as madness, or arrogance.

Robert sneered. "Boy, you jest at wildfire. A single dragon can reduce a holdfast to ash in an hour, castles with it. They are death made flesh!"

Cregan met his fury with level words. "And still they would cost us less than an assault on Meereen itself."

He stepped forward, his voice carrying across the lords. "Hear me. If we wait, we can prepare. Scorpions forged, bolts tipped in black iron. We gather knowledge of their weaknesses. When the time comes, we meet dragonfire with steel. And we live."

Even Tywin Lannister, brooding in the candlelight, shifted thoughtful. He had no love for the young Stark, but war was numbers. And the boy was right.

Robert snarled. "Time? You think she'll grant us time? The moment she can mount one of them, she'll fly for Westeros. We cannot man every castle with scorpions!"

But Cregan replied, voice cool, relentless. "The North already has such forges working. Black steel scorpions, for sale to the Crown. As for time…" a grim smile flicked his lips, "... Daenerys Targaryen has no allies. No fleet. Only her city. And I made certain she will not dare march for at least five years. Rebellions in the east, enemies in her shadow. She cannot spare her host. Not while she fears me. I will keep her there in truth my company and men trade with her , Keeping her satisfied and false sense of victory."

The hall froze.

Cregan had admitted it plainly—he had dealt with the dragon queen.

Robert lurched upright, red-faced with rage. "Seven bloody hells! Why? Why would you aid her, Stark? Helping the dragon bitch while I sit here—"

Before the King could roar further, Robb Stark's voice cut in, sharp as steel. "Because he bought us time."

All eyes snapped to him.

Robb stood stiff-backed. "By shoring her rule in Meereen, my brother bound her there. She needs that city firm to ever turn west. But she knows—if she thins her strength and crosses the sea while Cregan stands in Essos, she'd lose it all. He has forced her hand. She cannot march. Not yet."

Cregan only gave a small nod. "Five years. Perhaps more. Use them or waste them, Your Grace—that is your choice. But when she comes, it will be on our terms, not hers."

Robert's fury faltered into silence.

Eddard placed a hand upon the table. "Your Grace, as your Hand, I counsel patience. Five years may make the difference between ashes and survival."

Tywin's golden voice slid in. "The Hand is correct. At present, war favors her and dooms us. We stand to lose everything. She, nothing."

Yohn Royce inclined his head. "A war now would be folly, my King."

Robert growled, teeth clenched. At last, he spat—"Enough. OUT. All of you. Except Ned."

The lords rose, cloaks brushing the floor like waves as they filed from the chamber. Soon only Robert and his Hand remained.

King's Landing

As the Red Keep brooded under shadow, the city beyond sang with joy. Bells rang and laughter spilled into the streets. The people did not speak of dragons or war; they cheered for a wedding.

The princess Myrcella to Lord Cregan Stark. Wolf and lion joined, with the realm's golden daughter at his side. To smallfolk, he was already more legend than lord—the Wolf of the Ruins, the sellsword commander who fought like ten. To them, it was a match fit for songs. And kings.

The Red Keep

Lyanna Stark darted through the halls, her laughter echoing, though now with a sharper caution since the last shadowed attempt on her life. Kael padded beside her, grim and watchful, with Shadow close behind.

Kael muttered to the younger wolf. "So this is where the little wolf-child was nearly taken?"

Shadow gave a low growl—confirmation.

Kael snorted. "You should've killed the runt right then. Mistake to hesitate in war."

Shadow bristled but stayed silent.

Kael's tone softened, a predator easing his bite. "What's done is done. But you'll learn, pup. Protecting her is no game. Tonight, in the woods—you'll be trained. Harder."

Shadow gave a mournful whine but did not refuse.

---

The Meeting

Later, within the keep's marble corridors, Cregan walked with Ser Blackhand at his side. He paused at the sight of two figures he had not expected here.

A small man with sharp eyes and sharper tongue. And a sellsword beside him, lean as a blade.

Tyrion Lannister and Bronn.

Cregan approached.

"Lord Cregan," Tyrion greeted, bowing his head with polite mockery.

"Lord Tyrion," Cregan returned evenly, though his eyes lingered on the sellsword.

Bronn straightened a fraction, wary. "Commander."

Tyrion blinked, curious. "You… served with him?"

Cregan chuckled, low and sharp. "He was one of many. I commanded him, though not directly. The only master Bronn truely obeys is coin."

Tyrion chuckled with him. "On that, we agree."

Cregan's gaze sharpened. "In truth, a magister once paid him well to take my life."

The air tensed. Bronn shifted, uncomfortable.

"But," the sellsword said quickly, "I worked with him instead. Warned him. Better profit in living allies than dead enemies."

Ser Blackhand's voice came hard and cold. "And that is why you breathe still."

Bronn held his tongue.

Cregan waved the sharpness aside. "Interesting company you keep, Lannister. Though fitting for a man born rich enough to afford danger at his table."

"Perks of being a Lannister," Tyrion quipped, smirking.

"And the downsides?"

The words came from behind, smooth and edged. Prince Oberyn Martell strolled into view, his sunburst cloak trailing. His smile was dangerous as ever.

Cregan turned. "Oberyn."

"Cregan," the Prince returned warmly, embracing him. "How fares my northern wolf?"

---

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