Chapter 3: The Merman's City and the Weight of Oaths
The decision to journey to White Harbor, once made, was executed with the swift, uncompromising efficiency that was fast becoming the hallmark of Lord Cregan Stark's burgeoning rule. Ciel, embodying this new persona, found a grim satisfaction in the meticulous planning, a familiar echo of orchestrating intricate operations as the Queen's Watchdog. Winterfell, however, was not London; its resources were men and steel, grain and horses, not networks of informants and clandestine back alleys. The scale was different, the stakes more overtly tied to the land itself.
"A retinue of fifty men-at-arms, captained by Ser Rodrik Cassel," Ciel dictated to a patiently transcribing Maester Lorcan, Bennard Stark observing with his customary stoicism. Sebastian stood near Ciel, a silent, dark sentinel. "Ten servants for logistics and my personal needs. Provisions for a month, though I anticipate our return sooner. Sarx, naturally, accompanies me."
Bennard grunted. "Fifty men is a strong showing, but not so many as to seem a threat. Wise. Rodrik is steady. The Manderlys will appreciate the respect shown, but also note the steel beneath it."
"Precisely, Uncle," Ciel affirmed, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He then turned to the more specific arrangements, his gaze flicking to Sebastian. "My personal effects, including a selection of appropriate attire for a formal reception at the Merman's Court, will be overseen by Sebastian. He has… exacting standards."
Sebastian inclined his head. "My Lord's presentation shall be impeccable, as always." The faint emphasis on 'always' was for Ciel alone, a shared secret across lifetimes.
Before departing, Ciel held a final council in the Great Hall, formally entrusting the stewardship of Winterfell to Bennard, with Maester Lorcan as his advisor. "Hold the castle, Uncle. Dispense justice fairly but firmly. Send word by raven of any significant developments, North or South. And continue the training of the levies. A prepared North is a strong North."
Bennard Stark, for once, offered no argument, only a curt nod. "Winterfell will be secure, nephew. Go, treat with the Merman. Remind him that the heart of the North still beats strong here, in its ancient seat." There was a newfound respect in his uncle's eyes, a grudging acknowledgment of the formidable will that now resided in his young nephew.
The journey south from Winterfell, along the winding path that would eventually meet the Kingsroad, was an education in the sheer scale and wildness of the North. The Wolfswood, vast and ancient, pressed close on either side, its towering pines and sentinel oaks creating a gloomy, perpetual twilight. The air was crisp and cold, scented with pine needles and damp earth. Ciel, accustomed to the meticulously managed estates of England, found the untamed nature of this land both daunting and strangely invigorating.
He rode a sturdy Northern courser, black as night, with Sarx loping effortlessly beside him. The direwolf was an unnerving presence for many in the retinue, its sheer size and predatory grace a constant reminder of the old magic that still clung to House Stark. For Ciel, Sarx was an extension of himself, a living bridge to the primal forces of this world.
During the long days on the road, he practiced his warging. At first, it was disorienting, the flood of heightened senses – the world a riot of smells, the faintest sounds amplified – threatening to overwhelm his human consciousness. But with Sebastian's detached, almost clinical observations ("A commendable extension of your perimeter awareness, my Lord, though perhaps try to filter the scent of squirrel droppings from three leagues hence? It seems to be distracting you.") and his own relentless willpower, Ciel began to gain finer control. He learned to use Sarx's eyes to scout ahead, to send the direwolf hunting for fresh game for their evening meals, feeling the thrill of the chase, the snap of jaws, the taste of warm blood, all while remaining calmly seated on his horse.
The "physical conditioning" Sebastian had been tasked with was another matter. During their nightly stops, after the camp was settled and most men were asleep, Sebastian would lead Ciel to a secluded spot. There, under the cold Northern stars, the demon butler, with his inhuman grace and strength, would guide Ciel through exercises that pushed the young Stark body to its limits and beyond. It was not the refined fencing Ciel had known, but brutal, practical drills – swordsmanship focused on power and killing efficiency, grappling, unarmed combat.
"Your previous form, my Lord, possessed a certain delicate lethality," Sebastian commented once, effortlessly parrying a desperate lunge from Ciel and sending him sprawling. "This vessel has greater raw strength. We must hone it, ensure it is a weapon, not a liability." He offered a hand, pulling Ciel to his feet with deceptive ease. "Pain, as you know, is an excellent tutor."
Ciel, gasping for breath, his muscles screaming, could only glare. But he persevered. Each bruise, each ache, was a testament to his determination to master this new life, this new body.
Greensight remained more elusive, often coming unbidden in dreams or fleeting flashes. One night, huddled in his tent against a biting wind, he dreamt of the weirwood in Winterfell's Godswood. Its carved eyes wept not sap, but tears of silver, and as they touched the black pool, the water swirled to show a fat man with a jovial face, laughing heartily, even as his eyes, sharp and calculating, never left Ciel's. Behind him, the sigil of a merman, silver on a blue-green field, seemed to swim. Then, the image dissolved, replaced by the sound of crashing waves and the smell of salt.
"Lord Manderly," Ciel murmured upon waking, the dream still vivid. "He is more than he appears."
"Most men of influence are, my Lord," Sebastian observed, already preparing Ciel's morning tea, the familiar scent of bergamot a small anchor in this rugged world. "It is the art of discerning the substance from the shadow that defines a true player in the game."
After nearly a fortnight of travel, the landscape began to change. The dense forests gave way to rolling hills and, eventually, the tang of salt in the air grew stronger. White Harbor, when it finally came into view, was a striking contrast to the inland severity of Winterfell. It was a true city, bustling and alive, nestled around a wide bay, its white stone buildings gleaming in the pale Northern sun. Ships from across the Narrow Sea filled its harbor, their masts a forest against the grey water. The Merman's Court, Lord Manderly's seat, rose from a hill overlooking the city, its towers adorned with carvings of mermen and sea creatures.
Their arrival was met with due ceremony. A contingent of Manderly knights, clad in surcoats of blue-green bearing the silver merman, escorted them through the city's gates. The smallfolk lined the cobbled streets, curious to see the young Wolf Lord of Winterfell, whose recovery from a near-fatal accident was already becoming a matter of whispered legend. Ciel rode with a calm, regal bearing, his one visible eye taking in everything, Sarx padding silently at his side, a potent symbol of Stark authority.
Lord Wyman Manderly himself met them in the castle courtyard. He was a man of immense girth, his laughter booming, his chins wobbling as he dismounted – or rather, was carefully helped from – his specially reinforced palanquin. He was flanked by his two sons, Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel, both stout men who clearly took after their father in appetite, if not yet in sheer size.
"Lord Cregan Stark! Welcome, welcome to White Harbor!" Wyman Manderly boomed, his smile wide and seemingly genuine, though Ciel recalled the sharp eyes from his dream. "By the Old Gods and the New, it does my heart good to see you hale and hearty! We feared the worst, we truly did!"
"Lord Manderly," Ciel replied, his voice clear and steady as he dismounted, Sebastian a half-step behind. "Your welcome does you honor. I am grateful for your concern and pleased to finally make your acquaintance." He kept his tone formal, courteous, but with an underlying reserve.
The Merman's Court was opulent compared to Winterfell, filled with rich tapestries, polished wood, and the constant scent of the sea mixed with expensive spices. Servants scurried, offering warmed wine and sweetmeats. Lord Manderly was a genial host, full of jovial anecdotes and inquiries about Ciel's journey, but Ciel sensed the keen intellect beneath the layers of fat and bonhomie. The Lord of White Harbor was assessing him, every word, every gesture.
The true discussions began the following day, in Lord Manderly's private solar, a large, airy room overlooking the bustling harbor. Only Ciel, Lord Wyman, his two sons, and Sebastian (who stood impassively by the door, his presence a non-negotiable part of Ciel's security) were present. Sarx lay at Ciel's feet, a grey shadow, his occasional soft huff the only sound he made.
"Your father, Lord Rickon, was a good man," Manderly began, his tone more serious now, the joviality lessened. He took a large bite from a honeycake. "A true Stark. Stern, honorable. He swore fealty to King Viserys and, crucially, to Princess Rhaenyra as his heir. The Manderlys have not forgotten that oath. Our house came to the North as exiles, welcomed by the Wolves of Winter. Our loyalty to House Stark is as deep as the roots of the oldest weirwood."
Ciel nodded slowly. "I am pleased to hear it, Lord Manderly. Loyalty is the bedrock upon which the North stands. And these are times when such bedrock will be tested."
Ser Wylis, the elder son, puffed himself up. "Indeed! These whispers from King's Landing… talk of setting aside the Princess for her younger brother, Prince Aegon! It is an outrage against the King's own declared will!"
"An outrage, yes," Manderly agreed, though his eyes, Ciel noted, were fixed on him. "But one with powerful backers, Ser Otto Hightower chief among them. If the King should pass… the realm could fracture. And the North must be prepared to honor its commitments."
Ciel leaned forward slightly. "And what is your assessment, Lord Manderly, of the North's preparedness? Beyond the oaths sworn, what is the true temper of our bannermen? Will they follow House Stark into a war for a Targaryen princess, if it comes to that?"
Manderly chewed thoughtfully, his gaze shrewd. "The North remembers. Most houses will honor their oaths to the Starks, and thus to the King's named heir. Bolton, of course, will always bear watching. The Karstarks are staunch. The Umbers… well, you are dealing with them, I hear?" A slight smile. "They will fall in line if their Lord Paramount shows strength. Your strength, Lord Cregan."
"Strength is not merely about force of arms, Lord Manderly," Ciel stated, his voice carrying a conviction that made the portly lord pause, honeycake halfway to his mouth. "It is about unity, resources, and strategic foresight. White Harbor is the North's gateway to the Narrow Sea, its wealthiest city. Your ships, your trade, your coffers – they are as vital to Northern strength as any legion of warriors."
Wyman Manderly's eyes gleamed. "Ah, so the young wolf has a mind for more than just howling at the moon! Good! Very good! You speak true, Lord Stark. White Harbor's prosperity is the North's prosperity. We have long advocated for strengthening our modest fleet, for expanding trade routes. With the King's Peace fraying, secure supply lines and a naval presence will be paramount."
"I agree," Ciel said. "I would see White Harbor's fleet expanded. I would see your trade flourish, for it enriches us all. In return, I expect House Manderly's unwavering support, not just in men, but in coin and ships, should the need arise to project Northern power southwards."
This was the crux of it. Ciel was not merely asking for fealty; he was proposing a partnership, one that acknowledged Manderly's unique strengths and offered tangible benefits in return for steadfast allegiance.
Ser Wendel, the younger son, spoke up. "And what of the cost, Lord Stark? Ships and sailors require significant investment."
"An investment in our collective security and influence," Ciel countered smoothly. "The South has dragons and vast armies. The North has its resilience, its winters, and the loyalty of its people. But we must also be pragmatic. Wealth is power, Lord Manderly. And a strong, unified North, with White Harbor as its economic heart, will be a power that even dragonlords must respect." He paused, letting his words sink in. "I envision a North that not only endures but thrives, even in the face of Southern turmoil. A North that can dictate its own terms, not merely react to the whims of kings in King's Landing."
Lord Wyman was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the young lord before him. The jovial mask had slipped entirely, revealing the shrewd, calculating mind beneath. He saw not just a boy repeating memorized lines, but a leader with a clear, ambitious vision. And in the boy's one visible eye, he saw a chilling resolve.
Finally, Lord Manderly let out a deep chuckle, which grew into a booming laugh. "By the sea and all its creatures, Lord Stark! You are your father's son, but with a… a different seasoning! I like it! Yes, I like it very much!" He slapped his meaty hand on the table. "You speak sense, young wolf! Hard sense! House Manderly stands with House Stark. You will have our ships, our coin, and our swords. Help us grow White Harbor's strength, and we shall ensure the North's voice is heard, loud and clear, from the Wall to the Red Keep!"
Ciel allowed himself a small, satisfied nod. "An excellent understanding, Lord Manderly. I will have my Maester and yours draw up proposals for investments in the port and fleet, and for fairer tariffs on Northern goods passing through. Sebastian," he glanced at his butler, "will liaise with your officials to ensure the details are… satisfactory."
Sebastian, who had been observing the entire exchange with his usual quiet intensity, gave a slight bow. "It will be handled with utmost precision, my Lord Manderly."
The Manderly sons looked impressed, if a little overwhelmed by the sudden shift in their young overlord. This was not the wild, headstrong boy they might have expected. This was a lord who spoke of ledgers and fleets as easily as of swords and honor.
The rest of their stay in White Harbor was spent cementing this new understanding. Ciel toured the shipyards, the bustling markets, the newly reinforced city walls, asking pertinent questions, his sharp intellect missing no detail. Sebastian, meanwhile, moved like a phantom through the city, gathering whispers, assessing moods, and compiling a report for Ciel that was far more detailed than anything the Manderlys themselves could have provided.
One evening, as Ciel looked out from his guest chambers over the moonlit harbor, Sebastian materialized beside him. "Lord Manderly is genuinely committed, my Lord. His joviality is a carefully crafted persona, but his loyalty to House Stark, and now to you, appears sincere. He sees in you a leader who can elevate the North's standing, and by extension, his own."
"Good," Ciel said, his gaze fixed on the distant lights of a ship making its way out to sea. "Sentiment is fleeting. Self-interest, properly aligned, is a far more reliable foundation for loyalty." He felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle on his young shoulders, heavier now that it encompassed not just a crumbling manor and a quest for revenge, but the fate of an entire, vast kingdom.
"A raven arrived from Winterfell an hour ago, my Lord," Sebastian said, producing a small, sealed scroll. "Forwarded by your uncle."
Ciel took it, his expression hardening. News from the capital, no doubt. He broke the seal. The message was brief, penned in Maester Lorcan's neat script, but its implications were vast.
My Lord Stark, it read. Word from King's Landing. King Viserys Targaryen is dead. The Greens have crowned Aegon, his son, as King. Princess Rhaenyra has fled to Dragonstone and is calling her banners. The Dance has begun.
Ciel crushed the parchment in his fist. The vision in the Godswood – the warring dragons, the woman with silver hair, the coming inferno – it was no longer a prophecy. It was reality.
"So, the dragons finally unleash their fire," Ciel murmured, his voice dangerously soft. "The game is no longer one of whispers and shadows, Sebastian."
"Indeed, my Lord," Sebastian replied, his crimson eyes gleaming with a dark, almost joyful anticipation. "It would appear the main performance is about to begin. And you, Lord Cregan Stark, have a most prominent seat."
Ciel turned from the window, his youthful face set in lines of grim determination that belonged to a man thrice his age. "The North will honor its oaths. But we will do so on our terms. Lord Manderly's ships and coin have just become even more critical." He looked at his demon butler. "Our time in White Harbor is concluded. We ride for Winterfell at dawn. There are preparations to be made. Many preparations."
The young wolf was about to enter the inferno. And he intended to not just survive it, but to emerge from its ashes stronger than ever. The soul of Ciel Phantomhive, the Queen's Watchdog, was now fully committed to the grim, bloody game of thrones.