Chapter 8: The Twins and the Price of Deceit
The march towards the Twins was less a military procession and more a display of overwhelming force. The Northern army, emboldened by the presence of Prince Jacaerys and his dragon, Vermax, moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. The sight of the green dragon soaring overhead, its shadow falling across the Riverlands countryside, was enough to cow any potential resistance. Villages that might have otherwise offered a token defense opened their gates willingly, and scattered bands of Green-aligned soldiers melted away before the advancing Northern host.
Ciel, riding alongside Jacaerys, felt a grim satisfaction. The threat of dragonfire was a potent tool, and he intended to use it to its fullest effect. But he also knew that true power lay not just in brute force, but in the subtle art of manipulation. And the Twins, ruled by the notoriously slippery Lord Walder Frey, presented a challenge that required both.
"Lord Frey is a… complex individual, Lord Stark," Jacaerys observed as they approached the distinctive silhouette of the Twins – two identical castles connected by a heavily fortified bridge spanning the Green Fork. "He is old, cunning, and fiercely protective of his own interests. He has sworn fealty to my mother, but his actions have been… ambiguous, to say the least."
"Ambiguity is a luxury the North cannot afford, Your Grace," Ciel replied, his voice cold. "We need the crossing of the Green Fork. If Lord Frey is not fully committed to our cause, he must be… persuaded… to become so."
As they drew closer, the gates of the Twins remained closed. Frey banners – two towers, joined by a bridge – flew from the ramparts, but there was no welcoming party, no sign of surrender.
"He means to test us," Bennard Stark growled, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "The old weasel thinks he can play us against the Greens."
"He will learn otherwise," Ciel said, his eye narrowing. He gestured to Jacaerys. "Your Grace, a demonstration, perhaps?"
Jacaerys nodded, a grim smile on his face. He signaled to Vermax, who unleashed a deafening roar and took to the sky. The green dragon circled the Twins, its shadow engulfing the two castles. Then, with a gout of flame that lit up the afternoon sky, Vermax unleashed a blast of dragonfire at the riverbank near the bridge.
The earth exploded, sending a plume of water and mud high into the air. The Twins themselves trembled, and a collective gasp rose from the Northern ranks. The message was clear: the Twins were within reach of dragonfire.
The gates of the Twins opened almost immediately. A procession emerged, led by a very old man, hunched and trembling, leaning heavily on a cane. It was Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing. He was followed by a gaggle of his sons and grandsons, all wearing the Frey colors and looking decidedly nervous.
"Lord Cregan Stark," Walder Frey croaked, his voice surprisingly strong despite his age. "Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. Welcome to the Twins. I… I was merely ensuring the security of my crossing. I have always been loyal to the Targaryens."
"Your actions suggest otherwise, Lord Frey," Ciel said, his voice cold and accusing. "You have allowed Green forces passage over your bridge. You have sent vague assurances to Queen Rhaenyra while aiding her enemies."
Walder Frey wrung his hands, his eyes darting nervously between Ciel and the still-circling Vermax. "A misunderstanding! A regrettable misunderstanding! I was… playing for time. Ensuring the safety of my people."
"Time for what, Lord Frey?" Jacaerys asked, his voice deceptively gentle. "Time to see which side would prevail? Time to betray the Queen if the Greens seemed stronger?"
"Never!" Walder Frey protested weakly. "I am a loyal man! A loyal vassal of the Iron Throne!"
"Loyalty is more than words, Lord Frey," Ciel said, his eye piercing. "It is action. It is commitment. You have shown neither. You have placed your own petty interests above the good of the realm."
He paused, letting his words sink in. Walder Frey was a craven, a survivor, a man who would betray his own mother if it served his purposes. Ciel knew that threats alone would not sway him. He needed something more, something that appealed to Frey's self-preservation.
"I will give you a chance to prove your loyalty, Lord Frey," Ciel said, his voice hardening. "You will open your stores to my army. You will provide us with provisions, guides, and safe passage over your bridge. You will swear a binding oath, in the presence of Prince Jacaerys and under the eyes of the Old Gods, to support Queen Rhaenyra's cause with all your strength."
Walder Frey's face fell. He had hoped to weasel his way out of this, to offer empty promises and wait for the storm to pass. But the presence of the dragon, the cold determination in Ciel's eye, and the sheer size of the Northern army made it clear that he had no choice.
"Of course, Lord Stark," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "Whatever you require. The Twins are at your disposal."
The Northern army crossed the Green Fork, their passage secured by Frey's grudging cooperation. Ciel, however, did not trust the old lord. He left a substantial garrison at the Twins, under the command of Ser Rodrik Cassel, to ensure Frey kept his word.
"Watch him closely, Rodrik," Ciel instructed. "He is a viper. He will betray us the moment he sees an opportunity. I want him leashed, but not broken. We need the crossing. But if he steps out of line, I want him dealt with… decisively."
"As you command, my lord," Rodrik said grimly. He understood the need for pragmatism, but he also shared the Northern distrust of the Freys. He would keep a close eye on the old lord.
With the crossing secured, the Northern army continued south, heading towards the Riverlands heartland. Prince Jacaerys, flying ahead on Vermax, scouted their path and liaised with other Black-aligned lords. They received a warm welcome from House Tully, the lords paramount of the Riverlands, who pledged their full support to Queen Rhaenyra.
However, they also encountered resistance. Green-aligned lords, emboldened by the presence of a sizable Lannister army marching north from the Westerlands, contested their advance. Battles were fought, villages were burned, and the Riverlands became a bloody battleground.
Ciel, despite his youth, proved to be a skilled and ruthless commander. He used his warging ability to scout enemy positions, his greensight to anticipate their tactics, and his own strategic brilliance to outmaneuver them. He led from the front, his black armor gleaming, his sword a blur of motion. The Northmen fought with a ferocity that surprised even their allies. They were far from home, fighting for a queen they barely knew, but they fought with a grim determination, fueled by their loyalty to House Stark and their desire to avenge the wrongs done to their lands.
Sebastian, as always, was a force multiplier. His speed and strength were inhuman, and his methods… unconventional. He moved through the battlefields like a dark wraith, leaving a trail of broken bodies and shattered morale in his wake. The Green soldiers whispered of a demon in the service of the Wolf Lord, a creature of shadow and death.
One particular battle, near a ruined village called Stonebridge, showcased Ciel's tactical brilliance and Sebastian's terrifying efficiency. The Northern army was outnumbered by a force of Lannister knights and Riverlander levies. The enemy held the high ground, a fortified ridge overlooking a narrow river crossing.
"A classic ambush position, my Lord," Sebastian observed, his crimson eyes scanning the enemy lines. "They expect us to charge across the river, into their spears."
"Then we shall disappoint them," Ciel said, a cold smile on his face. He sent Sarx ahead, the direwolf melting into the shadows along the riverbank. Through Sarx's senses, Ciel could see the enemy's defenses, their formations, their weaknesses.
He then divided his army. A small force, led by Bennard Stark, would make a feint towards the main crossing, drawing the enemy's attention. Meanwhile, Ciel, with the bulk of his forces and Prince Jacaerys and Vermax, would cross the river further downstream, at a less defended point.
The plan worked perfectly. Bennard's feint drew the enemy's attention, and as they prepared to meet the Northern charge, Ciel and Jacaerys struck from the flank. Vermax unleashed a devastating blast of dragonfire, scattering the enemy's ranks and creating chaos. The Northern infantry, with Ciel and Sebastian at their head, charged across the river, their battle cries echoing across the water.
The battle was fierce, but the Northerners' ferocity and the dragon's fire proved decisive. The Lannister knights, brave but outmatched, were cut down. The Riverlander levies, their morale shattered by the dragon and the demon-butler, broke and fled.
Ciel, his armor stained with blood, surveyed the battlefield. It was a grim sight – the dead and dying, the screams of the wounded, the smell of blood and burning flesh. But it was also a victory. A victory won through cunning, courage, and a ruthless efficiency that was becoming Ciel's trademark.
"A well-fought battle, Lord Stark," Jacaerys said, landing Vermax near Ciel. "Your tactics are… impressive. And your… attendant… is a force of nature."
"Sebastian is… efficient," Ciel said, his voice flat. He looked at the carnage, a flicker of something that might have been regret in his eye. "But war is a brutal business, Your Grace. It is a game played with lives, and the price is always too high."
"It is a price we must pay to secure my mother's throne, Lord Stark," Jacaerys said, his voice firm. "The Greens will not yield without a fight. And if we must spill blood to achieve victory, then so be it."
Ciel nodded slowly. He understood the necessity of violence, the grim logic of war. But he also knew that every death, every drop of blood spilled, left a stain. And he wondered, as he looked at the battlefield, how many stains he would accumulate before this war was done. How much of his own humanity he would have to sacrifice to win.
As the Northern army continued south, leaving the dead behind them, Ciel felt a growing unease. The war was progressing, but at a terrible cost. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that the worst was yet to come. The dragons were dancing, and the wolves were running with them. But the dance was a deadly one, and the price of victory might be more than anyone was willing to pay.