Chapter 20: The Riverlands Run Red
The departure from Dragonstone was swift and purposeful. Prince Daemon Targaryen, once his decision was made, wasted no time. He chose a handful of swift, well-armed galleys, including his own flagship, The Rogue, and filled them with a handpicked force of Dragonstone's most seasoned warriors and a contingent of Ciel's remaining Northmen. He also brought Maester Gerardys, Dragonstone's resident healer and scholar, to tend to any wounded and to act as a scribe. The atmosphere was tense, a mixture of grim determination and a palpable undercurrent of unease. They were sailing into the heart of enemy territory, to confront a skilled and ruthless commander, with only a small force and the unpredictable power of dragons as their main advantage.
Ciel Phantomhive, Lord Cregan Stark, stood on the deck of The Rogue, the salt spray whipping his dark hair across his face, his single blue eye fixed on the horizon. He wore his black armor, Dark Sister at his hip, a potent symbol of his authority and his purpose. He felt the familiar chill of anticipation, the cold, calculating focus that had served him so well in the London underworld. This was a different kind of game, on a far grander scale, but the principles remained the same: assess the enemy, exploit their weaknesses, and strike with ruthless efficiency.
Sebastian Michaelis, naturally, was at his side, as ever. He seemed almost… energized by the prospect of impending conflict, his crimson eyes gleaming with a restrained excitement that was both unnerving and, Ciel had to admit, reassuring. He had taken to Dragonstone with a strange ease, as if the volcanic island and its draconic energies resonated with some hidden aspect of his nature.
"A rather… straightforward mission, my Lord," Sebastian observed, as The Rogue sliced through the waves, flanked by the other galleys. "Locate Ser Criston Cole, harass his supply lines, and bleed him slowly. A protracted campaign of attrition. While I appreciate the… nuanced brutality of such a strategy, I confess I find myself yearning for a more… direct engagement."
"Patience, Sebastian," Ciel replied, his voice calm. "We will have our direct engagement, in time. Cole is not a fool. He will not allow us to pick at him indefinitely. He will seek to bring us to battle, on his terms. And when he does, we will be ready."
Prince Daemon, who had overheard their exchange, turned to them, a predatory smile on his lips. "You speak of battle, Stark? You have a taste for it, despite your youth?"
"I have a taste for victory, Prince Daemon," Ciel corrected, his gaze unwavering. "And victory often requires a certain… directness." He deliberately echoed Sebastian's word.
Daemon's smile widened. "Indeed. A man after my own heart. Or perhaps… something more." His violet eyes flickered towards Sebastian, then back to Ciel. "You and your… shadow… are a curious pair, Lord Stark. I look forward to seeing your particular brand of 'directness' in action. It is said the Northmen are fierce warriors. I trust you will not disappoint."
"The North does not disappoint, Prince Daemon," Ciel said, his voice flat.
Their journey down the coast was swift but cautious. Daemon, despite his reputation for recklessness, was a seasoned commander. He used swift scouts and coastal informants to track Cole's movements, avoiding any direct confrontation with the main Green army. Their initial targets were small: supply convoys, foraging parties, isolated garrisons. They struck swiftly and brutally, raiding and burning, leaving a trail of chaos and fear in their wake.
Ciel, while not commanding the sailors or the dragonriders, offered strategic advice, drawing on his experience in the London underworld where information and calculated strikes were paramount. He emphasized speed, surprise, and the exploitation of enemy weaknesses. He also noted the morale of the Green troops they encountered. Many were conscripted levies, poorly equipped and poorly motivated. Their loyalty to the Greens seemed based more on fear of Cole's harsh discipline than on any genuine conviction.
Sebastian, as always, was an invaluable, if terrifying, asset. He moved like a phantom through the raided settlements, gathering information, "persuading" reluctant informants, and ensuring that no Green soldier escaped to warn their comrades. His methods were… efficient, and the results were undeniable. The terror he inspired was a weapon in itself, spreading through the Green ranks like wildfire.
"Your man is a… marvel, Stark," Daemon remarked once, after Sebastian had single-handedly captured a group of Green scouts who had been attempting to ambush their party. The scouts were found tied to a tree, alive but… significantly less talkative than before. "He moves like a shadow, fights like a demon, and leaves men… strangely compliant. I confess, I am intrigued."
"Sebastian is loyal and effective, Prince Daemon," Ciel said, his voice carefully neutral. "His skills are… at my disposal." He knew Daemon was still trying to understand the nature of his bond with Sebastian, to categorize the demon. Ciel offered no explanation, allowing the mystery to linger.
As they moved deeper into the Riverlands, the devastation of the war became more apparent. Burned villages, abandoned farms, and columns of refugees heading north were a constant reminder of the human cost of the conflict. Ciel felt a growing unease, a sense of responsibility for the suffering he witnessed. He was a warrior, a strategist, but he was also a lord, responsible for the well-being of his people, even those who were not his own.
"This land… it bleeds," Ciel said to Daemon one evening, as they camped near the ruins of a once-prosperous town. "The Greens have sown chaos and destruction. And we… we are adding to it."
Daemon shrugged, his face grim. "War is never clean, Stark. The Greens chose this path. They will reap the whirlwind. And we will ensure that they pay a price so steep, they will never again dare to challenge the Iron Throne."
They received word from Jacaerys, who was using Vermax to scout ahead. Cole's army was indeed marching towards Harrenhal, but it was moving slowly, hampered by the scorched-earth tactics of the retreating Riverlanders and the constant harassment from Jacaerys's dragon. Cole was also reportedly furious at the news of Aemond's capture, his rage making him even more ruthless.
"He is coming for us, Stark," Daemon said, his violet eyes gleaming with anticipation. "He seeks to avenge his fallen prince, and to reclaim Harrenhal. He is marching into our trap."
Ciel agreed. Cole's pride and his desire for revenge were predictable. He would not allow the Northmen and the Targaryens to simply pick at him. He would seek a decisive battle. And Ciel intended to give him one, but on his own terms.
He devised a plan, a daring gambit that relied on his knowledge of the terrain, his understanding of Cole's character, and Sebastian's… unique abilities. He proposed to lure Cole into a carefully chosen killing ground, a narrow pass near the ruins of a castle called Stone Hedge, where the Riverlands' landscape would negate Cole's superior numbers and where a certain… theatrical element… could be employed to maximum effect.
"It is a risk, Stark," Daemon said, studying the map. "If Cole sees through our deception, we could be caught between his army and the ruins."
"Cole is driven by pride and anger, Prince Daemon," Ciel countered. "He will see the bait, and he will take it. And when he does, we will spring the trap."
The trap was sprung three days later. Ciel, with Daemon and a select force of their best warriors, positioned themselves in the narrow pass near Stone Hedge, using the ruins of the castle to conceal their numbers. They left a small, visible force in the open, deliberately appearing weak and vulnerable, a tempting target for Cole's advancing army.
Sebastian, of course, played a crucial role. He moved through the ruins like a ghost, setting traps, rigging explosives with wildfire salvaged from the Gullet battle, and generally ensuring that the killing ground was as… inhospitable… as possible for the approaching Greens.
As Cole's army entered the pass, their banners snapping in the wind, their ranks stretching for miles, they saw the small, seemingly isolated force of their enemies. Cole, predictably, took the bait. He ordered a full assault, eager to crush the remaining Black forces and avenge Aemond.
But as the Greens advanced into the pass, the trap was sprung. Hidden archers unleashed a hail of arrows from the ruins. Then, Sebastian detonated the wildfire charges, creating a series of explosions that sent boulders crashing down from the cliffs, blocking the pass and creating chaos in the enemy ranks.
Daemon, atop Caraxes, unleashed his dragonfire, incinerating entire ranks of Green soldiers. The narrow pass became a slaughterhouse, the Greens trapped and vulnerable. Ciel, leading his Northmen, charged into the fray, his sword a blur of motion.
The battle was brutal and short. The Greens, caught in the trap, were cut down. Cole, realizing his mistake, fought with a desperate fury, but he was outmatched. Daemon, on Caraxes, rained fire from above, while Ciel and his Northmen fought with a grim determination on the ground.
Sebastian, however, was not fighting. He was hunting. He moved through the chaos with a terrifying grace, his crimson eyes fixed on a single target: Criston Cole. He found the Lord Commander near the ruins of a small chapel, surrounded by his last, desperate bodyguards.
What followed was a scene that would be recounted in nightmares. Sebastian moved with a speed that defied human comprehension, his movements a dance of death. He dispatched Cole's bodyguards with casual ease, their screams cut short. Then, he turned his attention to Cole himself.
The fight was brief and brutal. Cole, a skilled warrior, fought with a desperate courage, but he was no match for Sebastian. The demon butler toyed with him, deflecting his blows, anticipating his every move, his smile a chillingly polite expression. Then, with a final, elegant flourish, Sebastian disarmed Cole and… did something unspeakable.
Ciel, who had been engaged in the thick of the fighting, felt a sudden, inexplicable chill. He looked towards the ruined chapel and saw Sebastian emerge, his black attire immaculate, his hands… clean. Criston Cole was nowhere to be seen.
The remaining Green soldiers, seeing their commander fall, their army decimated, their escape route blocked, surrendered. The battle was won. The Riverlands were secured, for now.
As Ciel surveyed the carnage, the blood-soaked pass, the broken bodies of men, he felt a familiar unease. Victory had been achieved, but at a terrible price. And he knew, looking at Sebastian, who stood silently nearby, that the price was not just measured in lives lost, but in something darker, something that clung to his demon butler like a shadow.
"He is… thorough, your man, Stark," Daemon said, his voice low, his violet eyes fixed on Sebastian. "What did he do to Cole?"
Ciel met Daemon's gaze, his own eye cold and unreadable. "Sebastian ensures that my enemies are… dealt with, Prince Daemon. He is… efficient."
Daemon was silent for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. Then, he nodded slowly. "Indeed. Efficient. And… persuasive. I begin to understand why you command such loyalty, Lord Stark. You wield a… unique weapon."
Ciel did not reply. He knew that Daemon was right. Sebastian was a weapon, a force of nature, a demon bound to his will. And Ciel was learning to wield him, to direct his terrible power. But he also knew that such power came with a price, a darkness that threatened to consume everything it touched. And as he looked at the blood-soaked pass, the broken bodies of men, he wondered how much longer he could control the demon at his side, and how much longer he could keep his own soul from being tainted by the darkness he commanded.
The war in the Riverlands was over, but the war for the Iron Throne raged on. And Ciel Phantomhive, reborn as Cregan Stark, was now a key player, a force to be reckoned with, a lord who commanded not just armies, but demons. And the game, he knew, was far from over.