Chapter 17: The Stone Drum and the Dragon Queen's Gaze
The ascent from Dragonstone's dark harbor to the fortress proper was like a journey into the gullet of some colossal, petrified beast. The black volcanic stone of the castle seemed to writhe with carved dragons, gargoyles, and other grotesque figures, their silent screams and leering faces following Ciel's party up the winding, torch-lit causeways. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and brine, and a low, almost imperceptible thrum vibrated through the ground – the ceaseless heartbeat of the Dragonmont, the volcano that dominated the island. It was a place of ancient, primal power, steeped in fire and blood, a world away from the icy austerity of Winterfell or the grim despair of Harrenhal.
Sebastian Michaelis, Ciel noted with a sidelong glance, seemed almost… invigorated by the atmosphere. His crimson eyes held a deeper, more appreciative glow, as if he recognized the subtle traces of Valyrian sorcery and draconic power woven into the very fabric of the island. For Ciel, it was merely another variable in a complex equation, another alien environment to be mastered. His greensight, however, was strangely muted here, as if the overwhelming draconic energies interfered with the more terrestrial whispers of the Old Gods. Yet, he felt a different kind of resonance, a raw, fiery power that was both exhilarating and deeply unsettling.
They were led into the Stone Drum, Dragonstone's great hall and council chamber. It was a vast, circular chamber, its walls unadorned black stone, the only light coming from narrow, high windows and scores of torches that cast flickering, dancing shadows. The heat from the nearby volcano made the air close and heavy. At the far end of the hall, upon a raised dais, sat the Dragonstone throne – a formidable seat carved from black rock in the shape of a snarling dragon, its eyes seeming to follow their every move.
And upon that throne sat Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.
She was younger than Ciel had perhaps envisioned, her silver-gold hair elaborately plaited, her face still beautiful despite the clear lines of strain and grief etched around her violet eyes. She wore a gown of black and crimson, the colors of her house, and a simple circlet of Valyrian steel adorned her brow. But there was nothing simple about the aura of command she exuded, the regal pride that had been bred into her for generations. Her gaze, when it fell upon Ciel, was intense, searching, a mixture of gratitude, curiosity, and perhaps a hint of trepidation.
Flanking her were the key figures of the Black council. To her right stood a man whose presence was almost as potent as the Queen's own: Prince Daemon Targaryen, her husband and staunchest supporter. He was lean, with the same silver-gold hair and violet eyes, but his face was harder, more dangerous, a predatory glint in his gaze as he assessed the newcomers. He wore black armor, and the Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister – his ancestral blade, Ciel recalled with an inward flick of awareness as he felt the weight of Aemond's captured sword at his own hip – was sheathed at his side.
To Rhaenyra's left stood Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, his weathered face impassive, and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, her expression proud and unyielding. Prince Jacaerys stood near his mother, looking pale but relieved to be among his kin. Other lords and knights of the Black faction lined the hall, their faces a mixture of hope and apprehension.
"Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell," Lord Corlys announced, his voice echoing in the Stone Drum. "He brings tidings from the Riverlands, and a… notable prisoner."
All eyes turned to the chained figure of Prince Aemond Targaryen, who was frogmarched forward by two grim-faced Northmen. Despite his bonds and his still-healing wounds, Aemond held his head high, his single sapphire eye blazing with defiant fury as he met Rhaenyra's gaze.
"Sister," Aemond sneered, his voice raspy. "Come to welcome your long-lost brother? I trust my accommodations will befit my station."
Rhaenyra's face, which had been composed, tightened at the sight and sound of him. The memory of her son Lucerys, slain by this very man and his dragon Vhagar, was a raw, open wound. Jacaerys flinched as if struck.
Prince Daemon, however, stepped forward, his hand resting on the pommel of his own Dark Sister. "You will address the Queen with respect, kinslayer," Daemon said, his voice soft but laced with deadly menace. "Or I will teach you silence in a language even your monstrous pet Vhagar will understand."
Aemond laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Threats, uncle? Is that all you have left? Where was your Caraxes when Vhagar claimed the skies over Storm's End?"
Before Daemon could retaliate – and Ciel had no doubt he would have – Rhaenyra raised a hand. "Enough, both of you." Her voice, though strained, held an iron authority. She looked at Aemond, her violet eyes pools of cold fire. "You are a traitor to the realm, a murderer of your own kin, and a usurper's lackey. You will be held accountable for your crimes. For now, you will be confined to the deepest cells beneath the Dragonmont." She turned her gaze to Ciel. "Lord Stark, the Crown, my house, and I myself are deeply indebted to you. You have achieved what many thought impossible. You have delivered a crippling blow to the Greens."
Ciel inclined his head, a purely formal gesture. "Your Grace, the North honors its oaths. We came south to fight for your rightful claim. Harrenhal was a necessary strategic objective. Prince Aemond's capture, a fortunate consequence of that engagement." He deliberately downplayed his achievement, knowing that overt pride might be misconstrued. "However, this victory came at a terrible cost. My Northern host is grievously depleted. We sacrificed much to secure your kinsman." He paused, letting his words hang in the air, a subtle reminder of the Pact of Ice and Fire and the North's expectations. "Dark Sister," he added, indicating the sword at his hip, "was taken from Prince Aemond. I believe it belongs to Prince Daemon by right of heritage, though it was wielded by a traitor."
Daemon's eyes flickered towards the sword, then to Ciel, a new, sharper interest in his gaze. He recognized the political astuteness in the boy-lord's gesture. Returning Dark Sister was a mark of respect, but also a subtle assertion of power – I took this from your enemy.
"A most… considerate gesture, Lord Stark," Daemon said, his lips curving into a thin smile. "We shall discuss its return anon."
Aemond was then dragged away, still cursing, to the dungeons. Once he was gone, Rhaenyra seemed to visibly relax, though the sorrow in her eyes remained. "Lord Stark, my son Jacaerys has spoken at length of your valor, your… unconventional tactics, and the remarkable abilities of your personal retainer." Her gaze flickered towards Sebastian, who stood impassively behind Ciel, a model of perfect, unobtrusive servitude. Yet, there was an intensity to his stillness, an aura about him that made the air around him seem cooler, sharper. Even the Targaryens, accustomed to dragons and ancient magic, seemed to sense something… other… about him.
"Sebastian Michaelis is highly competent, Your Grace," Ciel stated simply. "He serves House Stark with unwavering loyalty."
Lord Corlys cleared his throat. "The capture of Aemond is a turning point. But Vhagar remains at large, wounded though she is. And Ser Criston Cole marches with a great host towards Harrenhal, unaware, perhaps, that it is now… less hospitable to his cause, and its prize already flown."
"Indeed," Ciel agreed. "Harrenhal, even in our hands, is a cursed ruin, difficult to supply and hold. My forces there are depleted. They cannot withstand a siege by Cole's full army." He had left Lord Manderly and the bulk of the Northern survivors to hold the castle temporarily, but it was a precarious situation.
Later, in a more private council within the Chamber of the Painted Table – a vast, ancient room where a detailed map of Westeros was carved into a massive weirwood table – Rhaenyra, Daemon, Corlys, Rhaenys, Jacaerys, and Ciel gathered. Sebastian, at Ciel's insistence, was present, a silent observer near the door.
"The Pact of Ice and Fire stands, Lord Stark," Rhaenyra said, her gaze direct. "Your terms are acknowledged. The North's sacrifices will be rewarded. When this war is won, and I sit the Iron Throne in King's Landing, the North will have its autonomy, its rights respected, and the support it is due."
"I am gladdened to hear it, Your Grace," Ciel replied. "My men fought believing in the honor of that pact."
Daemon, who had been studying Ciel with an unnervingly focused intensity, finally spoke. "You are young, Lord Stark. Younger even than my nephew Aemond. Yet you command like a veteran of a hundred battles. You outmaneuvered him, captured him, and wounded his great beast. How?" His question was soft, almost casual, but laden with suspicion.
"War ages men quickly, Prince Daemon," Ciel said, his expression unreadable. "And desperation is a harsh tutor. I had good counsel from my lords, brave men, and… a measure of fortune." He offered no further explanation of his greensight, his warging, or Sebastian's true capabilities. Let them wonder. Mystery was its own form of power.
Daemon's eyes narrowed, but he did not press further, though his gaze lingered on Sebastian for a moment longer, a flicker of something Ciel couldn't decipher – recognition? Intrigue? Or merely the assessment of a fellow predator?
The strategic discussion then turned to Criston Cole's approaching army and the status of Vhagar. "Vhagar was last seen flying towards the Gods Eye, Your Grace," Ciel reported. "She is wounded, riderless, and consumed by grief. She is a danger to all, but perhaps less of a focused military threat without Aemond to guide her."
"A wounded dragon is still a dragon," Rhaenys Targaryen cautioned. "And Vhagar is the largest alive. She could still wreak havoc." Her own dragon, Meleys, was swift and powerful, but no match for Vhagar in a direct confrontation.
"Ser Criston Cole must be dealt with," Daemon stated, his attention turning to the Painted Table. "He marches on Harrenhal. If he finds it empty, or lightly held by your depleted forces, Lord Stark, he will simply reclaim it and continue his advance through the Riverlands."
"My men at Harrenhal are brave, but they cannot hold against Cole's full strength indefinitely," Ciel affirmed. "They need relief, or a new strategy."
"And what of your remaining Northmen here, Lord Stark?" Rhaenyra asked. "Those who escorted you. They are few, but hardened."
"They are exhausted, Your Grace," Ciel said firmly. "They have earned a respite. And the North needs its lord to eventually return, to rally fresh forces if this war drags on, as I suspect it will." He was already thinking ahead, beyond the current campaign. He would not allow the North's strength to be entirely consumed in Southern squabbles, pact or no pact.
It was decided that Jacaerys, once Vermax was fit to fly again, would return to the Riverlands with a contingent of Dragonstone knights and whatever forces Rhaenyra could spare. His task would be to rally the Riverlords, reinforce the garrison at Harrenhal if feasible, or if not, conduct a strategic withdrawal, denying its use to Cole while harrying his advance. Ciel and his remaining Northmen would stay on Dragonstone for a time, to rest, to advise, and for Ciel to lend his strategic mind to the Queen's war council. The Queen also made it clear she wished to "better understand" her formidable young Northern ally.
Ciel spent the following days observing the intricate dance of Dragonstone's court. It was a place of simmering tensions, fierce loyalties, and desperate hopes. He saw the Queen's genuine love for her children, her unwavering belief in her own right, but also her moments of doubt, her reliance on Daemon's ruthless strength. He saw Daemon's ambition, his possessiveness of Rhaenyra, his dangerous charisma, and his warrior's pragmatism. He saw Lord Corlys's shrewdness, his maritime empire forming the backbone of the Black's finances, and Rhaenys's proud, weary wisdom.
Sebastian, meanwhile, seemed to be conducting his own subtle reconnaissance. He would report to Ciel on the castle's layout, its defenses, the whispers amongst the servants, the rivalries between courtiers.
"Dragonstone is a place of considerable… residual energy, my Lord," Sebastian commented one evening, as he prepared Ciel's chambers – a surprisingly comfortable set of rooms, given the castle's grim exterior. "The Valyrians who built it dabbled in arts perhaps best left forgotten. One can feel the echoes of their blood magic, their dragon bonds. It is… potent. And the current occupants… they carry their own share of shadows." He smiled faintly. "Prince Daemon, in particular, has a soul of a most… interesting… hue. Darkly vibrant, one might say."
Ciel merely nodded. He knew Sebastian could sense such things. He himself felt the oppressive weight of Dragonstone's ancient magic, a force that both intrigued and repelled him. His greensight remained strangely fractured here, flashes of dragonfire and shadow, but nothing clear, nothing he could readily interpret. It was as if the island's own powerful enchantments were a form of static, disrupting the older, wilder magic of the North.
Jacaerys, before departing for the Riverlands, sought Ciel out. The young prince was still grappling with what he had witnessed, particularly Sebastian's actions.
"Lord Stark," Jacaerys said, his expression earnest and troubled. "Your man, Sebastian… he is more than he seems. What he did at Antlers… what I saw him do at Harrenhal… it was not human."
"Sebastian is singularly devoted to my service, Your Grace," Ciel replied, his face impassive. "His methods are his own. He achieves results."
"But what is he?" Jacaerys pressed, his voice low.
Ciel met his gaze, his one blue eye cold as a winter sky. "He is my butler, Prince Jacaerys. And that is all you need to know."
Jacaerys looked away, clearly unsatisfied but unwilling to press further against that icy resolve. The unspoken truth lay heavy between them, a new, perhaps unbreakable, barrier of suspicion.
A week after their arrival, as Ciel was beginning to feel the strange rhythm of life on Dragonstone, a new crisis erupted. A raven arrived, not from the Riverlands, but from the south, from Driftmark, seat of House Velaryon. It bore dire news: the Triarchy, emboldened by their alliance with the Greens and the Hightower fleet, had launched a massive assault on the Velaryon ships blockading the Gullet. Lord Corlys's fleet, though powerful, was outnumbered and caught by surprise. The battle was raging, and the Sea Snake was urgently requesting aid – specifically, dragonriders.
The Painted Table was once again convened, the atmosphere thick with alarm.
"The Gullet must hold!" Lord Corlys insisted, his usual composure fractured by anxiety for his ships and men. "If the Triarchy breaks our blockade, they can sail directly into Blackwater Bay, reinforce King's Landing, and even threaten Dragonstone itself!"
Rhaenyra looked to her remaining dragonriders. Jacaerys was gone. Baela Targaryen, Daemon's daughter, was young but rode the swift Moondancer. Rhaenys Targaryen and Meleys were formidable. And Daemon himself, on Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, was their most fearsome aerial warrior.
"We will fly," Daemon declared, his eyes blazing. "Rhaenys, Baela, to me. We will burn the Triarchy's pirates from the sea."
"I will go as well," Rhaenyra said, rising from her throne. "Syrax will fly with you."
"No, wife," Daemon said, his voice surprisingly gentle but firm. "You are the Queen. Your place is here, on Dragonstone, safe. We cannot risk you. I will lead this sortie."
A tense argument ensued, but Daemon, with the support of Corlys and Rhaenys, prevailed. Rhaenyra would remain. But she looked to Ciel, her eyes filled with a new, desperate plea.
"Lord Stark," she said. "Prince Daemon is our fiercest dragon. But the Triarchy has a vast fleet, and they are not without their own strange sorceries, it is whispered. Your counsel… your… unique perspective… would be invaluable. Would you accompany Prince Daemon? Not to fight from dragonback, of course, but to observe, to advise? To lend your… fortune… to our cause?"
Ciel saw the unspoken plea. She was asking him to send Sebastian. She was asking for the almost supernatural luck, or ruthlessness, that seemed to surround the Lord of Winterfell and his demonic attendant.
"Prince Daemon is an experienced commander, Your Grace," Ciel said carefully. "He needs no Northern boy to advise him on naval or aerial warfare."
"Perhaps not," Daemon interjected, a dangerous smile playing on his lips as he looked at Ciel, then pointedly at Sebastian. "But your… butler… seems to possess a remarkable talent for turning dire situations to his master's advantage. Such talent should not be wasted." He was clearly intrigued, perhaps even amused, by the enigma of Sebastian.
Ciel felt a familiar coldness settle in his gut. He was being drawn deeper into the Targaryens' fiery, bloody world. This was beyond any pact. This was a direct appeal to the uncanny power that clung to him.
He met Daemon's challenging gaze. "Sebastian goes where I go, Prince Daemon. If I am to accompany you, he will be present."
"Excellent," Daemon purred. "Then it is settled. The Wolf Pup and his shadow will see how true dragons make war."
As Ciel prepared to embark on this new, perilous venture, sailing with Daemon and the dragonriders to confront the Triarchy fleet, he knew he was stepping further into a game where the rules were constantly changing, and the price of failure was absolute. The shadow of Vhagar might have receded for now, but the fires of the Dance of the Dragons were burning hotter than ever.