Chapter 9: Riverrun's Refuge and Whispers of Harrenhal
The victory at Stonebridge, while decisive, had been hard-won. The Northern army, though triumphant, bore the scars of battle. Ciel, walking through the makeshift infirmary set up in the ruins of a sept, saw the grim reality of war etched on the faces of the wounded. Maester Lorcan, his robes stained with blood, moved amongst the injured, his usually flustered demeanor replaced by a focused intensity as he directed the healers. For every man lost by the Lannisters and their Riverlander Green allies, the North and Prince Jacaerys's retinue had also paid a price.
"War is a butcher's bill, my Lord," Ser Rodrik Cassel remarked, his arm in a sling from a glancing sword blow. "And it is always paid in the currency of young men's lives."
Ciel nodded, his gaze lingering on a young Manderly soldier who had lost a leg. "Ensure the wounded are cared for, Ser Rodrik. And see that the dead are given proper Northern rites before we burn the pyres. Their families deserve that much." His pragmatism was often seen as coldness, but there were moments, small gestures, that revealed a deeper, perhaps carefully buried, understanding of human cost.
The immediate aftermath involved consolidating their position. Prisoners were interrogated – Sebastian proving remarkably adept at extracting information without leaving overt marks, a skill that both impressed and unsettled Prince Jacaerys, who witnessed one such "interrogation" from a discreet distance. From these prisoners, they learned that the main Lannister host under Lord Jason Lannister was further west, reportedly engaged with other Black forces near the Golden Tooth, but a significant portion, under his brother Ser Tyland Lannister, had been aiming to secure the River Road and join with Green supporters advancing from the south. Their defeat at Stonebridge had thrown a wrench into those plans.
Lord Grover Tully, the aging Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, whose grandson Elmo now largely acted in his stead, sent word inviting Lord Stark and Prince Jacaerys to Riverrun. The ancient Tully stronghold, situated at the confluence of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone rivers, was a formidable fortress and a natural rallying point for the Black cause in the region.
"Riverrun offers a secure base to rest and resupply," Jacaerys urged, his youthful enthusiasm slightly tempered by the realities of their recent battle. "And Lord Elmo Tully is a staunch supporter. His counsel will be valuable."
Ciel agreed. The Northern army needed a respite. They had been marching and fighting for weeks. "We accept Lord Tully's invitation," he declared. "But we remain vigilant. The Riverlands are a viper's nest of shifting loyalties."
The march to Riverrun was less contested, their reputation having preceded them. The sight of Vermax soaring overhead and the disciplined columns of Northmen discouraged any Green remnants from direct confrontation. At Riverrun, they were welcomed with solemn ceremony by Elmo Tully, a man of sturdy build and serious mien, who bore the weight of his ailing grandsire's authority with dignity. His sons, Ser Oscar and Ser Kermit Tully, stood beside him, young men eager for battle.
The great hall of Riverrun, adorned with the silver trout banners of House Tully, became the new war council chamber. Here, ravens brought news from the wider conflict, painting a chaotic picture. King's Landing was firmly in Aegon II's grip, with Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, now Hand of the King, prosecuting the war with ruthless efficiency. The Hightower fleet, combined with that of the Triarchy, blockaded Blackwater Bay, strangling trade to Dragonstone. In the Reach, battle lines were drawn, with houses declaring for both Green and Black. The Iron Fleet under Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, had declared for Queen Rhaenyra but was more interested in reaving the Westerlands coast than direct engagement with Aegon's main forces.
"The realm bleeds, Lord Stark," Elmo Tully said, his face grim. "And while we win victories here, the Greens consolidate their power elsewhere."
"Then we must strike where it hurts them most," Ciel stated, his gaze fixed on the large map of the Seven Kingdoms spread across the table. "A decisive victory, a symbolic capture, something to shatter their morale and rally more houses to our Queen's banner."
It was during one of these strategy sessions that a new greensight vision seized Ciel. He was staring at the map, his finger tracing the Trident, when the lines on the parchment seemed to writhe and twist. The scent of woodsmoke and damp stone in Riverrun's hall faded, replaced by an oppressive heat, the smell of ancient fires, and a profound sense of despair. He saw five immense, skeletal towers, black and twisted against a blood-red sky – Harrenhal. Shadows writhed within its ruined halls, and he heard screams, not of battle, but of torment. Then, a flash of brilliant, silver-white dragonfire, and a monstrous black dragon, its scales like obsidian, its roar a cataclysm. Vhagar. And astride it, a figure with silver hair and a single, sapphire eye – Prince Aemond Targaryen, Aegon II's younger brother, known as Aemond One-Eye, a formidable warrior and a ruthless commander. The vision ended with Ciel seeing Aemond looking directly at him, a cruel, knowing smirk on his lips, as if he sensed Ciel's gaze across time and space.
Ciel gasped, stumbling back from the table, his hand instinctively going to his own eyepatch. The connection had been terrifyingly real.
"My Lord Stark?" Jacaerys asked, alarmed, as Sebastian instantly moved to Ciel's side.
"Harrenhal," Ciel choked out, his voice ragged. "Aemond Targaryen… Vhagar… he is there, or will be. He means to use it as a… a killing ground."
The lords in the chamber exchanged uneasy glances. Harrenhal, the largest castle in Westeros, was a cursed, ruinous place, famously burned by Balerion the Black Dread during Aegon's Conquest. It was vast, difficult to defend, and strategically positioned to dominate the Riverlands.
"Aemond Targaryen is one of the Greens' most formidable commanders," Elmo Tully said gravely. "And Vhagar… she is the oldest and largest of the living dragons, second only to Balerion in her day. If Aemond takes Harrenhal, he could terrorize the entire Riverlands with impunity."
Jacaerys's face hardened. "Vhagar is a menace. My own brother, Lucerys, was slain by Aemond and Vhagar over Storm's End. This cannot stand. We must confront him."
Ciel, recovering his composure, nodded slowly. The vision, terrifying as it was, presented an opportunity. "If Aemond is at Harrenhal, or intends to be, he exposes himself. The castle is too large to garrison effectively with a small force, and a large force there would be a drain on Green resources. He likely intends to use it as a forward operating base, a place to launch raids with Vhagar."
"A direct assault on Harrenhal, if Vhagar is present, would be suicide," Bennard Stark stated bluntly. "Even with Vermax, she is too powerful."
"Perhaps," Ciel mused, his mind racing, "but if we could draw Aemond out, separate him from his main forces… or if we could take the castle while he is away raiding…" He looked at Jacaerys. "Your Grace, your dragon Vermax is swift. Could you scout Harrenhal? Ascertain Aemond's presence, his strength, Vhagar's movements?"
"I can, Lord Stark," Jacaerys affirmed, his eyes alight with determination. "And I will. If Aemond is there, he will not hold Harrenhal for long."
While Jacaerys prepared for his dangerous reconnaissance mission, Ciel focused on his army and the intricate politics of their alliances. He spent time with his Northern lords, listening to their concerns, ensuring their morale remained high despite the grim news from other fronts. Lord Manderly spoke of the need to secure supply lines from White Harbor, perhaps using smaller ships to brave the Triarchy blockade. Lord Karstark grumbled about the softness of Southern lands but remained eager for a fight.
Sebastian, meanwhile, continued Ciel's "conditioning." Their training sessions became even more intense, often taking place in the dead of night within Riverrun's tilting yard. Sebastian pushed Ciel relentlessly, honing his reflexes, his strength, his swordsmanship.
"Prince Aemond is reputed to be one of the finest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, my Lord, despite his youth," Sebastian commented during one such session, effortlessly disarming Ciel for the tenth time. "Should you ever face him directly, you will need more than youthful vigor."
"I do not intend to face him in a duel, Sebastian," Ciel retorted, retrieving his practice sword, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I intend to outthink him, to trap him. But I will be prepared for any eventuality."
Sebastian also proved invaluable in other ways. He uncovered a plot by a minor Riverlord, ostensibly allied with the Blacks, to betray their positions to a Green commander in exchange for pardon and lands. The evidence, irrefutable and damning, was laid before Ciel. The lord in question was summoned, confronted, and after a brief, terrified confession, was executed by Ser Rodrik Cassel on Ciel's order. The swift, brutal justice further solidified Ciel's reputation and discouraged other potential traitors.
"Humans are so quick to betray their allegiances when self-interest calls, are they not?" Sebastian mused to Ciel later. "Their loyalties are as fickle as the wind."
"Which is why one must bind them with chains of iron, not threads of sentiment," Ciel replied, the grim work of the Queen's Watchdog echoing in his new life.
A few days later, Jacaerys returned from his scouting mission, Vermax landing tiredly in Riverrun's outer bailey. The prince was grim-faced.
"Your vision was true, Lord Stark," he reported to the war council. "Aemond Targaryen holds Harrenhal. He has but a small garrison of men, but Vhagar is with him. From the castle, he and his dragon have been terrorizing the countryside, burning villages and crops, slaying any who resist. The common folk are in a state of panic."
"He uses fear as his primary weapon," Ciel observed. "A predictable tactic for a man with such a monstrous beast at his command."
"But he is also arrogant," Jacaerys added. "He often flies Vhagar far from Harrenhal on these raids, sometimes for an entire day, leaving the castle relatively lightly defended, save for the fear its cursed reputation inspires."
This was the opening Ciel had been waiting for. "Then our course is clear. We cannot assault Harrenhal while Vhagar is nesting there. But if Prince Aemond is away… the castle, for all its size, can be taken. It is a symbol. Its capture would be a blow to Green morale and a beacon of hope for our allies."
"It is a risk, Lord Stark," Elmo Tully cautioned. "If Aemond returns while we are engaged…"
"Then Vermax and I will endeavor to keep him occupied," Jacaerys interjected, his jaw set. "My mother lost one son to Aemond. She will not lose another, nor will she lose the Northmen who fight for her."
The plan was audacious. A swift, mobile force, primarily composed of Northmen and Jacaerys with Vermax, would march on Harrenhal. They would monitor Aemond's movements. If he and Vhagar left on one of their terror raids, the Black forces would storm the castle. Jacaerys and Vermax would act as both scout and aerial deterrent, ready to engage Vhagar if she returned unexpectedly, or to harry Aemond from the sky.
"It is a gamble," Ciel admitted to his lords. "But war is a series of gambles. This one, if successful, could shift the balance of power in the Riverlands significantly."
He then turned to Sarx, who lay at his feet. Ciel closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind. Through the direwolf's senses, he began to explore the path to Harrenhal, seeking hidden trails, ambush points, the scent of enemy patrols. The warging was becoming more natural, an extension of his own strategic senses.
As the Northern host, bolstered by Tully men and Prince Jacaerys, prepared to march on Harrenhal, Ciel found himself looking at his reflection in a polished shield. Cregan Stark's youthful face stared back, but the eye was ancient, filled with a cold, calculating light that had never belonged to a boy of thirteen. He was playing a dangerous game, against players far older and, in some ways, more powerful. But Ciel Phantomhive had always thrived in the shadows, playing for the highest stakes. The scale was grander now, the opponent a one-eyed prince with the realm's most fearsome dragon, but the objective remained the same: victory, at any cost.
"Harrenhal," Ciel murmured to Sebastian as they rode out from Riverrun, the vast, dark bulk of the Northern army trailing behind them. "A fitting backdrop for the next act of this bloody drama."
"Indeed, my Lord," Sebastian replied, his voice smooth as silk. "A castle built on pride and fear, destroyed by dragonfire, and haunted by tormented souls. It has a certain… aesthetic. I trust our performance there will be memorable."
Ciel did not reply, his gaze fixed on the southern horizon, towards the cursed towers of Harrenhal, where his destiny, and perhaps his damnation, awaited. The whispers of the damned in that monstrous castle, he felt, would soon have new company.