Chapter 33: The Iron Throne's Shadow and the Price of Justice
King's Landing, in the aftermath of its fall, was a city drowning in a miasma of fear, ash, and the sour stench of blood. The initial fury of the assault had subsided, but the Queen's peace was a fragile, brutal thing, imposed by the swords of victorious Black soldiers and the ever-present threat of dragonfire from the skies where Caraxes, Meleys, and Syrax now circled like dark vultures. Smoldering ruins still coughed black smoke into the grey sky, the grand dome of the Dragonpit a shattered, gaping maw, a testament to the fury unleashed. The smallfolk, after the initial terror and the brief, desperate explosion of rioting and looting (quickly and ruthlessly suppressed by Stark Northmen and Velaryon marines), now cowered in their hovels, uncertain if their new Dragon Queen would prove a savior or a new tyrant.
Ciel Phantomhive, Lord Cregan Stark, moved through this conquered city with the cold, detached air of a man surveying a particularly complex and distasteful business ledger. His Northmen, now numbering less than five thousand battle-ready men, were quartered in the formidable, if grim, barracks of the City Watch near the Old Gate, their stark direwolf banners a jarring, almost alien sight amidst the more flamboyant sigils of the Southern houses. Ciel had insisted on their discipline; there would be no Northern reaving in this city, no dishonor brought upon his house by wanton cruelty to the defeated populace. His men, bound by a loyalty that was now legendary, and perhaps by a healthy fear of their young lord and his even more terrifying attendant, largely obeyed.
Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, now seated upon the sharp, unforgiving edges of the Iron Throne, began the grim work of consolidating her rule. Her first act was to dispense "justice." Otto Hightower, the architect of the Green conspiracy, along with Lord Jasper Wylde ("Ironrod"), Ser Tyland Lannister (Aegon's Master of Coin), and a score of other prominent Green lords and knights captured during the city's fall, were brought before her in the cavernous Great Hall of the Red Keep.
Ciel stood near the throne, a silent, black-clad observer, Dark Sister at his hip, Sarx a massive, watchful presence at his feet. Sebastian Michaelis, a discreet shadow, stood just behind him. Rhaenyra had insisted on Ciel's presence, a public acknowledgment of his pivotal role, and perhaps, a subtle message to any who might still doubt her resolve – the Wolf Lord, the Dragonsbane, stood with her.
The trials, if they could be called such, were brief and predetermined. Otto Hightower, old but unbowed, met Rhaenyra's accusations of treason with a calm, almost pitying disdain. "You have taken the city, Rhaenyra," he said, his voice surprisingly strong. "But you have not won the realm. Your rule is built on fire and blood, and it will perish by the same. You are no true queen, only a usurper cloaked in a dead king's memory."
Rhaenyra's face, already pale with the strain of war and newfound power, flushed with fury. "Silence, traitor! You, who sought to steal my birthright, who plunged this kingdom into chaos, who poisoned my father's ear against me! You will die for your crimes." She turned to the Kingsguard knights – those who had remained loyal to her, or who had quickly sworn new oaths. "Take him to the headsman. Let his death be a warning to all who would defy their rightful Queen."
One by one, the Green lords were condemned. Some pleaded for mercy, others met their fate with stoic pride, a few with defiant curses. Ciel watched it all with an unnerving impassivity. He had seen death in myriad forms, had ordered executions, had walked through battlefields littered with the slain. This was merely another entry in the grim ledger of war. His role here was not as judge or executioner, but as a symbol of the Northern power that had made this "justice" possible. He was Rhaenyra's sharpened blade, her cold Northern winter.
When the last of the condemned had been dragged away, Rhaenyra's gaze fell upon Ciel. "Your counsel was sound, Lord Stark. Fear is a potent weapon. The traitors are dealt with. Their heads will adorn the spikes of Traitor's Walk by sunset." Her voice was steady, but her eyes held a feverish, almost manic light. The weight of the crown, and the blood spilled to attain it, was clearly taking its toll.
Prince Aemond Targaryen was brought from Dragonstone a few days later, a gaunt, haunted figure in chains, his sapphire eye burning with a cold, dead light. The loss of Vhagar had hollowed him out, leaving behind only a brittle shell of his former arrogance, now filled with a chilling, nihilistic despair. He was paraded through the streets of King's Landing, the smallfolk watching in fearful silence as the once-feared Dragon Prince, the Kinslayer, was led to the Red Keep.
His confrontation with Rhaenyra was in the privacy of her solar, with only Daemon, Corlys, Rhaenys, Ciel, and Sebastian present.
"Brother," Rhaenyra began, her voice deceptively soft, yet laced with venom. "You look… diminished. Has the loss of your monstrous pet finally taught you humility?"
Aemond raised his head, his one eye fixing on her with an unnerving intensity. "Vhagar was more loyal, more noble, than any Targaryen who ever drew breath, sister. She is dead because of him." His gaze flickered to Ciel, filled with a bottomless, icy hatred. "And you… you are merely the carrion crow feasting on the corpse of a kingdom. Enjoy your stolen throne. It is soaked in kinsblood. It will not hold you for long."
"Your life is forfeit, Aemond," Rhaenyra hissed, her composure cracking. "You murdered my son! You deserve a thousand deaths!"
"Then grant me one, sister," Aemond said, a strange, almost eager light in his eye. "End this farce. Or are you too craven to spill more kinsblood yourself?"
It was Ciel who intervened, his voice cutting through the rising tension like a shard of ice. "Your Grace, Prince Aemond's death now would be… unsatisfying. And strategically unwise. He is more valuable alive, a symbol of your power, a constant reminder to the remaining Greens of their defeat, and perhaps… a tool for future negotiations, or a means to ensure the good behavior of any kin who might still harbor rebellious thoughts." He paused. "A slow, public degradation, confinement in the Black Cells until his spirit truly breaks… that would be a far more fitting punishment for his crimes, and a more potent message to your enemies, than a swift execution."
Daemon laughed, a dark, appreciative sound. "The Wolf Lord has a taste for cruel poetry, it seems! Yes, sister, let him rot in the darkness. Let him live long enough to see your reign solidified, his own house's treachery brought to utter ruin."
Rhaenyra, though clearly yearning for Aemond's immediate death, saw the cold, brutal logic in Ciel's counsel. Aemond, broken and tormented, was a more powerful symbol than Aemond, a defiant martyr. "Very well," she conceded, her voice tight. "To the Black Cells with him. Let him contemplate his crimes in the darkness, until I decide his ultimate fate."
In the weeks that followed, Ciel found himself navigating the treacherous currents of Rhaenyra's new court. He was a figure of immense power, the "Dragonsbane," the "Wolf of the North," but also an object of suspicion and fear. Southern lords, accustomed to flowery courtesies and subtle intrigues, were unnerved by his blunt Northern speech, his cold pragmatism, and the almost palpable aura of darkness that clung to him and his ever-present, black-clad attendant.
He used his influence to press Rhaenyra relentlessly on the fulfillment of the Pact of Ice and Fire. He demanded not just vague promises, but concrete actions: royal decrees affirming Northern autonomy, trade concessions for White Harbor, resources and gold to rebuild the North's depleted strength and compensate for its immense losses.
"Your Grace," he would say in the war councils, his voice unwavering, "the North has bled for your cause. We have delivered victory after victory. We expect our Queen to honor her word, not with flowery thanks, but with tangible support for our lands and our people."
Rhaenyra, caught between her gratitude, her own precarious hold on power, and the demands of her other allies, often found herself acceding to the Wolf Lord's demands, though each concession seemed to deepen the lines of strain on her face. Daemon often supported Ciel, seeing in the young Stark a kindred spirit in ruthlessness, if not in temperament. Lord Corlys, ever the pragmatist, also recognized the necessity of keeping the North placated.
Sebastian, meanwhile, explored King's Landing with a connoisseur's eye. He found the Red Keep, with its hidden passages, its bloody history, and its lingering aura of paranoia and betrayal, "rather more stimulating than the rustic charms of Winterfell, though lacking Dragonstone's unique volcanic piquancy." He would often return from his solitary "excursions" with cryptic observations for Ciel.
"The dungeons beneath Maegor's Holdfast, my Lord," he remarked one evening, "contain some truly… exquisite expressions of human despair. Generations of suffering, layered like fine sediment. And the libraries… they hold scrolls that speak of arts even the Valyrians learned to fear. Most enlightening."
He also, Ciel suspected, subtly dealt with any emerging threats to his master. A minor lord who had been heard whispering about the "dangerous influence of the Northern savage" suddenly fell gravely ill with a mysterious ailment. A plot by Green sympathizers within the City Watch to assassinate Rhaenyra during a public appearance was uncovered, its ringleaders found dead in their barracks, their faces frozen in masks of unimaginable terror, with no discernible cause of death. Sebastian, when questioned obliquely by Ciel, merely smiled and commented on the "poor sanitation" of King's Landing.
The war, however, was far from over. Prince Daeron Targaryen and Tessarion, having recovered from their wounds at Maidenpool, were now a major threat in the Reach, rallying Green loyalists and crushing Rhaenyra's supporters. Lord Ormund Hightower's army, though diminished, was still a force to be reckoned with. Remnants of the Triarchy fleet were reportedly regrouping, seeking new alliances. And the Westerlands, under the young Lord Jason Lannister's heir, remained staunchly Green.
Strategic discussions in the Red Keep were endless, often fractious. Daemon urged for an immediate, all-out assault on the Reach to crush Daeron and the Hightowers. Lord Corlys advocated for strengthening the fleet and securing the coastal regions. Rhaenyra herself seemed increasingly indecisive, torn between her desire for a swift end to the war and her fear of further losses.
Ciel, his own Northern forces now too depleted for another major offensive without significant reinforcement, argued for a more calculated approach. "Consolidate your hold on the Crownlands and the Riverlands, Your Grace," he advised. "Use your dragons to project power, to intimidate, but do not commit your main armies to pitched battles unless the odds are overwhelmingly in your favor. Let the Greens bleed themselves against our defenses. Send envoys, offer pardons, exploit the divisions within their ranks. Winter is deepening. Their supply lines will be stretched. Their morale is already low. Time, and a patient, strategic pressure, are our allies."
His greensight, amidst the psychic cacophony of King's Landing, offered few clear visions, but rather a persistent, unsettling feeling of impending betrayal, of a hidden rot within the Black cause itself. He saw shadows moving within the Red Keep, heard whispers of discontent among Rhaenyra's own lords, who chafed under her increasingly autocratic rule and Daemon's often brutal enforcement of her decrees. The Iron Throne, it seemed, was as much a prison as a seat of power, isolating Rhaenyra, breeding paranoia and distrust.
One evening, as Ciel stood on a balcony overlooking the darkening city, the Red Keep a black silhouette against a blood-red sunset, Sebastian appeared beside him.
"A city of shadows, my Lord," the butler observed. "And the brightest lights often cast the deepest ones. The Queen, for all her newfound power, is surrounded by them."
"You've seen something, Sebastian?" Ciel asked, his voice low.
"Merely observing the… intricate dance of human ambition, my Lord," Sebastian replied. "So many players, so many hidden agendas. Prince Daemon's loyalty to his Queen-wife is… intense, yet his own desires burn brightly. Lord Corlys, for all his pragmatism, mourns the diminishing power of his own house. And the Queen herself… she wears her crown heavily. It is a prize that may yet consume her." He paused. "And then there is the matter of Prince Aemond. His despair is… evolving. Into something colder, more focused. He is a broken tool, perhaps, but even broken tools can be… repurposed. Or can cut the hand that wields them."
Ciel felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. He knew Sebastian was right. The capture of King's Landing was not an end, but merely a new, more dangerous beginning. The Greens were still a threat, but perhaps the greater danger now lay within Rhaenyra's own court, within the shadows of the Iron Throne itself.
He had promised to see Rhaenyra seated upon that throne. He had fulfilled that part of his oath. But the price of justice, and the cost of power, were still being tallied. And the North, his North, still awaited its due.
His decision, when it came, was swift and characteristic. He sought an audience with Queen Rhaenyra the next morning.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice firm, "I have fulfilled my oath. You sit the Iron Throne. King's Landing is yours. My Northmen have bled and died for your cause. Now, I must return to my own lands, to my own people. Winterfell needs its lord. The North needs to rebuild its strength."
Rhaenyra looked at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and alarm. "Leave, Lord Stark? Now? When the war is not yet won? When traitors still plot against me?"
"The North has given more than its share of blood, Your Grace," Ciel stated, his tone unyielding. "We will honor our alliance. When you have need of us again, when the final battles are to be fought, send your raven. The wolves will answer. But for now, my duty lies in the North." He paused. "And I trust that the Pact of Ice and Fire, the promises you made, will be fully enacted in my absence. The North remembers oaths, Your Grace. Both those it gives, and those it is owed."
His words were a clear, unmistakable demand. Rhaenyra knew she could not hold him against his will, not without risking the alienation of her most powerful, and most terrifying, ally.
Reluctantly, she agreed. Ciel Stark, the Dragonsbane, the Wolf of Winterfell, would return to his frozen kingdom. But his shadow, and the shadow of his demonic butler, would linger long in the fire-lit halls of the Red Keep. And the game of thrones, now irrevocably altered by his passage, would continue its bloody, inexorable course.