Chapter 18: The Gullet's Cauldron and the Demon's Due
The preparations for the sortie into the Gullet were swift and grim. Dragonstone, already a place of heightened tension, buzzed with a new urgency. Prince Daemon Targaryen, a whirlwind of focused energy, barked orders to Velaryon captains and dragonkeepers alike. His plan was simple, brutal, and characteristic: a rapid, overwhelming assault led by dragons, aimed at shattering the Triarchy fleet's morale and sinking its command ships.
Ciel Phantomhive, observing these preparations, found himself in an odd position. He was Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, a commander of land armies, yet here he was, about to embark on a naval engagement dominated by dragons and the ancient maritime power of House Velaryon. Queen Rhaenyra's "request" for his counsel felt more like a test, or perhaps a desire to keep his uncanny successes – and his unsettling butler – closely aligned with her most trusted and volatile asset: her husband, Prince Daemon.
"The Triarchy are pirates and slavers at heart, Stark," Daemon said to Ciel, as they stood over a chart of the Gullet spread on a salt-stained table in Dragonstone's harbor. The prince's violet eyes, so like Rhaenyra's yet worlds harsher, held a predatory gleam. "They fight for plunder, not principle. Their fleet is large, a mix of Lysene, Myrish, and Tyroshi ships – fast galleys, heavy dromonds. Their admirals, Sharako Lohar of Lys chief among them, are cunning but overconfident. They believe their numbers, and perhaps their… rumored Myrish 'bleeders'… will grant them victory."
"Bleeders?" Ciel inquired, his single eye sharp.
"Alchemists, some say sorcerers," Daemon explained, a dismissive wave of his hand. "They concoct substances that can cling to dragon scales, causing intense pain, blindness, or worse. Nasty, cowardly tricks. But Caraxes has endured worse than Myrish piss-potions."
Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, who had joined them, her expression stern, added, "Their numbers are their greatest strength, Daemon. And their admiral, Sharako, is no fool. He will try to scatter our dragons, to isolate them, then overwhelm them with concentrated scorpion fire and these alchemical weapons." Her dragon, Meleys, the Red Queen, was a veteran of many battles, and Rhaenys herself was a seasoned warrior.
Baela Targaryen, Daemon's young daughter, her eyes bright with a fierce eagerness, listened intently. She would ride Moondancer, a swift, pale green dragon, young but incredibly agile. "Moondancer and I will harry their lighter ships, draw their fire!"
"You will follow my lead, daughter, and Princess Rhaenys's," Daemon corrected, though there was a hint of pride in his voice. "No reckless heroics." He then looked at Ciel. "You and your… shadow… will sail with me on Lord Corlys's flagship, The Sea Snake, if it still floats. Or my own swiftest galley if not. You will observe. And if your renowned Northern 'luck' can offer any tactical insights, I will not be too proud to hear them." His gaze flickered to Sebastian, who stood impassively behind Ciel. "And your man can ensure no stray pirate arrows find their way to my… esteemed Northern advisor."
Sebastian inclined his head. "My Lord Stark's safety is my paramount concern, Prince Daemon." The unspoken implication was that Daemon's own safety was incidental.
The journey from Dragonstone towards the Gullet was a breathtaking display of Targaryen aerial power. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, long and serpentine, his scales the color of blood and his roar a hellish shriek, flew with a terrifying grace, Daemon a black speck upon his back. Meleys, the Red Queen, powerful and swift, carried Rhaenys with regal dignity. Moondancer, a flash of pale green, darted and weaved around the larger dragons, Baela's joyous cries occasionally audible even over the beat of wings. They flew as escort to a small squadron of swift Velaryon war galleys, carrying reinforcements and Ciel's party.
Ciel, aboard Daemon's chosen galley, The Valyrian, watched them, his mind analyzing their flight patterns, their formations. He used his warging senses to connect with the gulls that followed their ships, gaining a wider, if somewhat disorienting, perspective of their fleet and the surrounding sea. He saw no immediate threats, but the tang of smoke and the distant, almost imperceptible rumble of cannon fire carried on the wind, growing stronger as they neared the mouth of the Gullet.
Daemon was a restless presence on deck, his violet eyes constantly scanning the horizon, his hand never far from Dark Sister – the original blade, now restored to him, with Aemond's captured sword safely stowed with Ciel's effects. He spoke little to Ciel, but often shot him sharp, appraising glances, as if trying to unravel the enigma of the young Stark lord.
"You Northmen are not sailors, are you, Stark?" Daemon remarked once, a smirk playing on his lips as the galley pitched in a swell.
"We have White Harbor, Prince Daemon," Ciel replied evenly. "And we know the value of a strong fleet. But our wars are more often fought on land, amidst snow and ice, not sea and fire."
"Snow and ice," Daemon mused. "A cold sort of warfare. Here, the battles are hotter." His eyes gleamed with a fierce joy. "More… exhilarating."
As they entered the Gullet, the scene that greeted them was a true inferno. A vast, chaotic sea battle raged across miles of churning water. Velaryon ships, recognizable by their silver seahorse banners, were locked in desperate combat with a numerically superior Triarchy fleet. Masts were wreathed in flame, hulls shattered by cannonballs and rams, the screams of men and the clang of steel echoing across the waves. Lord Corlys Velaryon's flagship, The Sea Snake, a massive dromond, was surrounded by at least four Triarchy galleys, its decks a scene of brutal hand-to-hand fighting.
And then there was the Triarchy's "sorcery." Ciel saw it clearly now. Several Myrish dromonds, larger and heavier than the others, were not engaging directly. Instead, from their decks, strange, catapult-like engines hurled not stones, but globes of viscous, green-black liquid. When these globes struck a ship or the water near a dragon, they would burst, releasing clouds of acrid smoke and a substance that clung and burned with an unnatural intensity, resisting water. Some Velaryon sailors writhed on their decks, their skin blistering and smoking where the substance had touched them.
"The Myrish bleeders," Daemon snarled, his face a mask of fury. "Cowardly filth." He signaled to his fellow dragonriders. "Rhaenys! Baela! Engage the warships directly! Caraxes and I will deal with those alchemical bastards!"
The three dragons descended upon the battle like avatars of destruction. Caraxes, with a terrifying shriek, dove straight for one of the Myrish dromonds. Daemon's aim was precise; a torrent of blood-red flame engulfed the catapult engines, and the ship itself began to burn with an infernal light as the alchemical substances aboard ignited. Screams echoed as the Myrish crew were consumed.
Meleys, the Red Queen, fast and agile, swept low over the Triarchy galleys attacking The Sea Snake, her fire clearing their decks, giving Lord Corlys's men a desperately needed reprieve. Moondancer, with Baela Targaryen laughing wildly, darted amongst the smaller Triarchy ships, her own green flames, though less potent than her elders', still deadly against wooden hulls and flammable sails.
The tide of battle began to shift with the dragons' arrival, but the Triarchy was far from broken. Their numbers were still immense, and Sharako Lohar, their Lysene admiral, was clearly a skilled commander. He ordered his ships to concentrate their scorpion fire on the dragons, and more of the alchemical globes were launched. One struck Meleys on the flank, and the Red Queen shrieked in pain, nearly unseating Rhaenys as the clinging substance burned through her scales.
Ciel, watching from the deck of The Valyrian as it maneuvered closer to The Sea Snake, felt his analytical mind clicking through observations. The Myrish bleeders were the key. Their alchemical weapons were the Triarchy's main defense against the dragons, and their psychological impact was significant.
"Prince Daemon!" Ciel yelled, his voice sharp, pointing towards the remaining Myrish dromonds, which were clustered together, protected by a screen of warships. "Their alchemists are their linchpin! If they are neutralized, the fleet's courage will break!"
Daemon, circling overhead on Caraxes after incinerating a second Myrish dromond, heard him. He looked down, his violet eye meeting Ciel's. He seemed to consider, then gave a curt nod. It was a risk to focus solely on those ships, leaving the rest of the fleet to Rhaenys and Baela, but Ciel's cold logic was persuasive.
"A sound observation, Lord Stark!" Daemon called back, a hint of grudging respect in his tone. "Caraxes! Let us give these Myrish dogs a taste of true Valyrian fire!"
But as Caraxes dove, the Triarchy sprung a trap. Several seemingly ordinary merchant hulks, which had been ignored, suddenly revealed hidden scorpions of immense size. Heavy, iron-tipped bolts, some trailing burning pitch, flew towards Caraxes. Daemon skillfully maneuvered his dragon, avoiding most, but one grazed Caraxes's wing, drawing a shriek of pain and rage from the Blood Wyrm.
It was then that Sebastian Michaelis acted.
The battle had reached a fever pitch. The Valyrian was now close enough to The Sea Snake that grappling hooks were being thrown. Triarchy pirates were attempting to board Lord Corlys's flagship. Ciel was directing his few remaining Northmen, who were fighting with grim ferocity on the deck of their galley, their longswords and axes more than a match for pirate cutlasses in close quarters.
One of the Myrish dromonds, seeing Caraxes momentarily harried, launched another volley of its alchemical globes, this time aimed directly at The Valyrian. One globe arced towards Ciel himself.
Before Ciel could even react, Sebastian was there. He didn't try to deflect the globe. Instead, he did something utterly inexplicable. He caught it. The viscous, green-black substance burst in his hand, clinging, smoking. Any normal man would have been screaming in agony, his flesh melting. Sebastian merely looked at his coated hand with an expression of mild distaste, as if he'd spilled soup. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled the still-burning, clinging mass back towards the Myrish dromond with impossible force and accuracy. It struck one of their alchemical engines, which promptly exploded in a shower of green-black fire, consuming the nearby sorcerers.
Daemon, Rhaenys, and Baela, witnessing this from above, all visibly faltered in their attacks for a split second, staring in disbelief. The Triarchy pirates on the dromond screamed in fresh terror.
Sebastian, meanwhile, simply wiped his hand on a nearby rail, leaving a sizzling, smoking patch on the wood, but his own gloved hand appeared utterly unharmed.
"Most uncouth, these Myrish concoctions," Sebastian commented to Ciel, his voice perfectly calm amidst the screams and explosions. "They lack… finesse."
Ciel just stared at him for a long moment, a thousand unasked questions in his single eye. He knew Sebastian was a demon, but the casual, almost contemptuous ease with which he had handled – and weaponized – a substance that was terrifying dragons and men alike was a stark reminder of the abyss that separated his butler from humanity.
Inspired or perhaps terrified by Sebastian's display, and with Caraxes now free to press his attack, the battle reached its climax. Daemon, with renewed fury, led Caraxes in a devastating assault on the remaining Myrish dromonds. He ignored their desperate scorpion fire, his dragon weaving through it, and systematically incinerated their alchemical engines and their sorcerers. Rhaenys on Meleys, despite her dragon's injury, and Baela on Moondancer, pressed their attacks on the Triarchy warships, their combined dragonfire breaking formations and sinking ships.
Lord Corlys, his own great ship now relieved, roared his approval and led the Velaryon fleet in a vengeful counter-attack. The Triarchy, their sorcerous advantage neutralized, their admiral Sharako Lohar's flagship sunk by Caraxes, finally broke. Their remaining ships turned to flee, but the dragons and the swift Velaryon galleys pursued them, turning the retreat into a rout.
By sunset, the Battle of the Gullet was won. The Triarchy fleet was shattered, scores of their ships sunk or captured, thousands of their men dead or drowning. The blockade of Blackwater Bay was broken. But the victory, as always, was costly. Many Velaryon ships were heavily damaged, their crews depleted. Meleys had taken several nasty burns from the alchemical weapons, and young Moondancer had a scorpion bolt embedded in her thigh, Baela weeping as she tried to comfort her mount. Caraxes, too, bore fresh scars.
Ciel stood on the blood-soaked deck of The Valyrian, watching the aftermath. The sea was littered with wreckage and bodies, the sky stained with smoke. He felt the familiar cold weariness that followed such carnage.
Daemon landed Caraxes on the deck of The Sea Snake, which was barely afloat. He strode over to where Lord Corlys was receiving reports, then looked towards Ciel's galley. His gaze was fixed on Sebastian, who was calmly offering Ciel a dampened cloth to wipe the grime from his face.
"Lord Stark!" Daemon called out, his voice carrying across the water. "Your… butler… fights with the luck of all seven gods, or perhaps all seven hells! Inform him he has my gratitude. And my profound curiosity."
Ciel merely nodded. He knew this victory, and Sebastian's inexplicable role in it, would only deepen the Targaryens' interest – and perhaps their suspicion – of him and his demonic retainer.
Later, as they sailed slowly back towards Dragonstone, amidst the battered remnants of the Velaryon fleet, Daemon sought Ciel out. They stood alone at the stern of The Valyrian, watching the funeral pyres burning on distant shores for the Velaryon dead.
"You have a keen eye for weakness, Stark," Daemon said, his voice unusually subdued. "Your advice on the Myrish ships was… timely."
"I merely observed the flow of battle, Prince Daemon," Ciel replied.
"And your man, Sebastian?" Daemon pressed, his violet eyes boring into Ciel's. "What manner of man can catch dragon-bane in his bare hand and turn it back upon his foes?"
"As I said, Prince Daemon," Ciel said, his voice flat, offering nothing. "He is my butler. He is… exceptionally capable."
Daemon was silent for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Indeed. Exceptionally capable. You are full of surprises, Lord of Winterfell. You and your… household." He clapped Ciel on the shoulder, a gesture that was perhaps part camaraderie, part warning. "Rhaenyra was wise to seek your counsel. You are a valuable asset, Cregan Stark. Perhaps more valuable, and more dangerous, than she yet realizes."
Ciel met his gaze, unflinching. The game at Dragonstone, he knew, was just beginning. And Prince Daemon Targaryen, he sensed, was a player who appreciated the subtle, lethal beauty of a well-played, dangerous hand. The victory in the Gullet had secured the Blacks' lifeline, but it had also thrust Ciel and Sebastian further into the fiery, treacherous heart of the dragon's den.