Chapter 5: The Council of Wolves and the Price of Fealty
The Great Hall of Winterfell, which had buzzed with the arrival of numerous lords and their retinues, now fell into a charged silence. Every seat was filled, every standing space occupied. Banners of a dozen Northern houses hung from the rafters, a vivid tapestry of direwolves, mermen, sunbursts, bears, and flayed men – though the latter's lord was conspicuously absent. At the high table sat Cregan Stark, a youth in years but with an aura of command that belied his age. His single blue eye, cold and piercing, swept across the assembled nobility. Sarx lay at his feet, a massive grey presence, his golden eyes mirroring his master's intensity. Sebastian Michaelis stood a little behind and to the side of Ciel, an impeccable, dark figure whose stillness was more unnerving than any overt threat.
"Lords of the North," Ciel began, his voice, Cregan's voice, resonating with a clear, carrying power that cut through the expectant hush. "You have answered my summons. You have heard the news from the South. King Viserys, our rightful king, is dead. His named heir, Princess Rhaenyra, is denied her birthright. Her half-brother, Aegon, has been unlawfully crowned in King's Landing by a faction of traitors and oathbreakers, led by Otto Hightower."
A low growl of assent rumbled through the hall. These were Northern men; they understood the sanctity of oaths.
"My father, Lord Rickon Stark, swore fealty to King Viserys and to Princess Rhaenyra as his chosen successor," Ciel continued, his gaze unwavering. "House Stark honors its commitments. The North remembers. We will not stand idly by while treachery seizes the Iron Throne."
Lord Wyman Manderly, his great bulk filling his chair, nodded emphatically. "Well said, Lord Stark! White Harbor stands with you! The Greens will find no quarter with us!"
Torrhen Karstark, his red beard bristling, slammed a mailed fist on the table before him. "The Karstarks are Stark men! We ride with you, my lord, to cleanse this stain from the realm!"
Similar declarations echoed from other lords – Glover, Mormont, Hornwood. Yet, Ciel raised a hand, and the clamor subsided.
"Your loyalty does you honor, and it does the North honor," he said, his tone coolly appraising. "But let us not be swayed by righteous fury alone. War is a grim business, costly in blood and treasure. Before we commit the strength of the North to this cause, we must be clear on our terms and our objectives."
A few murmurs arose. This was not the simple call to arms some had expected. Bennard Stark, seated beside Ciel, shifted uneasily but held his tongue, having already been party to his nephew's pragmatic, often chilling, deliberations.
"Our primary objective," Ciel stated, "is to see Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen secure upon the Iron Throne, as is her right. But our unwavering duty is to the North. Our lands, our people, our future. The North's involvement in this Southern war must serve Northern interests. We will not be mere pawns in their game of thrones, nor will our sons and daughters bleed for a cause that does not ultimately strengthen our own kingdom."
Lord Cerwyn, an older, more cautious man, spoke up. "What terms do you propose, Lord Stark? The Targaryens are not known for their generosity when it comes to sharing power."
"Then we shall educate them," Ciel replied, a faint, predatory smile touching his lips. "The North asks for no lands south of the Neck. We seek no positions at court, no trivial honors. What we demand is respect for our autonomy, guarantees for our ancient rights and traditions, and tangible support for our growth and security."
He then outlined his points, Maester Lorcan having painstakingly transcribed them onto a formal scroll.
"Firstly," Ciel declared, "all Northern appointments – Wardens, castellans of royal holdings within our borders, if any – are to be made only with the counsel and consent of the Lord of Winterfell. No Southern lordling will be given dominion over Northern lands."
"Secondly, the Crown will formally recognize and uphold the North's distinct laws and customs, including our adherence to the Old Gods, without interference."
"Thirdly, substantial royal investment in the port of White Harbor, to bolster its fleet and trade, thereby strengthening the entire Northern economy. Lord Manderly's ships will be vital for transporting our forces and supplies; this investment recognizes that reality."
"Fourthly," Ciel's eye glinted, "should this war be prolonged, the Crown will provide significant provisions and financial support for the Northern army while it campaigns in the South. Our winters are harsh enough; our granaries will not be depleted to feed Southern ambitions without recompense."
"And finally," his voice dropped slightly, but lost none of its steel, "a royal pardon and amnesty for all Northern houses who fight for Queen Rhaenyra, for any actions taken in her name during this conflict. And a voice for the North on her council, should she desire our continued wisdom after her enemies are dust."
A stunned silence followed. These were not the demands of a mere vassal, but of a king in all but name, dictating terms for an alliance. Lord Manderly was beaming, his chins wobbling with suppressed delight. He had already agreed to much of this in private. Other lords exchanged uncertain glances, impressed by the audacity, yet also seeing the profound wisdom in securing such concessions.
"These are bold terms, Lord Stark," Lady Lynesse Mormont of Bear Island observed, her voice clear and strong despite her small stature. "Do you believe Princess Rhaenyra, in her desperation, will agree to them?"
"Desperation is a powerful motivator, Lady Mormont," Ciel said. "The Greens hold King's Landing and the Treasury. Rhaenyra holds Dragonstone and has the loyalty of some houses, but she needs armies. She needs the Vale, the Riverlands, and she most certainly needs the unyielding strength of the North. We are offering her a path to victory, but that path has a toll. A fair one, I believe."
He paused, letting his gaze rest on the empty space where the Bolton banner should have hung. "There is one matter that sours this council. Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort has not seen fit to answer my summons, nor send word."
A low growl went through the hall. The Boltons were ancient rivals of the Starks, their loyalty always suspect.
"The Flayed Man is ever treacherous," Torrhen Karstark spat. "Perhaps he means to side with the Greens, or carve out his own dominion while the wolves are away."
"Perhaps," Ciel acknowledged. "His silence is an insult, and a potential threat. I had hoped to present a united Northern front to Princess Rhaenyra. Lord Bolton's recalcitrance complicates this." He looked to Sebastian. "You had inquiries to make regarding the Dreadfort, Sebastian. What have you learned?"
Sebastian stepped forward a fraction, his crimson eyes sweeping the hall almost dismissively before settling on Ciel. "My Lord, my inquiries suggest that Lord Ethan Bolton is… unwell. Gravely so. He has not been seen outside his chambers for many weeks. His son, Ramsay Snow—" a few sharp intakes of breath at the bastard's notorious name— "has reportedly assumed de facto control of the Dreadfort. He is young, volatile, and by all accounts, possessed of certain… cruel proclivities. It is said he enjoys correspondence, but perhaps not the sort that involves ravens."
Ciel's expression remained impassive, but his mind raced. Ramsay. A known sadist, a dangerous wildcard. This changed the complexion of the Bolton problem significantly.
"A bastard ruling the Dreadfort?" Bennard Stark scoffed. "This is an outrage. We should march on the Dreadfort ourselves and hang the boy from its walls!"
"Patience, Uncle," Ciel said calmly, though his eye held a dangerous glint. "While the thought has a certain appeal, a civil conflict within the North on the eve of a greater war would be… ill-advised. It would drain our resources and project weakness, not strength." He tapped a finger on the table. "Lord Ramsay Bolton, or Snow as he is, will be dealt with. But first, we must formalize our commitment to the Queen."
He gestured to Maester Lorcan. "The terms I have outlined will form the basis of our 'Pact of Ice and Fire' with Queen Rhaenyra. I will send an envoy to Dragonstone to present them. Who among you is willing to undertake this journey, to speak for the North before the Dragon Queen?"
After a moment, a young, eager lord, Jonos Brackenwold, whose small holdfast bordered the Neck, volunteered. Ciel questioned him briefly, assessed his nerve, and then nodded. "Very well, Lord Brackenwold. You will carry our terms to Dragonstone. Make it clear that the North's allegiance, while firm, comes with these expectations. We offer our swords, but also demand our due."
With that settled, the council moved to the grim logistics of war. Commanders were appointed: Ser Rodrik Cassel to lead the vanguard of Winterfell's own men, Bennard Stark to command a column of household knights and veterans. Lord Manderly would command his own formidable contingent, including a significant force of heavy horse. Lord Karstark and his sons would lead their ferocious warriors. Each lord would be responsible for the discipline and provisioning of his own men, but all would operate under Cregan Stark's supreme command. Routes south were discussed, rallying points designated. Winterfell was to be the primary mustering ground.
Ciel, with Sebastian's aid, began to organize the growing encampment with ruthless efficiency. Latrines were dug, supply lines established, picket lines set. His warging ability proved invaluable; through Sarx, he could patrol vast swathes of the surrounding countryside, ensuring the security of the camp and monitoring the approach of new contingents. The direwolf became an almost mythical figure to the common soldiers – the eyes and ears of their young, formidable lord.
His greensight also offered a crucial, if terrifying, piece of the Bolton puzzle. One evening, as he sat in his solar, staring into the flames of the hearth, the fire dissolved into a vision. He saw the ramparts of the Dreadfort, not under siege, but from within. He saw Lord Ethan Bolton, pale and emaciated, chained to his bed, his eyes wide with terror. And standing over him, a cruel smile playing on his lips, was Ramsay Snow, holding a freshly sharpened skinning knife. The vision was brief, visceral, and left Ciel feeling nauseous.
"So, the bastard has imprisoned his own father," Ciel murmured, his voice cold as ice, when he recounted the vision to Sebastian. "He seeks to usurp the Lordship of the Dreadfort. This explains his silence. He cannot openly declare for anyone while his own position is so precarious."
"A bold move for a bastard, my Lord," Sebastian commented, polishing a piece of Ciel's armor to a mirror shine. "It suggests a certain… ambition. And a lack of conventional morality."
"It also presents an opportunity," Ciel said, a calculating look in his eye. "A divided house is a weak house. Ramsay needs legitimacy. He needs recognition. Perhaps he can be… persuaded… to earn it in the Queen's service, under my command. A Flayed Man on a leash is still a dangerous weapon."
"And if he refuses to be leashed, my Lord?"
"Then he will be put down," Ciel stated flatly. "But first, I will extend an invitation. Or rather, a summons he cannot ignore." He called for Maester Lorcan. "Prepare a raven for the Dreadfort. Address it to Ramsay, acting Lord. Inform him that Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, requires his presence in Winterfell to swear fealty to Queen Rhaenyra and commit Bolton forces to the Northern army. Failure to appear within ten days will be considered an act of rebellion against both his rightful Queen and his Lord Paramount. Such rebellion will be met with the full force of the North."
"And my lord," Maester Lorcan asked tentatively, "what if he claims his father is indisposed but still the true lord?"
Ciel's smile was devoid of any warmth. "Then I shall express my deepest concerns for Lord Ethan's health and offer to send my own personal guard," he nodded subtly at Sebastian, "to escort Lord Ethan to Winterfell, where he can receive the finest care… and confirm his son's loyalty in person."
Lorcan paled, understanding the unspoken threat. Sebastian merely bowed, a flicker of dark amusement in his crimson eyes.
The training of the Northern army continued apace. Ciel often walked among the common soldiers, Sarx at his heel. He spoke little, but his presence was powerful. He observed their drills, inspected their equipment, and occasionally, he would even spar with Ser Rodrik or one of the other seasoned knights, his movements surprisingly swift and deadly for one so young. His "physical conditioning" under Sebastian was paying off; Cregan's body was becoming a weapon, agile and strong. The men saw his dedication, his seriousness, and a fierce, protective loyalty began to form around their young lord. He was not just a Stark by name; he was embodying the spirit of the North – harsh, resilient, and unyielding.
Sebastian, meanwhile, was more than just a bodyguard or an attendant. His influence was subtle but pervasive. A supply shipment delayed by early snows suddenly arrived ahead of schedule after Sebastian had a "quiet word" with the quartermaster. Whispers of dissent in one of the lesser lord's camps died down abruptly after a few of the more vocal grumblers suffered a series of "unfortunate accidents." No one could prove anything, but the message was clear: Lord Stark's will was to be obeyed, and his dark, silent attendant was an instrument of that will.
"Humans are so delightfully predictable in their pursuit of conflict, my Lord," Sebastian remarked one evening, as they watched the flickering campfires from the battlements. "They speak of honor and justice, but beneath it all, it is always about power, fear, and desire."
"And you find that amusing, I suppose," Ciel said, not looking at him.
"Infinitely so," Sebastian confirmed. "But your current role, my Lord… this has a certain grandeur. A kingdom at your command, a continent on the brink of war. It is a far larger stage than Whitechapel."
"The stakes are higher," Ciel acknowledged. "And the players more dangerous." He thought of the dragons, of the Hightowers, of the coming storm.
A few days later, as the deadline for Ramsay's appearance approached, a lone rider was spotted approaching Winterfell from the direction of the Dreadfort. He bore no banner, but his horse was lathered, and he rode with a desperate urgency.
He was brought before Ciel in the Great Hall, now serving as a war room, maps spread across the tables. The man was gaunt, his clothes torn, his eyes wide with a haunted look.
"My Lord Stark," he gasped, falling to his knees. "I am Theon Stout, a sworn sword to Lord Ethan Bolton. I… I have escaped the Dreadfort."
"Speak," Ciel commanded, his voice sharp.
"Lord Ethan is prisoner!" Theon cried. "Held by his own bastard son, Ramsay! He… he tortures him, my lord! For sport! Ramsay means to declare for Aegon, he says the Greens will legitimize him if he delivers the North to them! He… he flayed two of my comrades who tried to help Lord Ethan!"
A cold fury settled over the hall. Even the hardened Northern lords looked sickened. Ciel's face was a mask of ice. His greensight vision had been horrifyingly accurate.
"So, the bastard shows his true colors," Ciel said, his voice dangerously soft. "He not only defies his Lord Paramount but tortures his own father and plots treason against the Queen." He looked around at the assembled lords, his eye blazing. "The Boltons have long been a thorn in the North's side. It is time this thorn was plucked, once and for all."
He rose to his feet. "Lord Manderly, Lord Karstark, Ser Rodrik, Uncle Bennard. Gather your most trusted men. We make a detour on our way south." His lips curved into a smile that sent a chill down the spines of even the bravest men in the room. "It seems the Dreadfort requires a lesson in true Northern justice. Before we march to deal with Southern traitors, we will cleanse our own lands of this festering wound."
The hour of the wolf was fast approaching, and its first hunt was about to begin much closer to home than anyone had anticipated.