Chapter 19: Dragonstone's Web and the Queen's Gambit
The return to Dragonstone was less a triumphant procession and more a weary dragging of battered ships and exhausted men. The victory in the Gullet had been hard-won, and the cost was etched on every face. The Velaryon fleet, though victorious, was heavily damaged, its proud banners tattered, its decks stained with blood. The cheers that greeted their return were muted, tinged with a somber awareness of the lives lost and the long road that still lay ahead.
Ciel Phantomhive, however, felt a cold, almost detached satisfaction. He had delivered a strategic victory, crippling the Triarchy's naval power and securing the Black's control of the Gullet. He had also, perhaps more importantly, demonstrated his own strategic acumen and Sebastian Michaelis's… unique capabilities… to the inner circle of Queen Rhaenyra's court. He had played a dangerous game, and he had won. For now.
He disembarked from the battered Valyrian, his black attire and the ever-present Dark Sister at his hip marking him as a figure of both respect and unease. The Northmen under his command, those who had survived the battle, were a grim, silent presence, their faces reflecting the harsh realities of war and the lingering shock of Sebastian's actions. They had seen things in the Gullet that they would likely carry to their graves.
Prince Daemon Targaryen, however, greeted Ciel with a strange, almost admiring smile. "You have a knack for turning the tide, Lord Stark," he said, his violet eyes gleaming. "And your… butler… is a force to behold. I have never seen a man treat dragon-bane as if it were spilled wine." He clapped Ciel on the shoulder, a gesture that was both a commendation and a subtle warning. "You and your… household… are welcome allies, Cregan Stark. But I would not wish to be your enemy."
"I have no desire to be your enemy, Prince Daemon," Ciel replied evenly. "My loyalty is to Queen Rhaenyra, and to the Pact of Ice and Fire. My actions serve that loyalty." He knew Daemon was testing him, probing his limits, trying to understand the nature of his bond with Sebastian. Ciel offered nothing, revealing only what he chose to reveal.
Queen Rhaenyra, who had waited for their return in the Stone Drum, greeted them with a formal gratitude that barely masked her relief. The news of the victory in the Gullet was a much-needed balm to her weary court, a counterpoint to the grim tidings from other fronts. But her gaze lingered on Ciel, a complex mixture of gratitude, curiosity, and a faint unease.
"Lord Stark," she said, her voice echoing in the vast, shadowed hall. "You have delivered us a great victory. The Gullet is ours once more. The Triarchy's fleet is broken. You have my profound thanks, and the thanks of the entire realm." She then looked at the exhausted Northmen, her expression softening slightly. "Your men fought bravely, far from their homes. They have earned rest and respite, and they shall have it. Dragonstone is yours for as long as you require."
Ciel inclined his head. "Your Grace, my men are weary, but they are warriors. They will recover. And I will remain on Dragonstone for a time, as you requested, to offer whatever counsel I can." He knew that his presence here, as a representative of the North and as a figure who had undeniably shifted the balance of power, was strategically important. He would use his position to further secure the North's interests and to influence the course of the war.
Aemond Targaryen, still chained and now even more sullen and furious after his failed rescue, was brought before the Queen. He was a shadow of his former arrogant self, his injuries, his captivity, and the loss of Vhagar having clearly taken their toll. Yet, he still held himself with a defiant pride, his one sapphire eye burning with hatred.
"So, sister," Aemond spat, his voice hoarse. "I am brought before you in chains, like a common criminal. You think this victory will win you the throne? You are a fool. The Greens will not yield. Vhagar will avenge me."
Rhaenyra's face was a mask of cold fury. "You murdered my son, Aemond. You unleashed your dragon upon a defenseless boy. You will answer for that crime. But you will not die quickly, or easily. You will be held as a hostage, a living reminder to the Greens of the price they will pay for their treachery. And perhaps… perhaps you can be used to lure Vhagar into a trap, if she ever returns to her senses."
Aemond's face twisted in a mixture of rage and terror. "You would use me as bait? You are even more monstrous than I thought!"
"I am a Queen fighting for her throne, Aemond," Rhaenyra said, her voice like ice. "And I will use every weapon at my disposal to win. Even you." She gestured to the guards. "Take him away. Confine him to the deepest cells beneath the Dragonmont. And ensure he sees no sunlight."
As Aemond was dragged away, cursing and spitting, Rhaenyra turned to Ciel. "Lord Stark, your counsel is invaluable. You have a strategic mind, and a… remarkable grasp of the realities of warfare. I would speak with you further, in private."
Ciel was led to Rhaenyra's private chambers, a starkly furnished suite within the ancient keep. Sebastian, as always, accompanied him, his presence a silent, watchful shadow. The Queen dismissed her attendants, leaving only herself, Daemon, Ciel, and Sebastian.
"Lord Stark," Rhaenyra began, her voice softer now, less regal, more… human. "You have seen the horrors of this war. You have witnessed the power of dragons, and the depths of human cruelty. You have also demonstrated a… unique capacity for both strategy and… ruthlessness." She glanced at Sebastian, her expression unreadable. "I need your advice. What is your assessment of our situation? What should be our next move?"
Ciel considered. He had gained a measure of the Queen's trust, but he knew he was walking a tightrope. He was a valuable ally, but also an outsider, a Northerner in a world of Targaryen dragons and Valyrian intrigues. He chose his words carefully.
"Your Grace," Ciel said, his voice calm and measured. "The victory in the Gullet was crucial, but it is not decisive. The Greens still hold King's Landing, and they command significant forces. Ser Criston Cole marches towards Harrenhal. And Vhagar, though temporarily deterred, remains a wild card. This war will be long and bloody."
"Cole is a threat," Daemon agreed, his hand resting on Dark Sister. "He is a skilled commander, and he is driven by a fanatical loyalty to Aegon. We must crush him before he can consolidate his forces in the Riverlands."
"An assault on King's Landing is tempting," Rhaenyra mused, "but it would be a costly undertaking. The city is heavily fortified, and the Greens have dragons of their own, though none as formidable as Vhagar, when she is controlled."
"A direct assault on King's Landing now would be a fool's errand," Ciel stated, his voice firm. "It would be a siege, a grinding war of attrition. The Riverlands are a more vulnerable target. If Cole can be defeated, if the Riverlands can be secured, we can isolate the Greens, cut off their supplies, and strangle them slowly."
He then outlined a strategy that was both audacious and pragmatic. They would use the remnants of the Velaryon fleet, reinforced by ships from Dragonstone, to harass the Green-controlled ports along the coast, disrupting their supply lines and forcing them to divert resources. Jacaerys, with his dragon Vermax (once healed), would be tasked with scouting and raiding Green-held territories in the Reach and the Westerlands, sowing chaos and fear. Meanwhile, a smaller, swift force, led by Ciel and Daemon, would move to intercept Criston Cole before he could reach Harrenhal.
"We will not engage Cole in a pitched battle," Ciel emphasized. "We will use the terrain, our mobility, and our knowledge of the Riverlands to harass his supply lines, ambush his foraging parties, and bleed him slowly. We will make him pay for every mile he marches."
Daemon's eyes gleamed with a dangerous anticipation. "A war of shadows and whispers. A war of attrition. A war that suits a Northern wolf. I like it, Stark. It is a game I know well." He looked at Rhaenyra. "We will take a small, elite force. The swiftest ships, the most seasoned warriors. We will bleed Cole dry, one cut at a time."
Rhaenyra considered their plan, her gaze thoughtful. It was a risky strategy, but it offered the best chance of long-term success. And it placed a significant amount of trust, and power, in the hands of the young, enigmatic Lord of Winterfell.
"Very well," she said finally. "We will follow your counsel, Lord Stark. You and Prince Daemon will take a swift force to the Riverlands. You will bleed Ser Criston Cole. You will show the Greens what happens when they face the fury of the North, and the cunning of its lord." She looked at Ciel, her violet eyes holding a strange intensity. "You have proven yourself a valuable ally, Lord Stark. But remember, your oath is to me. And I expect your continued… effectiveness."
Ciel inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "My oath is to Queen Rhaenyra, and to the North. And I intend to honor both, Your Grace."
As he left the Queen's chambers, with Daemon's unsettling gaze following him, Ciel felt the weight of his new role. He was no longer just a warrior; he was a strategist, a diplomat, a player in the deadly game of thrones. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that the next act of that game would be played out in the war-torn Riverlands, with him and Daemon leading a desperate, bloody dance against a ruthless enemy. And Sebastian, his demon butler, would be dancing by his side.