Chapter 7: South of the Neck, and a Prince's Plea
The departure from the Dreadfort was marked by a somber efficiency. The fortress itself, its black stones seemingly stained darker by recent events, was left under the command of Ser Marlon Mollen, a dour but fiercely loyal knight sworn to Winterfell, with a garrison of five hundred Stark men. Lord Ethan Bolton, a broken shell of a man, was sent north by litter under heavy guard, destined for whatever comfort and care Maester Lorcan could provide in Winterfell. His fate was a grim postscript to his son's horrific end.
The Northern army, now numbering close to twenty thousand with the full muster of loyal houses, turned its face south. The mood among the men was a complex tapestry of grim satisfaction at the justice meted out to Ramsay Snow, a heightened respect, tinged with fear, for their young Lord Stark, and the gnawing anticipation of the greater war that lay ahead. Tales of what had occurred within the Dreadfort's keep, particularly the demon-butler's role in Ramsay's ultimate undoing, were whispered around campfires in hushed, awestruck tones. Sebastian Michaelis, already an enigma, had ascended to something akin to a folk legend, a silent, dark avatar of their lord's wrath.
Ciel Phantomhive, ensconced within the persona of Cregan Stark, felt the weight of these perceptions. He had wanted to project strength, to instill discipline and fear where necessary. The Dreadfort had achieved that, perhaps too well. The cold knot in his stomach whenever he recalled Ramsay's final, inhuman screams was a sensation he analyzed with detached curiosity. Was it guilt? Revulsion? Or merely the distaste of a task performed with excessive, if necessary, brutality? He found no easy answers, only the pragmatic reality that the North was now more united, more focused, than ever before.
"They fear you, my Lord," Sebastian observed one evening as they made camp near the edge of the Wolfswood, the vast forest finally beginning to thin as they approached the swamplands of the Neck. "And they fear me. It is a potent combination for ensuring obedience."
"Fear is a tool, Sebastian, not an end," Ciel replied, staring into the flames of their brazier. Sarx lay beside him, the direwolf's head resting on Ciel's lap. Absently, Ciel stroked the thick, coarse fur, the familiar rhythm of the wolf's breathing a steady counterpoint to the camp's muted sounds. "I need their loyalty, their courage when we face Southern steel and dragonfire. Fear can curdle into resentment if not managed."
"Indeed," Sebastian agreed. "But a healthy measure of it discourages… independent thought… amongst the ranks. A useful preventative for insubordination."
The journey through the Neck was slow and arduous. The landscape transformed into a labyrinth of bogs, reed-beds, and murky waterways, the air thick with humidity and the buzz of insects. The crannogmen, the elusive people of the swamps led by House Reed, watched their passage from hidden positions, their small, dark eyes glinting from the shadows. Ciel had sent word ahead to Lord Howland Reed – or whichever Reed currently held sway at Greywater Watch – announcing his peaceful passage and his allegiance to Queen Rhaenyra. No formal greeting was offered, but neither was there any hindrance. The crannogmen, ancient allies of the Starks, allowed the Northern host to pass unmolested, their silent neutrality a blessing in this treacherous terrain.
Ciel used these long, tedious days of travel to further hone his abilities. His warging became more precise. He could send Sarx scouting miles ahead, receiving clear visual and olfactory information, mapping the terrain, and detecting any potential ambushes. He even experimented, cautiously, with extending his senses to smaller creatures – a hawk circling overhead for a bird's-eye view, a fish in a murky stream to understand the hidden depths. These attempts were fleeting, the minds of lesser creatures too alien, too simplistic to inhabit for long, but they offered tantalizing possibilities.
His greensight, however, remained unpredictable. One sweltering afternoon, as the army slogged through a particularly dense section of swampland, a vision struck him with jarring force. He saw not fire and blood, but ice. A vast, frozen river, and men in Stark and Manderly colors attempting a crossing, their forms indistinct in a blizzard. Then, the ice cracked, and dark shapes – ships or monsters, he couldn't tell – rose from the churning, frigid water. The vision ended with a desperate, choking sensation.
He gasped, swaying in his saddle. Sebastian was instantly at his side, a steadying hand on his arm. "My Lord?"
"Water… ice… a trap," Ciel managed, his voice hoarse. "A river crossing… in winter." The specifics were infuriatingly vague, but the sense of peril was acute. It felt like a warning, but for a battle far in the future, under conditions not yet met. He filed it away, another piece in the grim puzzle of this war.
As they finally emerged from the Neck, the landscape of the Riverlands unfolded before them – a wide, fertile expanse, crisscrossed by innumerable rivers and streams. It was a land already touched by war. They saw burned villages, fallow fields, and columns of refugees heading north, their faces gaunt with fear and hunger. The sight hardened the resolve of the Northmen. This was what awaited their own lands if the Greens prevailed.
It was near the crossing of the Green Fork of the Trident that the raven from Lord Jonos Brackenwold finally reached them. It was accompanied by another, larger bird, one clearly from Dragonstone, bearing the three-headed dragon seal of House Targaryen.
Ciel received the messages in his campaign tent, with Lords Manderly, Karstark, his uncle Bennard, and Ser Rodrik Cassel in attendance. Sebastian stood by, a silent observer.
Lord Brackenwold's message was succinct: he had been received by Queen Rhaenyra on Dragonstone. The Queen was grateful for the North's declaration of support but had been… taken aback… by the boldness of Lord Stark's terms. She was dispatching her own envoy, her eldest son and heir, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, to treat with Lord Stark directly. Prince Jacaerys was reportedly flying ahead on his dragon, Vermax, and would seek out the Northern army.
The second message, from Rhaenyra herself, was more formal. She acknowledged Lord Stark's loyalty, welcomed the North to her cause, and confirmed that her son, Prince Jacaerys, would speak for her. She expressed a desire for a swift and binding accord.
"Her son," Lord Manderly mused, stroking his beard. "She sends the Prince of Dragonstone himself. This is a significant gesture. She takes our terms seriously, Lord Cregan."
"Or she wishes to charm a young, inexperienced Northern lord into forgetting them," Ciel countered, his eye narrowed. "A prince on a dragon is a powerful persuasion tactic."
Bennard Stark snorted. "Let him try. You've faced down the Dreadfort, nephew. A boy on a lizard, however large, shouldn't overly concern you."
"Dragons are more than lizards, Uncle," Ciel said quietly, remembering the terrifying grandeur of his greensight vision of the warring beasts. "They are weapons of mass destruction. But a weapon is only as effective as the hand that wields it." He looked at the assembled lords. "Prince Jacaerys will be received with all due courtesy. But the terms stand. The North's blood will not be spilled for Targaryen pride alone. We fight for our Queen, yes, but we also fight for ourselves."
Three days later, as the Northern army made camp near the historic ruins of Oldstones, a shadow fell over them. Not the shadow of a cloud, but something far larger, far faster. A sound like tearing silk grew into a thunderous roar, and a magnificent green dragon, Vermax, descended from the sky, its scales iridescent in the afternoon sun. Astride its back was a young man with the silver-gold hair and violet eyes of Valyria. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon had arrived.
The Northmen, many of whom had never seen a dragon, stared in awe and terror. Horses whinnied and strained at their tethers. Even Sarx, usually fearless, let out a low growl, the fur on his back bristling.
Prince Jacaerys landed Vermax a respectful distance from the main camp, the downdraft from its powerful wings flattening the grass and sending tents flapping. He dismounted with an easy grace, dressed in black and red riding leathers, the Targaryen colors. He was young, perhaps a year or two older than Ciel's current form, with an air of earnest command.
Ciel, flanked by his principal lords and Sebastian, rode out to meet him. He had donned his finest black armor, the Stark direwolf starkly embossed in silver on its breastplate. He exuded an aura of cold, unyielding authority that made him seem far older than his thirteen namedays.
"Prince Jacaerys Velaryon," Ciel greeted him, his voice clear and steady as he dismounted. "Welcome to the camp of the Northern host. I am Cregan Stark."
"Lord Cregan Stark," Jacaerys replied, his Valyrian-accented Common English surprisingly good. He had a direct, engaging gaze. "I thank you for your welcome. My mother, Queen Rhaenyra, sends her greetings and her gratitude for your loyal support." He gestured to his dragon, Vermax, who was now eyeing Sarx with what looked like reptilian curiosity. "May I present Vermax? He is eager to meet his Northern allies."
"A magnificent beast, Your Grace," Ciel said, his eye briefly meeting the dragon's intelligent, molten-gold gaze. "As is my own companion, Sarx." The direwolf and the dragon regarded each other, a primal tension in the air.
The initial meeting was formal, held in Ciel's largest command tent. Prince Jacaerys, despite his youth, proved to be an articulate and passionate advocate for his mother's cause. He spoke of the Greens' treachery, of his mother's rightful claim, and of the need for all loyal houses to unite against the usurper Aegon.
"The North's strength is legendary, Lord Stark," Jacaerys said earnestly. "Your support is invaluable. My mother understands the sacrifices you and your people are making. She is prepared to be… generous… in her recognition of your loyalty."
"Generosity is appreciated, Your Grace," Ciel replied, his tone cool. "But the North requires more than gratitude. We require concrete assurances. Our terms, as conveyed by Lord Brackenwold, are not mere requests. They are the price of our unwavering commitment."
The negotiations that followed were intense. Jacaerys, initially taken aback by the sheer audacity of the Northern demands, argued passionately for his mother's position. He was a Targaryen prince, accustomed to deference, but Ciel met his arguments with cold logic and an unyielding resolve. Lords Manderly and Karstark provided vocal support for Ciel, while Bennard Stark and Ser Rodrik Cassel offered grim accounts of the North's harsh realities and the sacrifices involved in raising and maintaining such a large army so far from home.
Sebastian remained a silent, imposing presence throughout, occasionally refilling goblets or adjusting a map, his crimson eyes missing nothing. Ciel felt his butler's subtle approval; this was a game of power and leverage, a negotiation Ciel was playing with considerable skill.
"My mother will grant the North its traditional rights and protections, Lord Stark, that I can assure you," Jacaerys conceded after several hours of debate, a new respect dawning in his eyes for the young Wolf Lord. "She will ensure no Southern lord is placed over you. Your laws and gods will be respected."
"And the investments in White Harbor? The provisions for our army?" Ciel pressed, his gaze unwavering. "The North cannot bleed itself dry for this war, Your Grace, however just the cause."
Jacaerys hesitated. "The Crown's coffers are… contested, as you know. The Greens hold the Treasury in King's Landing. But my mother has resources. And Dragonstone commands significant trade." He looked directly at Ciel. "I will personally champion your requests for economic support with the Queen. She values your alliance, Lord Stark. She needs it. I believe she will see the wisdom in ensuring her staunchest allies are not impoverished by their loyalty."
Ciel considered this. It was not a full concession, but it was a significant step. Jacaerys was offering his personal word, his influence. For a Targaryen prince, that was a weighty pledge.
"And the matter of a royal pardon for all actions taken in the Queen's name?"
"Granted," Jacaerys said without hesitation. "All who fight for the true Queen will be honored, not punished." He then leaned forward, his violet eyes earnest. "Lord Stark, my mother needs more than just your army. She needs your counsel, your strength on her war council when this is done. She offers you a place of high honor."
This aligned with Ciel's own final term. He nodded slowly. "A place on her council would be… acceptable. The North's voice must be heard."
Finally, after two days of intense negotiation, they reached an accord. The "Pact of Ice and Fire," as Jacaerys dramatically termed it, was sworn. It was less than Ciel had initially demanded in terms of immediate financial guarantees, but Jacaerys's personal assurances and the explicit recognition of Northern autonomy and rights were significant victories. The pact was sealed with oaths sworn on the honor of their respective houses, under the watchful eyes of the Old Gods and the Valyrian dragons.
As a gesture of goodwill and to cement the alliance, Jacaerys proposed to accompany the Northern army for a time, flying ahead on Vermax to scout and liaise with other Black-aligned lords in the Riverlands. Ciel agreed. The presence of a dragon would be a powerful deterrent to any Green sympathizers and a morale booster for their allies.
Their first joint operation came sooner than expected. Scouts reported that Lord Frey, the notoriously opportunistic master of the Twins, was attempting to play both sides, allowing Green forces passage over his vital bridge crossing while also sending vague assurances of loyalty to Rhaenyra.
"The Freys have always been weasels," Bennard Stark spat. "They need to be taught a lesson."
Ciel listened to the reports, his expression thoughtful. He then turned to Jacaerys. "Your Grace, Lord Frey controls a crucial strategic asset. His… ambiguity… cannot be tolerated. Perhaps a joint visit from the Wolf of Winterfell and the Prince of Dragonstone, accompanied by his rather persuasive companion Vermax, would clarify his loyalties?"
Jacaerys grinned, a flash of Targaryen fire in his eyes. "An excellent suggestion, Lord Stark. I believe Vermax would enjoy stretching his wings over the Trident. And Lord Frey, I am told, is particularly… receptive… to shows of overwhelming force."
The Northern army, with a Targaryen prince and his dragon now among them, prepared to march on the Twins. The war in the Riverlands was about to truly begin, and Ciel Phantomhive, the reborn Cregan Stark, was at its heart, his every move shaping the destiny of not just the North, but the entire realm. The pact was sealed, the wolves were on the move, and the dragons were stirring. The Dance had found some of its fiercest partners.