Okay, here is Chapter 12, the climax of the desperate battle for Harrenhal.
Chapter 12: The Dragon's Ire and the Demon's Dance
The Hall of a Hundred Hearths, moments before a bastion of sorts, became a fiery deathtrap. Vhagar's targeted rage, funneled into a torrent of bronze flame, tore through the ancient roof as if it were parchment. Massive, burning timbers crashed down, stone liquefied and then reformed into grotesque, cooling shapes. The air was superheated, filled with choking smoke, the roar of the inferno, and the screams of men trapped or burning.
"Scatter! To the lower levels! West wing!" Ciel's voice, sharp and commanding despite the chaos, cut through the din. He grabbed a Manderly knight whose cloak was alight, shoving him towards a less engulfed archway before the man was fully consumed. Sarx, whining with a mix of fear and fury, pressed close to Ciel, his fur singed, but his protective instinct overriding his terror.
Sebastian was a black blur amidst the crimson and orange chaos, seemingly untouched by the flames. He moved with an impossible grace, deflecting falling debris that would have crushed any normal man, pulling Northmen from the path of collapsing walls, his expression an unreadable mask of calm efficiency. One moment he was beside Ciel, the next he had dispatched three Green soldiers who had tried to press their advantage amidst the confusion, their bodies falling with a quiet thud, almost unnoticed in the greater pandemonium.
"This hall is lost, my Lord," Sebastian stated, his voice even, as a section of the gallery above them groaned and then gave way in a shower of stone and fire. "Prince Aemond is… thorough in his displeasure."
"He's burying us alive!" Lord Karstark roared, his great beard singed, as he rallied his surviving men near a crumbling exit. "The man's a bloody madman!"
"Madmen are predictable in their rage," Ciel snapped back, wiping soot from his face, his single eye burning with a fierce, almost feral light. "He wants us dead, buried under his ancestor's cursed stones. He expects us to break, to flee into Vhagar's maw." He scanned the inferno that had been the great hall. "The lower crypts and cellars beneath the Tower of Kingspyre. They are deep, stone-lined. Vhagar's fire won't easily reach them. Jacaerys!" he yelled, hoping the prince could hear him above the dragon's continuous roars and the crackling conflagration.
High above, Vermax, with Prince Jacaerys on his back, was engaged in a desperate aerial ballet with the wounded but still colossal Vhagar. The older dragon, bleeding from the gashes inflicted by the collapsing Tower of Dread, was slower, her movements more ponderous, but her fury was undiminished. She largely ignored Vermax's stinging attacks, her attention fixed on eradicating the insolent humans who had dared to injure her. Every so often, she would unleash a gout of flame that Jacaerys and Vermax barely evaded.
"Lord Stark! I see you!" Jacaerys's voice, faint but clear, drifted down. "Aemond is directing Vhagar to systematically level any structure still standing! He's trying to drive you into the open courtyards!"
"Then we deny him that satisfaction!" Ciel yelled back. "Rally to the Kingspyre! Use the old passages!" He knew this was a desperate gamble. The passages beneath Harrenhal were a confusing, dangerous maze, many unexplored, some undoubtedly collapsed. But it was better than being roasted alive.
The retreat from the Hall of a Hundred Hearths was a harrowing affair. Northmen and Riverlanders, their numbers significantly diminished, fought their way through smoke-filled corridors and burning debris, harried by Green soldiers emboldened by Vhagar's rampage. Ciel, with Sebastian and a rearguard of his staunchest Stark household guard, covered the withdrawal, Sarx fighting like a demon wolf at their heels.
Aemond Targaryen, seeing them fall back, let out a triumphant roar from Vhagar's back. "Run, little wolves! Run to your holes! There is no escape from a dragon's fire!" Vhagar then landed heavily in the main courtyard again, her massive form blocking the most obvious escape routes, her eyes glowing like embers as she surveyed her domain of destruction. Aemond remained mounted, Dark Sister gleaming in his hand, a dark angel of vengeance.
"He's cut off the direct path to Kingspyre's main entrance," Bennard Stark grunted, joining Ciel's group, his face black with soot. "The old siege tunnels near the kitchens, nephew? They should lead beneath it."
"Lead the way, Uncle," Ciel ordered. "Sebastian, ensure our tail is clear."
Sebastian merely inclined his head, then melted back into the smoke and shadows, from which muffled screams and the clang of steel soon emerged, then abruptly ceased.
The tunnels beneath Harrenhal were as oppressive as the castle above. They were tight, damp, and filled with an ancient, suffocating darkness. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth, decay, and something else… a faint, metallic tang that Ciel recognized as old blood, mixed with the ever-present psychic residue of fear. His greensight made him acutely aware of the countless tormented souls who had perished in these lightless depths. He saw fleeting images: prisoners forgotten and starved, victims of unspeakable tortures from the days of Harren the Black, their despair clinging to the very stones. It was a struggle to keep his mind focused, to not be overwhelmed by the castle's psychic refuse.
Sarx, however, proved invaluable here. The direwolf's senses, unclouded by human imagination or psychic sensitivity, navigated the lightless maze with unerring accuracy, sniffing out clear paths, avoiding collapsed sections, and growling warnings at junctions where Green soldiers were attempting to cut them off.
They emerged, coughing and blinking, into the cavernous undercroft of the Kingspyre Tower. It was relatively untouched by Vhagar's flames, its thick stone vaults having withstood the inferno above. Here, they found Lords Manderly and Tully, along with several hundred survivors, their faces grim but resolute.
"What now, Stark?" Manderly asked, his usual joviality entirely gone, replaced by a weary determination. "We are trapped like rats."
"Not trapped, Lord Manderly," Ciel corrected, his voice echoing in the vast, shadowy space. "Contained. Aemond believes he has us cornered. He will grow impatient. He will want to savor his victory, to see us brought before him." He looked up, towards the distant, unseen sky. "Jacaerys is still out there. Vhagar is wounded. Aemond is proud. These are elements we can use."
His new plan was even more desperate than the last. He knew Aemond would eventually send men into the Kingspyre Tower to root them out, or try to use Vhagar to demolish it entirely, though its sheer bulk made that a time-consuming prospect even for the great dragon.
"Sebastian," Ciel said, turning to his butler, who appeared at his side as if summoned by thought, immaculate despite their journey through the tunnels. "The remaining wildfire. We had charges set in the upper levels of this tower, did we not?"
"Indeed, my Lord," Sebastian confirmed. "Intended to discourage Vhagar from perching, as with the Tower of Dread."
"Aemond will try to bring this tower down on us, or send his men in force," Ciel stated. "We will let him. We will draw his ground forces deep into the tower. And then, Sebastian, you will ensure the charges are… re-calibrated. Not to demolish the tower outwards, but inwards. A localized implosion, targeting the central stairwell and primary support structures, if possible, once Aemond's men are committed."
The Northern lords stared at him, aghast.
"By the gods, nephew!" Bennard exclaimed. "You mean to bring the tower down on our own heads as well?"
"Not entirely, Uncle," Ciel said, a chillingly calm expression on his face. "We will be in these undercrofts, which are heavily reinforced. The collapse will be primarily in the levels above. It will seal the main access points, bury Aemond's assault force, and perhaps… destabilize the tower enough to make Vhagar wary of approaching it too closely again. It will buy us time. Time for Jacaerys to act, or for us to find another way out."
"It's madness!" Lord Karstark declared, yet there was a grudging admiration in his voice. "But it's a Stark kind of madness I can fight for!"
As if on cue, the ground trembled. Aemond, impatient, had Vhagar attack the Kingspyre. Massive claws tore at the stonework, and gouts of flame licked at the upper windows. But the tower, built for forgotten kings, was immensely strong. Vhagar's assault was damaging, but not immediately catastrophic.
Then came the shouts of Green soldiers from the levels above. Aemond, unwilling to risk Vhagar further against the tower's remaining wildfire charges (if he suspected them) or simply eager to finish them himself, had sent in his ground troops. They were pouring in through breaches Vhagar had made, or up the main stairwells.
"They come, my Lord!" Ser Rodrik yelled from a barricade at the entrance to the undercroft. "Dozens of them!"
"Let them come," Ciel said, his voice soft but carrying a deadly resolve. "Let them commit. Sebastian… you know your task."
Sebastian's smile was a brief, brilliant flash of white teeth in the gloom. "It will be… spectacular, my Lord." He then vanished up a narrow, winding service stairwell that led to the upper levels, moving with a silence and speed that defied belief.
The fighting in the undercroft and the lower levels of the Kingspyre was desperate. Northmen and Riverlanders, outnumbered and exhausted, fought with the courage of cornered wolves, defending every narrow passage, every crumbling archway. Ciel was in the thick of it, Sarx a grey blur of teeth and claws beside him, his own blade tasting Green blood. He saw Bennard fall with a cry, a spear through his shoulder, but Lord Manderly, his massive form a bulwark, dragged his uncle to safety.
Above them, they could hear the heavier tramp of more Green soldiers entering the tower, spreading through the main floors, confident that the defenders were trapped below.
Ciel waited, his senses strained, listening for Sebastian's signal, or for the tell-tale shift in the tower's groaning protests. He could feel the weight of Harrenhal, its cursed history, its countless dead, pressing in. He briefly closed his eye, reaching out with his greensight, trying to pierce the chaos. He saw a flash: Aemond, dismounted now, Dark Sister in hand, entering the base of the Kingspyre, a look of arrogant triumph on his face as he prepared to oversee the slaughter of the trapped Northerners. He was inside the tower.
"He's in the tower!" Ciel yelled to Ser Rodrik. "Aemond himself is here!"
Just then, a deep, resonant thrum echoed from the heart of the Kingspyre, followed by a series of sharp, cracking explosions from high above. Not the indiscriminate roar of dragonfire, but controlled, internal detonations. Sebastian's work.
The entire Kingspyre Tower shuddered violently. A horrendous grinding sound filled the air as massive stone supports gave way. Dust and debris rained down into the undercroft. From above came the sudden, terrified screams of Green soldiers, cut short by the sound of collapsing floors and crushing masonry. The main stairwell, Ciel knew, would be an impassable avalanche of stone.
The tower did not fall completely. But its upper half seemed to settle, to implode inwards, great clouds of dust billowing from its windows. The sounds of fighting from the levels above abruptly ceased, replaced by an eerie, choking silence.
Aemond Targaryen, who had just stepped into the tower's main entrance hall on the ground floor, was met by a cascade of stone and falling bodies from the collapsing central structure. He leaped back, his sapphire eye wide with disbelief and sudden fury as he realized the tower was coming down around his men.
Outside, Vhagar, sensing the tower's instability or her rider's sudden peril, let out an anxious, questioning roar. Jacaerys, seizing the moment, urged Vermax into a daring dive, bathing Vhagar's already wounded wing in a fresh torrent of green flame. The great dragon shrieked in agony, stumbling, her attention completely diverted.
"Sebastian!" Ciel yelled into the dust-filled undercroft.
The demon butler appeared beside him, seemingly untouched, though a fine layer of stone dust coated his immaculate black attire. "The primary structural supports of the upper levels have been… compromised, my Lord. As per your instruction. The central section is a deathtrap. Prince Aemond, I believe, was near the main entrance. He may be trapped, or at least, inconvenienced."
"Good," Ciel breathed, a grim smile touching his lips. He looked at his remaining men, their faces grimy, bloodied, but now with a wild, desperate hope in their eyes. "The beast is wounded, its master discomfited! Northmen! Tully men! To me! We take the fight to them! We are not rats in a trap! We are wolves in the ruins! For Winterfell! For Riverrun! For the Queen!"
With a ferocious howl that was echoed by Sarx and a thousand desperate men, Ciel led the charge out of the undercroft, back into the smoke-filled, dragon-scorched remnants of Harrenhal. They caught Aemond's remaining ground forces, disorganized and terrified by the tower's collapse and Vhagar's distress, in a pincer.
The battle that followed was a savage, swirling melee amidst the ruins. Aemond Targaryen, having narrowly escaped being crushed, fought like a cornered lion, Dark Sister a blur of silver death. But he was largely alone now, his elite guard buried or scattered. The Northmen, sensing victory, fell upon the remaining Greens with a desperate fury.
Ciel found himself face to face with Aemond amidst the rubble of what had once been a grand gallery. The one-eyed prince was a terrifying figure, his sapphire eye blazing with hatred, his silver hair plastered to his brow with sweat and grime.
"Stark!" Aemond snarled, lunging. "You will die for this insolence!"
Their swords met with a clash that echoed through the ruins. Ciel, though skilled, was no match for Aemond's raw power and experience with Dark Sister. But he was not alone. Sebastian was there, a shadow at his side, his movements a counterpoint to Aemond's fury, deflecting, parrying, creating openings. Sarx too, snapping and snarling at Aemond's legs, distracting him.
It was Sebastian who created the decisive moment. With a movement too swift to follow, he disarmed Aemond, Dark Sister clattering on the flagstones. Before Aemond could react, Sebastian delivered a precise, debilitating blow to the prince's sword arm, then another to his leg. Aemond cried out in pain and rage, stumbling.
"Now, my Lord," Sebastian said calmly.
Ciel didn't hesitate. He lunged, not with his sword, but with the Valyrian steel dagger, plunging it deep into the juncture of Aemond's neck and shoulder, aiming to disable, not necessarily to kill. Aemond screamed, a raw, agonized sound, and collapsed, clutching his ruined arm and bleeding profusely from his neck.
At that moment, Vhagar, having finally driven off Vermax (who was now visibly wounded and struggling to stay airborne), landed with a crash in the nearest courtyard, her massive head swinging wildly, searching for her rider. Seeing Aemond down, she unleashed a torrent of flame, not at Ciel, but at the rubble around her fallen prince, trying to drive everyone away.
"We have him!" Ciel yelled, grabbing the dazed and bleeding Aemond. "To the dungeons! Sebastian, secure Dark Sister!"
The battle for Harrenhal was over. The cost had been immense. But against all odds, the Black forces held the cursed castle, and more astonishingly, they held its would-be conqueror, Prince Aemond Targaryen, captive. Vhagar, riderless and wounded, still rampaged outside, but without Aemond's direction, her fury was unfocused, her attacks increasingly erratic.
As Ciel dragged the semi-conscious, cursing Aemond Targaryen towards the relative safety of the dungeons beneath the Tower of Dread, he knew this victory, however costly, would send shockwaves through the Seven Kingdoms. The wolf had not only bloodied the dragon; he had caged its most dangerous rider.