Chapter 21: The Taste of Ash and the Dragon's Due
The victory at Stone Hedge was absolute, but the silence that descended upon the blood-soaked pass was heavier than any battle cry. Ser Criston Cole, the Kingmaker, the Hand of the King, and the Greens' most formidable field commander, was gone. His army, a powerful host that had marched with such arrogant confidence, was shattered, its remnants either dead, dying, or surrendering in bewildered terror. The Riverlands, for now, breathed a collective, shuddering sigh of relief.
Ciel Phantomhive, Lord Cregan Stark, stood amidst the carnage, his black armor stained with grime and gore, Dark Sister – Aemond's sword, which he now wielded with a grim familiarity – still slick with the blood of Green loyalists. He surveyed the scene with his single, unnervingly calm blue eye, cataloging the dead, assessing the state of his own weary forces. The Northmen, alongside Prince Daemon's Dragonstone elite and their Riverlander allies, had fought like wolves cornered, and they had prevailed. But the cost, as always, was steep.
"The pass is ours, Lord Stark," a grime-covered Lord Manderly reported, his voice hoarse. He had fought like a bear, his greatsword cleaving a path through Green ranks. "What remains of Cole's army is broken. We have hundreds of prisoners."
"And Ser Criston Cole himself?" Ciel asked, his gaze sweeping towards the ruined chapel where Sebastian had last been seen with the Green commander.
Manderly hesitated, a flicker of profound unease in his eyes. "He… is not among the prisoners, my lord. Nor among the identifiable dead. Some say… some say they saw your man, Michaelis, confront him near the chapel. Then… there were sounds. Not sounds of battle, precisely. And then… silence." He lowered his voice. "When we reached the chapel, there was no sign of Cole. Only… an unusual cleanliness. And a faint scent of brimstone, quickly dispersed by the wind."
Ciel's expression remained impassive. He had expected as much. Sebastian's methods were rarely conventional, and his definition of "dealt with" was often… absolute. Leaving a body would have been untidy.
"Ser Criston Cole has fled, then," Ciel announced, his voice carrying to the nearby commanders. "Or he has met a fate befitting a traitor. Either way, his command is broken. That is what matters." He knew the truth would be whispered, adding another layer to the fearsome reputation of the Wolf Lord and his shadow-like attendant.
Prince Daemon Targaryen approached, Caraxes landing with a ground-shaking thud nearby, the Blood Wyrm's scales still smoking faintly from its fiery exertions. Daemon's face was alight with a savage, triumphant glee, yet his violet eyes, when they rested on Ciel, held a new, sharper degree of calculation.
"A masterful trap, Stark," Daemon conceded, dismounting. "Brutal, efficient. You fight like a Northern storm. And your… butler…" He paused, his gaze flicking towards Sebastian, who had appeared silently at Ciel's side, his black attire, as Manderly noted, unnervingly pristine. "Your butler, it seems, ensures no loose ends. Ser Criston Cole, vanished into thin air. Most… convenient."
"Sebastian is thorough, Prince Daemon," Ciel replied, his tone cool. "He understands the importance of… finality."
Daemon's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "Indeed. A quality I admire." He clapped Ciel on the shoulder. "You have done the Queen, and my house, a great service today, Lord Stark. The Greens have lost their Hand and their most seasoned general. King's Landing will be reeling."
The immediate aftermath involved the grim tasks of war: tending to the wounded, burying the dead (both Black and Green, for Ciel insisted on a measure of grim respect even for fallen foes, much to the surprise of some Riverlords), and dealing with the hundreds of prisoners. Most of the common Green levies, when offered the choice between swearing fealty to Queen Rhaenyra or facing summary execution, quickly chose the former, their will to fight broken. The knights and minor lords among them were disarmed and held for ransom or future exchange.
Word of the devastating victory at Stone Hedge and the presumed death or disappearance of Ser Criston Cole spread like wildfire through the Riverlands. Lords who had been wavering, or secretly supporting the Greens, now hastily dispatched riders to Riverrun or directly to Ciel's camp, proclaiming their undying loyalty to Queen Rhaenyra. The Black grip on the Riverlands tightened considerably.
Ravens were sent to Dragonstone, bearing news of the triumph. Ciel's report to the Queen was concise, detailing the military outcome but omitting the more… esoteric… details of Cole's fate. He knew Jacaerys, and now Daemon, would likely provide their own, more colorful accounts of Sebastian's contributions.
In the days that followed, Ciel and Daemon established a temporary command at the surprisingly intact Stone Hedge, its previous lord having wisely declared for Rhaenyra upon their approach. From here, they directed the pacification of the remaining Green pockets of resistance in the Riverlands. It was a brutal, thankless task, but necessary.
Daemon, however, seemed less interested in the minutiae of occupation and more in the enigma that was Ciel Stark and Sebastian Michaelis. He would often seek Ciel out, engaging him in discussions that ranged from battle strategy to Northern folklore, to the nature of power and loyalty. Ciel remained guarded, offering carefully curated responses, aware that Daemon was constantly probing, assessing.
"Your man, Sebastian," Daemon said one evening, as they shared a cup of strong Northern ale in Stone Hedge's smoky great hall. "He is no mere servant. I have seen men who move like shadows, men who kill with uncanny skill. I have known sorcerers and sellswords from the Free Cities who claim power over life and death. But he… he is something else." Daemon's violet eyes, so like burning embers in the torchlight, fixed on Ciel. "What is he, Stark? Truly?"
"He is bound to me, Prince Daemon," Ciel replied, his voice flat. "By oaths older than your Valyrian steel. He serves my will. That is all that need concern you."
Daemon laughed, a harsh, knowing sound. "Older than Valyrian steel? You Northmen and your ancient mysteries. But some oaths, Lord Stark, can be… renegotiated. Or broken. If your butler serves your will, what is to stop another, with a more… persuasive offer, from claiming his service?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Imagine his talents, Stark, truly unleashed. Not merely protecting a young lord or… tidying up… battlefields. Imagine him serving a King, or a Queen, with the power to reshape the realm."
Ciel felt a cold anger stir within him. Daemon was treading on dangerous ground, hinting at severing the bond between him and Sebastian, a bond forged in his own blood and soul's despair in another lifetime.
"Sebastian's loyalty is not for sale, Prince Daemon," Ciel said, his single eye like a chip of frozen sky. "And his service is exclusively mine. Attempting to alter that arrangement would be… unwise. For all parties involved." The unspoken threat was clear, and for a moment, the predatory Prince of the City seemed to recognize a fellow predator, albeit a much younger, colder one.
Daemon studied him for a long moment, then leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Unwise, you say? Perhaps. Or perhaps… a most exhilarating challenge." He raised his cup. "To dangerous alliances, then, Lord Stark. May they continue to be… mutually beneficial."
Ciel knew Daemon would not let the matter rest. The prince was intrigued, and a curious Daemon was a dangerous Daemon. He would need to be even more vigilant.
Sebastian, when Ciel later recounted the conversation, merely smiled, a chillingly serene expression. "Prince Daemon possesses a certain… ambition, my Lord. And a restless soul. Such souls often seek to possess or control what they perceive as powerful. It is a common human failing."
"And if he were to make you an 'offer'?" Ciel asked, testing.
"My contract is with Ciel Phantomhive, my Lord," Sebastian replied, his crimson eyes meeting Ciel's. "The vessel may change, the world may alter, but the pact endures. My service is to your soul, and its ultimate… disposition. All else is merely… stage dressing for the grand play."
Ciel felt a familiar mixture of reassurance and profound unease. Sebastian's loyalty was absolute, yes, but it was the loyalty of a predator to its marked prey, a gourmet anticipating a long-awaited feast.
News from Dragonstone finally arrived, carried by a grim-faced Jacaerys Velaryon, who flew in on a still-recovering Vermax. Queen Rhaenyra was ecstatic at the news of Cole's defeat, but her joy was tempered by fresh anxieties. The Greens in King's Landing, far from collapsing, were apparently in a state of frenzied activity. Otto Hightower, old and cunning, had reassumed de facto control of Aegon II's council. They were marshaling new armies, hiring sellsword companies from the Free Cities, and were rumored to be attempting to broker an alliance with Dorne. Worse, Vhagar, after her rampage over Antlers and her period of mourning, had been sighted again, flying south along the coast, her movements purposeful. She was still riderless, but her destination was unknown, and her potential for destruction remained immense. Aemond, in his Dragonstone cell, had reportedly fallen into a silent, brooding despair upon hearing of Cole's defeat, but he offered no information.
"My mother commands us to consolidate our hold on the Riverlands, Lord Stark," Jacaerys reported. "She believes King's Landing is still too strong to assault directly. She wants us to secure our rear, to build our strength, before contemplating a move on the capital." He hesitated. "She also… inquires about the exact fate of Ser Criston Cole. There are… unsettling rumors… that have reached her, carried by sailors from the Gullet battle and frightened Green prisoners." His gaze flickered towards Sebastian, who was polishing Dark Sister with meticulous care.
"Ser Criston Cole is no longer a threat to Her Grace's cause," Ciel stated flatly. "The manner of his removal is inconsequential."
Jacaerys looked troubled but did not press. He knew the young Wolf Lord could be as unyielding as the Northern ice.
The strategic situation was complex. With Cole gone, the immediate Green threat in the Riverlands was diminished, but not extinguished. Otto Hightower was a far more cunning political adversary. And Vhagar… Vhagar was a problem that defied conventional military solutions.
Ciel's remaining Northern forces were severely depleted. He had perhaps five thousand men left who were fit for duty, a fraction of the host he had brought south. They were battle-hardened, fiercely loyal, but exhausted.
"The North needs time to recover, Your Grace," Ciel said to Jacaerys, and later, in a raven to Rhaenyra. "My men have bled enough for now. I propose to leave a strong garrison at Riverrun, under Lord Tully's command, bolstered by my most seasoned Northmen. I will then return to Winterfell, with a small escort, to raise fresh levies, to see to my own lands. When the snows melt and the North has replenished its strength, we will return with a new host, ready for the final push."
It was a politically astute move. It allowed him to preserve his remaining core of veterans, to reinforce the North's importance to the alliance, and to remove himself – and Sebastian – from Daemon's increasingly intense scrutiny for a time. It also gave him a chance to return to Winterfell, to solidify his own rule there, which had been so abruptly thrust upon him.
Daemon argued against it, of course. "You would leave now, Stark, when the game is so… interestingly poised? When King's Landing is ripe with fear? Your Northern fury is needed here!"
"My Northern fury is best served by a Northern army at full strength, Prince Daemon," Ciel countered. "And that requires my presence in Winterfell. The North remembers its oaths. We will return. But we will return stronger."
Reluctantly, Rhaenyra agreed. She needed the North's continued support, and Ciel had proven himself too valuable an ally to alienate. She appointed Prince Daemon as her supreme commander in the Riverlands, tasked with holding their gains and preparing for the next phase of the war. Jacaerys and Vermax would support him.
Ciel's departure from the Riverlands was quiet, almost furtive. He left Lord Manderly in temporary command of the Northern contingent remaining with Daemon, with strict instructions to safeguard their interests and report directly to Winterfell. With an escort of only a hundred Northmen, and Sebastian at his side, he began the long journey north, through lands still scarred by war, but now largely under Black control.
As they rode, Ciel felt a strange mixture of weariness and anticipation. He had plunged into the heart of the Dance of the Dragons, had faced down dragonfire and treachery, had commanded armies and made life-and-death decisions that would shape the fate of kingdoms. He had tasted victory, and the bitter ash of its cost. He was Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, a name that now inspired fear and respect across the realm.
But he was also Ciel Phantomhive, a soul from another world, bound to a demon, carrying the weight of a past that would not let him go. The game in Westeros was far from over. And his role in it, he suspected, was only just beginning to unfold.
Sebastian, riding silently beside him, seemed to sense his thoughts. "A temporary respite, my Lord?" he inquired, his voice smooth. "Or merely a strategic redeployment before the next, undoubtedly more… elaborate… performance?"
"A bit of both, Sebastian," Ciel replied, his gaze fixed on the northern horizon. "Winter is coming, after all. And the wolves must be strong when it arrives in full."
He thought of Winterfell, of the weirwood in its godswood, of the ancient, wild magic that stirred in his Stark blood. His greensight had been erratic, overwhelmed by the fiery energies of Dragonstone and the raw chaos of battle. Perhaps in the cold, quiet strength of the North, it would speak to him more clearly, offer guidance for the dark and bloody path that still lay ahead. The taste of ash was still on his tongue, but beneath it, there was a flicker of something else: a cold, hard resolve, and the unyielding will to see this game through to its bitter, bloody end.