Chapter 26: The Reddened Trident and the King's Landing Gambit
The snow that had fallen during the Battle of Maidenpool, muffling the initial Northern assault, now lay as a sullied, crimson-stained shroud over the ravaged Baratheon encampment and the churned earth around the port town. The air, sharp with winter's bite, was also thick with the metallic tang of blood, the acrid scent of burned flesh from Tessarion's brief but terrible intervention, and the pervasive smell of death. The victory was undeniable, the siege broken, Lord Borros Baratheon slain, his Stormlander host shattered. But as the adrenaline of battle faded, a grim, weary silence settled upon the victors.
Ciel Phantomhive, Lord Cregan Stark, stood amidst the carnage, his youthful face a mask of cold composure that did little to hide the bone-deep exhaustion in his single blue eye. He had personally dispatched the Lord of Storm's End, a deed that would resonate through the Seven Kingdoms, yet he felt no triumph, only the leaden weight of command and the bitter taste of necessity. His Northmen, though victorious, had paid a heavy price. The green recruits, who had marched south with naive notions of glory, were now either dead or irrevocably blooded, their youthful illusions incinerated in the crucible of war.
The immediate aftermath was a chaotic scene of grim duties. Maester Lorcan, assisted by Prince Daemon's Maester Gerardys and what healers Lord Mooton of Maidenpool could provide, worked tirelessly in makeshift infirmaries, the screams and moans of the wounded a constant, harrowing chorus. Lord Wyman Manderly, his massive frame pale from blood loss due to the arrow still lodged in his thigh, gritted his teeth against the pain as Maester Lorcan probed the wound, his booming laughter silenced for once. Sarx, Ciel's direwolf, lay whimpering softly as Sebastian Michaelis, with an unnervingly delicate touch for a being of his nature, tended to a nasty burn along the wolf's flank, a gift from Tessarion's sapphire flames. Ciel felt a pang of something akin to concern for his animal companion, a rare crack in his icy facade.
"The beast will recover, my Lord," Sebastian assured him, his crimson eyes briefly meeting Ciel's. "His constitution is… robust. As is Lord Manderly's, though he may find sitting a horse uncomfortable for some time." There was a subtle, almost mocking undertone to Sebastian's voice, as if the suffering of mortals was a mildly diverting spectacle.
Prince Daemon Targaryen, his black armor spattered with gore, his Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister (the original, now firmly back in his possession) still uncleaned, surveyed the battlefield with a look of savage satisfaction. Caraxes, his serpentine Blood Wyrm, perched on the ruined battlements of a nearby Baratheon siege tower, tearing at the corpse of a Stormlander knight with evident relish. Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, her expression weary but proud, was overseeing the care of her own dragon, Meleys, whose leg had been pierced by a scorpion bolt. Prince Jacaerys, his youthful face grim, moved amongst the wounded, offering what comfort he could, Vermax, his own dragon, resting nearby, still showing signs of his earlier injuries but having fought bravely nonetheless.
"A decisive blow, Lord Stark," Daemon declared, approaching Ciel. His usual predatory smirk was wider than ever. "Borros Baratheon, the oaf, will trouble my Queen no longer. His army is broken, his banners trampled. The Stormlands will think twice before defying the true Targaryen line again." His gaze flickered over the field of dead. "Your Northmen fight like winter demons. And you, Stark… you have a talent for finding the enemy's throat."
"War demands decisiveness, Prince Daemon," Ciel replied, his tone flat. He had no interest in Daemon's savage glee. His focus was already shifting to the next move, the next calculation. "The prisoners? The remaining Stormlanders?"
"Most have surrendered," Daemon said with a dismissive wave. "The common men will be given a choice: swear fealty to Queen Rhaenyra or… find employment fertilizing Riverland fields. Their knights and lords will be held for ransom or exchange. Or," he added, his smile turning cruel, "for a more… permanent… solution, should they prove troublesome."
Ravens were dispatched to Dragonstone, bearing news of the victory. Ciel, in his own missive to Queen Rhaenyra, was concise and factual, emphasizing the strategic gain while also subtly reminding her of the North's significant losses and the ongoing need for supplies and reinforcements as per their Pact. He knew Daemon and Jacaerys would provide their own, likely more… colorful… accounts of the battle, and Sebastian's role in it.
In the days that followed, Maidenpool became the main Black encampment in the region. Lord Mooton, a nervous but outwardly loyal vassal, opened his town and its meager stores to the victorious army. Ciel, Daemon, Jacaerys, and Rhaenys held daily war councils, usually in Lord Mooton's somewhat cramped solar, the atmosphere thick with strategic debate and the underlying tensions of their disparate personalities and ambitions.
"With Baratheon crushed and Cole… vanished… the Riverlands are largely secure," Daemon declared, stabbing a dagger into the map of Westeros spread before them, dangerously close to King's Landing. "The Greens in the capital will be in disarray. Otto Hightower is a cunning snake, but he is no warrior. Aegon is a drunken fool. Now is the time to strike at their heart! Now is the time to take King's Landing!"
Rhaenys Targaryen, ever the voice of caution and experience, shook her head. "Your haste is understandable, Daemon, but King's Landing is a formidable fortress. They still have dragons – Aegon's Sunfyre, though wounded from Rook's Rest, may fly again; Helaena's Dreamfyre; and young Daeron's Tessarion, who, though bloodied by your Caraxes and our allies, escaped and will undoubtedly return with a vengeance. And Vhagar… Vhagar is still out there, a riderless catastrophe waiting to happen."
"Vhagar is a grieving beast, not a strategic weapon without Aemond," Daemon countered impatiently. "And Daeron is a boy. We have Caraxes, Meleys, Vermax! And we have Lord Stark's Northmen, who fight with the fury of winter itself!"
Ciel listened, his expression unreadable. His greensight had been quiet since the battle, the violent psychic residue of the slaughter perhaps overwhelming its subtler whispers. But his analytical mind was constantly at work.
"Prince Daemon's desire for a swift strike is understandable," Ciel said, his voice cutting through the Targaryen debate. "The Greens are indeed weakened, their morale likely shaken. However, a direct assault on King's Landing, even now, would be a siege. Sieges are costly, protracted affairs. They consume men and resources at an alarming rate." He looked at Daemon. "My Northern host has already suffered grievous losses. We are far from home, and winter deepens. We cannot afford to be bogged down in a lengthy siege of the capital without overwhelming superiority and secure supply lines."
"And what do you propose, Lord Stark?" Rhaenyra's voice asked. She had arrived by swift ship from Dragonstone two days after the battle, accompanied by a small retinue and several of her councilors, including Lord Corlys Velaryon, eager to assess the situation firsthand and participate in the planning of the next campaign. Her presence added a new layer of regal authority, and tension, to the war councils. She looked at Ciel with a mixture of gratitude for his victories and a carefully veiled scrutiny. She knew he was a powerful, perhaps indispensable ally, but also a dangerously independent one.
"We have crippled two of the Greens' main armies, Your Grace," Ciel stated, turning to the Queen. "But their strength is not entirely broken. Prince Daeron and Tessarion remain a threat in the Reach, potentially cutting off supplies from your southern allies. The Westerlands, under Jason Lannister's heir, are still Green. And King's Landing itself, while perhaps in turmoil, will be fiercely defended by Otto Hightower's political machinations and whatever forces they can muster. Vhagar, as Princess Rhaenys noted, is an unpredictable element."
He paused, then continued, his voice cold and precise. "I propose a multi-pronged strategy. Prince Jacaerys, once Vermax is fully recovered, should indeed continue his campaign in the Reach, to counter Prince Daeron and secure the loyalty of houses there. Lord Corlys, with what remains of the Velaryon fleet, should maintain a tight blockade of Blackwater Bay, cutting off all sea access to King's Landing. Prince Daemon, with a strong force of Dragonstone men and loyal Riverlords, should consolidate our hold here, perhaps even making a feint towards King's Landing to keep the Greens guessing, to draw their remaining forces out."
"And you, Lord Stark?" Rhaenyra asked, her violet eyes narrowed. "What role do you envision for yourself and your Northmen in this grand strategy?"
"My army is depleted, Your Grace," Ciel said bluntly. "Many of my veterans are dead or wounded. My new recruits are blooded, but still green. We need time to rest, to refit, to integrate replacements if any can be spared from the North. I propose to take the bulk of my surviving Northmen back to Harrenhal."
There was a stunned silence. Daemon looked incredulous. "Harrenhal? That cursed ruin? After we fought so hard to secure the Riverlands, you would retreat to a pile of haunted stones?"
"Harrenhal, Prince Daemon," Ciel said, his gaze steady, "is a formidable defensive position, despite its reputation. It controls the Kingsroad and overlooks the Gods Eye. It is a dagger pointed at the heart of the Crownlands. From there, a well-supplied and rested Northern army can strike in any direction – support your operations in the Riverlands, move south towards King's Landing when the time is right, or even counter any Green resurgence from the west. It is also… defensible against dragons, if prepared correctly, as we have demonstrated." He did not add that Harrenhal's oppressive, death-soaked atmosphere was strangely less disruptive to his greensight than Dragonstone's overwhelming draconic energies, and that he felt a grim affinity for the place.
"It is also a logistical nightmare, a place of ill omen," Rhaenys countered, though there was a thoughtful look in her eyes.
"Omens are for those who fear the future, Princess Rhaenys," Ciel said. "I intend to shape it." He then looked directly at Queen Rhaenyra. "Give me Harrenhal as my base of operations, Your Grace. Grant me the resources to refortify it, to resupply my men. And when the time is ripe, when the Greens are stretched thin and their morale is at its lowest, the Wolf of the North will descend from Harrenhal and deliver the killing blow."
Rhaenyra studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. She saw the cold logic in his plan, the strategic value of Harrenhal, the undeniable truth of his army's exhaustion. She also saw the unyielding will of this young, terrible lord, a will that seemed to bend even dragons and demons to his purpose.
"Very well, Lord Stark," she said finally. "Harrenhal shall be yours. You will hold it for the Queen. Lord Mooton, Lord Tully, you will see that Lord Stark is supplied from your lands. Prince Daemon will command the main Black army in the Riverlands. Prince Jacaerys will take the war to the Reach. Lord Corlys will command at sea." She looked at each of them in turn. "We are winning this war, my lords, my kin. But we must remain vigilant, united. The Greens are wounded, but a wounded beast is often the most dangerous."
In the days that followed, as the Black forces regrouped and prepared for their new assignments, Ciel spent much of his time with his Northmen. He oversaw the care of the wounded, listened to the concerns of his lords, and ensured that his men understood the strategic necessity of their move to Harrenhal. Lord Manderly, though still recovering, pledged to hold White Harbor as a vital supply line. Lord Karstark, his grief now a cold, hard resolve, swore to follow Ciel into the deepest hells if need be.
Sarx, his flank now bearing a puckered, ugly scar from Tessarion's fire, was a constant presence at Ciel's side, his bond with his master deeper, more intuitive than ever. Ciel often found himself drawing strength from the direwolf's simple, unwavering loyalty.
Sebastian, meanwhile, moved through the Black camp with his usual eerie efficiency. He procured rare herbs for Maester Lorcan, "negotiated" favorable terms with local merchants for supplies, and gathered intelligence with an uncanny ability to be everywhere and nowhere at once. He also spent a considerable amount of time observing Prince Daemon, a subtle, almost predatory interest in his crimson eyes.
"Prince Daemon is a fascinating specimen, my Lord," Sebastian remarked to Ciel one evening, as they prepared for their departure to Harrenhal. "So much passion, so much ambition, such a delightful disregard for conventional morality. His soul burns with a dark, vibrant flame. Almost… appetizing."
"Confine your appetites to our enemies, Sebastian," Ciel said, his voice sharp. He knew Sebastian was, in his own way, testing him, reminding him of the true nature of their pact.
"But of course, my Lord," Sebastian replied, his smile beatific, yet utterly chilling. "Though one must confess, the sheer variety of… spiritual flavors… this war offers is quite… enriching."
As Ciel and his depleted Northern host, now numbering less than ten thousand effectives, prepared to march for Harrenhal, news arrived that sent a fresh wave of shock and fury through the Black camp. A fishing boat, having braved the storms and the Green patrols, brought word from King's Landing: Vhagar, the great Queen of Dragons, had been seen flying directly towards the capital, her roars echoing over the city. And she was not alone. Astride her back, pale and grim but undeniably alive and in command, was Prince Aemond Targaryen.
He had escaped his Dragonstone prison. How, no one yet knew. But the implications were catastrophic. The Greens' most fearsome dragon, and their most ruthless rider, were reunited.
Queen Rhaenyra was distraught. Prince Daemon was incandescent with rage. Jacaerys was aghast.
Ciel, however, felt a strange, cold calm descend upon him. Aemond's escape, Vhagar's return to her rider – it was a setback, a dangerous one, but not an insurmountable one. It merely changed the parameters of the game.
He remembered his greensight vision from Moat Cailin: himself, on a snow-covered hill, Dark Sister in hand, facing down a blue dragon. But there had been another element to that vision, something he hadn't fully understood until now. A vast, bronze shadow, circling high above, watching. Vhagar.
"It seems Prince Aemond is more resourceful than we anticipated, Your Grace," Ciel said to Rhaenyra, his voice devoid of emotion. "Or he has allies within your own walls." He looked at Daemon. "This changes nothing of our immediate strategy. We secure the Riverlands. We hold Harrenhal. We bleed the Greens. Aemond and Vhagar are a threat, yes, but they are only two. We are an army. And we have dragons of our own."
His calmness, his unyielding resolve in the face of this disastrous news, seemed to steady the shaken Black council.
"Lord Stark is right," Rhaenys Targaryen said, her voice firm. "Aemond's escape is a blow, but not a fatal one. We must not lose our nerve."
As Ciel prepared to lead his Northmen to Harrenhal, he knew the war had just become infinitely more dangerous. Aemond Targaryen, free and reunited with Vhagar, would be burning for revenge. King's Landing would be a fortress of renewed Green defiance. And he, Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, was marching into the heart of it all, to hold a cursed castle against the fury of dragons and the machinations of kings.
Sebastian, observing his master's grim determination, allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. The game, it seemed, was about to become truly… entertaining. The taste of ash from their victories was still fresh, but the scent of a new, even greater conflagration was now on the wind.