Chapter 30: The Dragon's Leash and the Queen's Unease
The departure from Harrenhal was as grim and desolate as the cursed fortress itself. What remained of Cregan Stark's Northern host – barely six thousand men fit for duty, a ghostly fraction of the army that had marched south with such winter-forged fury – watched in somber silence as their young lord, with his ever-present, black-clad attendant, his limping direwolf, and their twice-captured royal prisoner, rode out from the shattered gates. Lord Wyman Manderly, his leg still stubbornly refusing to heal properly, propped himself against a crumbling parapet, raising a mailed fist in a weary salute. He, along with a thousand of the most grievously wounded Northmen and a contingent of Tully men, would hold this ruin as a symbol, a black dagger pointed at the Crownlands, until Queen Rhaenyra's pleasure was known, or until the Greens came to reclaim it. Ciel knew it was a near-suicidal posting, but Manderly had accepted it with a stoic, Northern resolve.
Prince Aemond Targaryen, his broken arm crudely splinted, his sapphire eye burning with a cold, dead light, was bound securely to a sturdy packhorse. The fire of his initial rage upon learning of Vhagar's demise had burned down to embers of profound, nihilistic despair, making him, if anything, more unsettling. He spoke little, ate less, and stared at Ciel with a silent, unblinking hatred that promised a reckoning beyond mere death. The loss of Vhagar had not just broken his spirit; it had unmoored him, leaving behind something hollow and venomous.
"He cultivates his hatred well, my Lord," Sebastian Michaelis observed as they rode through the war-torn, winter-gripped Riverlands, their small escort of two hundred elite Stark household guard maintaining a vigilant perimeter. "It gives his soul a rather… piquant… sharpness. Like a well-aged, if tragically flawed, vintage."
"His hatred is irrelevant," Ciel replied, his gaze sweeping the desolate landscape. Sarx, his massive direwolf, padded beside his horse, the burn scar on his flank a livid reminder of Tessarion's fire, but his loyalty undiminished. "He is a tool, nothing more. A lever to move kings and queens." Yet, Ciel felt the weight of Aemond's gaze, the sheer, focused malevolence of it. It was a familiar sensation, one he had known from countless enemies in his past life. He was, as always, prepared to meet it.
Their journey to Maidenpool, the nearest Black-held port of consequence, was swift and largely uneventful, though the land itself was a testament to the war's brutality. Burned villages, fallow fields under a crust of snow, and gaunt-faced refugees were common sights. The news of Vhagar's death and Aemond's recapture had spread like wildfire, carried by fleeing Green soldiers, awestruck Black scouts, and the inevitable merchants and travelers who thrived even amidst chaos. When Ciel's party approached fortified towns or castles held by Black-aligned Riverlords, they were often greeted with a mixture of awe, fear, and profound relief. The Wolf Lord of Winterfell, the Dragonsbane, was becoming a figure of myth, his deeds sung in hushed tones around campfires.
At Maidenpool, Lord Mooton received them with an almost frantic deference, his small port town still recovering from Baratheon's siege and the subsequent battle. A swift Velaryon galley, dispatched from Dragonstone upon receiving Ciel's initial raven, awaited them, its purple sails emblazoned with the silver seahorse. The prospect of another sea voyage, especially with their volatile prisoner and the memory of the kraken attack still fresh, did little to lift the spirits of the weary Northmen.
The voyage itself was tense. Aemond, confined to a specially prepared, heavily chained cell in the ship's hold, lapsed into long periods of brooding silence, punctuated by sudden, violent outbursts of rage where he would hurl himself against his bonds, screaming incoherent curses at his captors and his dead dragon. Sebastian, who had taken upon himself the task of "overseeing the Prince's well-being," would deal with these episodes with his usual unnerving calm, often emerging from the hold with a faint, thoughtful smile, leaving Aemond exhausted and temporarily subdued.
"His grief is… quite operatic, my Lord," Sebastian reported to Ciel one evening, as they stood on the deck, the ship cutting through the grey, choppy waters of the Narrow Sea. "A symphony of loss, rage, and self-pity. Truly, the emotional range of these Targaryens is something to behold. So much fire, so much passion… so easily snuffed out."
"Ensure he remains alive and presentable, Sebastian," Ciel said, his gaze fixed on the distant, storm-dark horizon. "The Queen will wish to see her prize intact."
"But of course, my Lord," Sebastian purred. "Though one must confess, the temptation to explore the… nuances… of such a uniquely tormented soul is rather strong."
Ciel merely shot him a warning glance. He knew Sebastian's "explorations" rarely ended well for the subject.
His greensight, away from the oppressive psychic residue of Harrenhal, offered fleeting, confusing glimpses. He saw Dragonstone, wreathed in smoke and intrigue. He saw Queen Rhaenyra, her face a mask of triumph and fear. He saw Prince Daemon, his eyes like burning coals, watching Ciel with a calculating intensity. And he saw a shadow over King's Landing, a darkness that had little to do with dragons, but more with human treachery and despair. The visions were unsettling, hinting at a new phase of the game, one where political maneuvering and hidden betrayals might prove more dangerous than open battle.
As Dragonstone finally rose from the sea, a black, volcanic fang against the bruised sky, Ciel felt a familiar tension grip him. He was returning not just as a victorious general, but as a figure of immense, perhaps even destabilizing, power. He had slain the Greens' greatest dragon, captured their most feared prince twice, and shattered two of their most formidable armies. He was the North incarnate, a force of nature that the Targaryens, for all their dragons and ancient lineage, could not easily control.
Their reception was markedly different from their last arrival. The entire Black court, it seemed, had gathered on the quays of the steaming harbor. Queen Rhaenyra herself stood at their head, flanked by a grim-faced Prince Daemon, a proud Lord Corlys Velaryon, and a wary Princess Rhaenys. Prince Jacaerys, who had evidently returned from his early ventures in the Reach upon hearing the news, was also present, his expression a mixture of awe at Ciel's achievement and a lingering, profound unease whenever his gaze fell upon Sebastian. The air was thick with anticipation, with a barely suppressed current of triumph, and with something else… a subtle, almost fearful, respect directed at the young Lord of Winterfell.
Prince Aemond Targaryen, now heavily chained and clad in simple, dark prisoner's garb, was brought forth from the galley. He stumbled slightly as his feet touched solid ground, his sapphire eye blinking against the harsh light, but his defiance, though muted by despair, still flickered. He looked at Rhaenyra, at Daemon, at the assembled Black lords, and a sneer touched his lips.
"So, the she-wolf and her pack gather to gloat over the caged lion," Aemond rasped, his voice raw. (Though he probably meant dragon, Ciel thought with grim amusement, but Aemond's state of mind was clearly not at its peak.) "Savor this moment, sister. It will be fleeting. My brother, King Aegon, will avenge me. The true King will see you all burn."
Queen Rhaenyra stepped forward, her face a mask of cold, regal fury. The sight of Aemond, the murderer of her beloved Lucerys, now broken, chained, and dragonless, seemed to ignite a fire in her violet eyes.
"You speak of kings and vengeance, kinslayer?" Rhaenyra's voice was low, trembling with suppressed emotion. "You, who broke sacred oaths, who butchered your own nephew, who unleashed terror upon my people? You are no prince. You are a monster. And you will pay for your crimes."
Her gaze then shifted to Ciel, and the fury softened, replaced by a complex mixture of gratitude and something akin to awe. "Lord Cregan Stark," she said, her voice ringing with a new authority. "Once again, you have delivered a victory that will echo through the ages. You have slain the beast that plagued our skies and brought its rider to heel. The North has proven itself the truest, strongest pillar of my reign. Words cannot express the depth of my gratitude."
Ciel inclined his head, his expression impassive. "The North honors its oaths, Your Grace. Prince Aemond's capture, and Vhagar's… regrettable demise… were necessities of war. We trust this victory will hasten the end of this bloody conflict and secure your rightful place upon the Iron Throne." He paused, his single eye meeting hers directly. "And that the sacrifices of the North will be remembered, and the terms of our Pact fully honored."
The subtle reminder hung in the air, a clear statement of Northern expectations amidst the triumph. Daemon's lips twitched, a flicker of amusement, or perhaps respect, in his dangerous eyes. Lord Corlys nodded slowly, acknowledging the young lord's political acumen.
Aemond was dragged away to the dungeons of Dragonstone, his curses and threats ignored. Queen Rhaenyra then turned her full attention to Ciel, inviting him to a private council in the Chamber of the Painted Table. Only her closest advisors were present: Daemon, Corlys, Rhaenys, and now, Jacaerys, who seemed to have matured considerably during his brief, brutal taste of war. Sebastian, as always, accompanied Ciel, his silent presence an accepted, if unsettling, part of the Lord of Winterfell's entourage.
"Lord Stark," Rhaenyra began, once they were assembled around the great, carved map of Westeros. "With Vhagar gone and Aemond your captive, the strategic landscape has shifted dramatically in our favor. The Greens in King's Landing are reportedly in turmoil. Otto Hightower struggles to maintain control over my half-brother Aegon, who is said to be consumed by drink and paranoia. Their armies are shattered, their morale broken. Many lesser lords who supported them are now… reconsidering their allegiances."
"An opportune moment to press our advantage, Your Grace," Daemon interjected, his eyes gleaming. "A swift, decisive strike on King's Landing now, while they are reeling…"
"A direct assault is still perilous, Daemon," Rhaenys cautioned. "They have other dragons – Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Tessarion, however wounded. And the city's walls are strong. We must not underestimate their desperation."
Ciel listened, his gaze sweeping the Painted Table. "King's Landing is the ultimate prize, Your Grace," he said, his voice cutting through their debate. "But a prize best taken with minimal cost to our own forces. The death of Vhagar is a profound psychological blow to the Greens. We should exploit that. Send messages to the wavering lords in the Crownlands, the Reach, even the Westerlands. Offer pardons, guarantees of their lands and titles, in return for swearing fealty to you now. Let their fear of our momentum, and their despair at Vhagar's fall, do much of our work for us."
He then turned his attention to Aemond. "Prince Aemond is your most valuable asset, Your Grace. Not as a corpse to appease your grief, justifiable though that may be, but as a living symbol of Green failure. His continued captivity, his public humiliation, perhaps even a carefully orchestrated… confession… of his crimes and the Usurper's weakness, could shatter what remains of Green support."
Rhaenyra looked at him, a new understanding dawning in her eyes. This young Stark lord was not just a peerless warrior; he was a master of psychological warfare, his mind as cold and sharp as Northern ice.
"You propose to use my brother as a tool to break his own faction?" she asked, a hint of distaste in her voice.
"I propose to win this war, Your Grace," Ciel replied. "By any means necessary. Sentiment has little place in such conflicts."
Daemon laughed, a genuine, appreciative sound this time. "By the Fourteen Flames, Stark, you are a cold-blooded creature indeed! I like it! Yes, use the one-eyed cur to sow discord among his own kind! It is a strategy worthy of Old Valyria!"
In the weeks that followed, Dragonstone became a hive of political maneuvering and strategic planning. Ciel, with Sebastian's subtle aid, played a central role. He advised Rhaenyra on her diplomatic overtures, helped draft messages to wavering lords, and offered chillingly pragmatic counsel on how to best utilize Aemond's captivity. He also insisted on better conditions and supplies for his surviving Northmen, who were now quartered in a section of Dragonstone's lower barracks, their numbers a stark reminder of the price the North had paid.
His relationship with Prince Daemon evolved into a complex tapestry of wary respect, shared ruthlessness, and unspoken rivalry. Daemon was clearly fascinated by Ciel, and even more so by Sebastian, whose true nature he seemed to sense, even if he could not define it. He would often engage Ciel in long, probing conversations, testing his intellect, his ambition, his knowledge of darker arts. Ciel met these inquiries with a carefully constructed facade of Northern bluntness and youthful gravity, revealing nothing of his true origins or Sebastian's demonic pact.
Jacaerys, however, remained distant, his earlier easy camaraderie with Cregan Stark replaced by a fearful awe and a visible discomfort in Sebastian's presence. He had seen too much, understood too much of the darkness that clung to the Lord of Winterfell and his attendant.
As the pieces on the great Painted Table of Westeros began to shift in response to Vhagar's death and Aemond's capture, with more lords declaring for Rhaenyra and Green morale plummeting, the Queen finally turned her attention to the ultimate objective: King's Landing.
"The time is approaching, Lord Stark," Rhaenyra said to Ciel one evening, as they stood overlooking the smoking peak of the Dragonmont. "Otto Hightower's spies report growing panic in the capital. Aegon is rarely sober. The city guard is restive. Soon, King's Landing will be ripe for the taking."
She looked at him, her violet eyes holding a mixture of hope and a deep, unsettling dependency. "You have given me victory after victory, Lord Stark. You have slain dragons and caged princes. I now ask one more thing of you. When we march on King's Landing, I want you, and your Northmen, at the head of my army. I want the Wolf of Winterfell to be the one to break down the Usurper's gates and deliver his city into my hands."
Ciel met her gaze, his own eye cold and unreadable. It was a momentous request, a place of highest honor, but also of greatest peril. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that it came with unspoken strings, with the Queen's desire to keep him close, to bind him ever tighter to her cause, to her will.
"The North came south to see you seated upon the Iron Throne, Your Grace," Ciel replied, his voice a low murmur. "We will not falter when the prize is within reach." He did not mention that his price for such service would be steep, that the North's autonomy, its rewards, would be non-negotiable. That could wait until the city was taken.
Sebastian, who had been standing a discreet distance away, allowed himself a private, almost imperceptible smile. The final act of this particular human drama was approaching. And his young master, it seemed, was destined to play a starring, bloody role. The symphony of souls was indeed reaching its crescendo. And the taste of despair, betrayal, and ultimate, fiery triumph would surely be… exquisite.