Chapter 13: The Dragon's Grief and the Captive Prince
The immediate aftermath of Prince Aemond Targaryen's capture was a maelstrom of chaotic activity within the smoking, corpse-strewn ruins of Harrenhal. The surviving Northmen and Riverlanders, fueled by a mixture of adrenaline, disbelief, and grim triumph, moved to secure their hard-won prize, their movements jerky with exhaustion and the lingering terror of Vhagar's rampage.
Ciel Phantomhive, still breathing heavily from the exertion of Aemond's capture and the brutal fighting, barked orders with a clarity that cut through the haze of battle. "Lord Manderly! Secure all gates! Reinforce the barricades! Expect Vhagar to try and tear this castle apart to get to her rider!"
"Ser Rodrik! Gather our wounded! The sept, what remains of it, will serve as our infirmary. Maester Lorcan will need every able hand!"
"Lord Tully! Your men know these Riverlands. Send out scouts – cautious ones. We need to know if any Green reinforcements are near, and more importantly, Vhagar's immediate movements."
Prince Jacaerys Velaryon landed Vermax, himself clearly injured with a nasty burn along one wing and looking utterly spent, in the relatively clear space of the central courtyard. The young prince, his silver hair matted with sweat and soot, slid from his dragon's back, wincing as he put weight on his leg. "Lord Stark… Aemond… you truly have him?" he asked, his violet eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
"He is secured, Your Grace," Ciel confirmed, gesturing to where Sebastian, with an unnerving calm, was supervising several stout Northmen who were binding the still-semi-conscious, bleeding Aemond Targaryen with heavy iron chains found in Harrenhal's own dungeons. Dark Sister, Aemond's Valyrian steel sword, lay on the ground nearby; Sebastian picked it up with a delicate, almost reverent touch, as if handling a venomous snake. "He is wounded, but alive. A prize that will echo through the Seven Kingdoms."
Aemond, roused by the cold iron, snarled, his one sapphire eye blazing with undiluted hatred despite his predicament. "You northern mongrel! Release me! Vhagar will burn you all to cinders! She will melt these cursed stones around your broken bones!"
"Vhagar is wounded, Targaryen," Ciel retorted, stepping closer to loom over the captured prince. "And riderless. A beast of that size, in pain and without direction, is as much a danger to her own cause as to ours. Sebastian, ensure Prince Aemond is taken to the deepest, most secure cell in the Tower of Dread. Double the guard. He is not to be harmed further, but neither is he to be coddled. And ensure his wounds are tended, just enough to keep him alive and… coherent." He wanted Aemond lucid for questioning, and for whatever strategic purpose he might serve.
"As you command, my Lord," Sebastian replied, his smile thin. "I shall personally see to the Prince's… accommodations." He gave Aemond a look that made even the one-eyed prince flinch.
The problem of Vhagar was indeed immediate and terrifying. The colossal dragon, riderless and in agony from her wounds – the collapsed tower masonry, Vermax's repeated strikes, and perhaps even some of the wildfire's scorching heat – did not simply fly away. She circled Harrenhal, her roars of pain and grief shaking the very foundations of the ruined castle. Occasionally, she would unleash a blind torrent of fire, not at any specific target, but as if trying to incinerate the very air that held the scent of her suffering and her lost rider. Each blast sent fresh waves of terror through the defenders.
"She will not leave him," Jacaerys said, his gaze fixed on the tormented dragon circling above. "Dragons bond deeply. Vhagar has known Aemond since he was a boy. Her grief will be… monumental."
"And her rage," Ciel added grimly. "We cannot hold Harrenhal indefinitely with that beast laying siege to us from the sky." He looked at Vermax, whose own wounds were being tended by Jacaerys and several maesters. "Can Vermax fly again soon, Your Grace?"
Jacaerys shook his head. "His wing is badly burned. He will not carry a rider for days, perhaps weeks. And even then… to face Vhagar again, even a wounded Vhagar…" His voice trailed off.
The cost of their victory was slowly becoming clear. Bennard Stark had taken a spear to the shoulder and was feverish. Lord Karstark had lost his eldest son in the fighting within the Kingspyre. Lord Manderly's heavy infantry had borne the brunt of Aemond's initial assault on the Hall of a Hundred Hearths and suffered grievously. Of the nearly twenty thousand Northmen and their Riverlander allies who had marched on Harrenhal, perhaps two-thirds remained effective fighting men, and many of those bore wounds. Harrenhal itself was a charnel house, its ancient stones further blackened, its ruins deeper.
Ciel walked through the makeshift infirmary, his expression unreadable. He saw Maester Lorcan desperately trying to save a young Stark bowman whose arm was mangled. He saw Northern and Tully men alike, moaning in pain, their lives hanging by a thread. The scent of blood, burned flesh, and despair was overwhelming. This was the price of his audacious gamble. A victory, yes, but one paid for in an ocean of suffering.
"Your orders, Lord Stark?" a visibly shaken Lord Elmo Tully asked, approaching him. "What of Vhagar? What of Aemond?"
Before Ciel could reply, a series of thunderous crashes echoed from the outer walls of Harrenhal. Vhagar, in her grief-stricken rage, was physically attacking the castle, ramming her colossal, wounded body against the ancient stonework, tearing down sections of rampart with her massive claws and teeth.
"She is trying to break in!" a guardsman yelled, his voice cracking with panic.
"All men to defensive positions!" Ciel commanded, his voice cutting through the rising fear. "Archers, focus your fire on her existing wounds! If she creates a breach, hold it at all costs!" He turned to Sebastian. "Is there any way to… communicate… with such a creature? To drive her off?"
Sebastian's crimson eyes held a thoughtful, almost predatory gleam. "Dragons are creatures of immense pride and primal instinct, my Lord. Pain and fear are languages they understand. Vhagar is currently consumed by grief and rage. Direct communication is… unlikely. However, a significant enough deterrent, or the removal of her perceived reason for staying…" He glanced towards the Tower of Dread where Aemond was imprisoned.
Ciel understood the unspoken implication. Killing Aemond might drive Vhagar away in ultimate despair, or it might unleash an even greater, more focused destructive fury. It was an intolerable risk either way.
"No," Ciel said firmly. "Aemond alive is a far greater asset than Aemond dead, for now. We need another solution for his beast."
His greensight, which had been a low, unsettling thrum of Harrenhal's cursed history, suddenly flared. It was not a clear vision, but an overwhelming wave of Vhagar's raw emotion: pain, confusion, a desperate, possessive grief for her rider, and a burning, murderous rage directed at the castle that held him. There was no complex thought, no strategy, just primal agony and fury. And a deep, instinctual fear of the place where she had been so grievously wounded – the remnants of the Tower of Dread.
"The Tower of Dread," Ciel muttered. "She associates it with her injury." He looked up at the circling, roaring dragon. "Sebastian, can you get more wildfire? The charges we used… are there any left?"
"A small quantity, my Lord," Sebastian confirmed. "Enough for a… discouragement, perhaps, but not to slay such a beast."
"I don't want to slay her. Not yet. I want to drive her from Harrenhal's immediate vicinity," Ciel said, a desperate plan forming. "If she fears one part of this castle, perhaps we can make her fear all of it."
He outlined his plan to a skeptical group of lords. They would use the remaining wildfire to create a series of controlled explosions around the base of Harrenhal, particularly near sections Vhagar was attacking, timing them with her approaches. The aim was not to harm her further, necessarily, but to associate the entire castle with sudden, painful, and unpredictable attacks, playing on the fear and confusion already present in her wounded state. Jacaerys, despite Vermax's injuries precluding flight, offered the expertise of his dragonkeepers, who understood dragon behavior.
It was a terrifying, near-suicidal endeavor. Men would have to venture close to the enraged dragon to place and ignite the charges. But the alternative – waiting for Vhagar to tear Harrenhal apart stone by stone, or to eventually create a breach large enough for her to pour her fire directly into their remaining strongholds – was even grimmer.
For the next several hours, Harrenhal became a stage for a deadly dance between wounded dragon and desperate men. Sebastian, moving with his usual unnerving speed and precision, seemed to be everywhere, directing the placement of the wildfire, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the surrounding terror. Northmen, their faces grim, darted out to light fuses as Vhagar approached, then scrambled for cover as the charges erupted, sending showers of stone and flame into the air, often perilously close to the dragon.
Vhagar, already in pain and disoriented, reacted with increasing fear and confusion. The sudden explosions, the searing heat, the rain of stone – it was too much like the collapse of the tower that had first injured her. Her roars became less enraged and more filled with bewildered pain. She began to keep her distance, circling higher, her attacks becoming more sporadic, less focused.
Finally, as dusk began to creep over the blood-soaked ruins, Vhagar, with a long, mournful cry that seemed to echo the despair of Harrenhal itself, turned and flew eastward, away from the cursed castle, her massive form a wounded silhouette against the dying sun. She was not defeated, merely… deterred, for now. A collective sigh of relief, so profound it was almost a sob, went through the exhausted defenders.
With Vhagar temporarily gone, Ciel could finally turn his attention to his captive. He found Aemond Targaryen chained in a dank, lightless cell deep within the foundations of the Tower of Dread. His wounds had been crudely but effectively bandaged by Maester Lorcan. The one-eyed prince was slumped against the wall, his remaining sapphire eye burning with a feverish, hateful light when Ciel entered, flanked by Sebastian who carried a single torch. Dark Sister was now sheathed at Ciel's own hip – a deliberate provocation.
"Come to gloat, Stark?" Aemond rasped, his voice hoarse. "Enjoy your brief victory. My brother, King Aegon, will raise armies. My mother, Queen Alicent, will demand your head. They will scour the North from the earth for this."
"Your threats are as tiresome as your arrogance, Targaryen," Ciel replied, his voice devoid of inflection. He crouched down to meet Aemond's gaze. "You are my prisoner. Vhagar, your pet monster, has fled, wounded and riderless. Your forces in Harrenhal are annihilated. You have lost."
"I have lost nothing!" Aemond spat. "Vhagar will return! She will burn you from your bolt-hole! You cannot hold me!"
"Perhaps," Ciel conceded. "But for now, you are a valuable asset. Tell me, Prince Aemond, what is your life worth to your brother, the Usurper? What would he trade for your safe return? Or your mother, the Dowager Queen?"
Aemond laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "You think to ransom me? I am a Prince of the Blood! I am not some common hostage!"
"All men have a price, Prince Aemond," Ciel said softly, his eye glinting in the torchlight. "And you, who cost Queen Rhaenyra a son, your price will be exceptionally high. Or perhaps… perhaps there is no price your brother would pay. Perhaps he would be relieved to be rid of such a reckless, dangerous competitor for his stolen throne." Ciel was deliberately prodding, seeking a reaction, any information.
Aemond's eye flashed with fury. "You lie! My brother trusts me! My mother adores me!" Yet, a flicker of uncertainty, quickly masked, crossed his face.
Sebastian, who had been observing silently, spoke, his voice a silken caress that was somehow more menacing than any shout. "Indeed, Prince Aemond. Family loyalty is such a… fragile thing, is it not? Particularly amongst those who covet power. One might even say that your… spirited independence… could be seen as a liability by those who prefer more… pliable… instruments."
Aemond glared at Sebastian, a new kind of fear dawning in his eye. This black-clad attendant was more than just a servant; there was something deeply unsettling about him.
"Enough," Ciel said. "You will remain here, Prince Aemond. You will be treated correctly, as befits your station, as long as you do not cause trouble. But make no mistake: your fate is now in my hands. And I am not known for my sentimentality." He rose. "Consider your position. And perhaps, when you are ready to be more… cooperative… we can discuss terms."
He left Aemond in the darkness, the prince's curses and threats echoing behind them.
Ravens were dispatched to Dragonstone, bearing news of the improbable victory at Harrenhal and the capture of Prince Aemond Targaryen. Ciel's message to Queen Rhaenyra was concise, detailing the events and stating that he held Aemond pending her royal instruction, though he strongly advised against any summary execution, emphasizing the prince's value as a hostage and a bargaining chip. He also requested urgent reinforcements and supplies, subtly reminding her of the "Pact of Ice and Fire" and the North's immense sacrifice.
The next few days were spent consolidating their hold on the shattered ruin of Harrenhal, burying the dead, tending to the scores of wounded, and trying to divine Vhagar's intentions. The great dragon was occasionally sighted circling in the far distance, a brooding, mournful presence, but she made no further direct attacks on the castle.
The mood among the Northern and Riverlander forces was a strange mix of exhaustion, pride, and lingering fear. They had achieved the impossible, captured one of the Green's most feared commanders. But the cost had been brutal, and the shadow of Vhagar still loomed. Their young Lord Stark, however, seemed unfazed, his cold resolve a rock amidst the uncertainty.
Ciel knew their position was still precarious. Harrenhal was a ruin, difficult to supply, impossible to hold long-term against a determined foe, especially if Vhagar returned with renewed purpose or if Green armies marched upon them. Aemond's capture was a monumental victory, but it was also a flaming brand that would draw the full fury of the Greens.
As he stood on the battlements of the Kingspyre Tower, looking out over the desolate, war-torn Riverlands, Ciel considered his next move. Sebastian appeared beside him, as always.
"A significant triumph, my Lord," the butler observed. "You have altered the course of this war."
"The war is far from over, Sebastian," Ciel replied. "This victory has merely raised the stakes. And the price." He felt the weight of every life lost, every man wounded, every decision made. The game of thrones was far more unforgiving than any he had played in London's underworld. Here, the pieces were kingdoms, and the cost of a misstep was annihilation.
He had caged a dragon prince. Now, he had to decide what to do with his prize, and how to survive the inevitable storm that its capture would unleash. The ghosts of Harrenhal seemed to whisper their approval, or perhaps their warnings, in the sighing wind.