Chapter 31: The Dragon's Gambit and the Gates of Madness
The air in Dragonstone's Stone Drum, thick with volcanic heat and the ancient scent of dragon magic, now crackled with a new, febrile energy: the anticipation of striking at King's Landing itself. Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, her earlier grief for her son Lucerys now hardened into a steely resolve for vengeance and victory, presided over daily war councils that stretched late into the sulfurous nights. The fall of Vhagar and the second capture of Prince Aemond had sent the Greens into a spiral of fear and disarray, and the Black Queen was determined to press her advantage.
Ciel Phantomhive, Lord Cregan Stark, found himself at the epicenter of these deliberations. His victories in the Riverlands, culminating in the almost mythical defeat of Vhagar, had elevated him from a useful Northern ally to Rhaenyra's de facto chief military strategist. His youth was still a subject of marvel and some private consternation among the older lords, but his cold, pragmatic intellect and his string of brutal successes were undeniable. Prince Daemon Targaryen, a man not easily impressed, watched Ciel with a mixture of predatory interest and grudging respect, often challenging his plans but more often finding himself convinced by the younger lord's chillingly precise logic.
"King's Landing is a formidable prize, Lord Stark," Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, rumbled during one such council, his gaze fixed on the great Painted Table where a relief map of the capital lay. "Its walls are strong, manned by thousands of Gold Cloaks, however dubious their loyalty to my cousin Aegon. And they still have dragons – Sunfyre, if he has recovered from Rook's Rest, Dreamfyre, and young Daeron's Tessarion, should he be recalled from the Reach."
"Aegon's Sunfyre is a majestic beast, but his wounds were grievous," Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, countered. "And Helaena's Dreamfyre, while large, has not seen true battle in years. Tessarion is swift and her fire hot, but she is young, and her rider, Daeron, though brave, is but a boy. We have Caraxes, Meleys, Syrax, and young Baela's Moondancer. And Vermax, once Prince Jacaerys returns with him from the Reach, will add to our strength." Her gaze flickered to Ciel. "The crucial factor, as always, will be strategy, not just brute draconic force."
Ciel, who had been listening intently, his single blue eye tracing the defenses of King's Landing on the map, finally spoke. "The city's greatest strength, its walls and its numbers, can also be its greatest weakness, Your Grace," he addressed Rhaenyra. "A prolonged siege would be costly, yes. But a swift, targeted assault, preceded by a campaign of psychological warfare, could break their will before our main host even reaches the gates."
His plan, when he outlined it, was audacious, relying on a combination of brute force, cunning deception, and the exploitation of the Greens' current state of fear and paranoia.
"First," Ciel declared, "we use Prince Aemond." The captive prince, now confined to Dragonstone's deepest, most lightless cells, was a festering wound in the Green psyche. "Spread rumors, Your Grace. That Aemond has broken under interrogation. That he has revealed all of Aegon's weaknesses, his council's secrets, even plots of betrayal amongst their own ranks. Let fear and suspicion rot them from within."
"Then," he continued, his voice devoid of emotion, "we use our dragons not for an immediate, all-out assault, but for targeted strikes. Prince Daemon and Caraxes, Princess Rhaenys and Meleys, perhaps even Your Grace on Syrax – you will conduct lightning raids on the outskirts of King's Landing. Burn their granaries, destroy their siege engines before they can be fully deployed, terrorize their patrols. Create an atmosphere of constant, inescapable dread."
"Lord Corlys," Ciel went on, turning to the Sea Snake, "your fleet will enforce an iron blockade. No ship enters or leaves Blackwater Bay. Let the city begin to starve. Let the smallfolk, already restive under Aegon's misrule, feel the bite of hunger and fear the Queen's justice."
"And then, and only then," Ciel concluded, his eye glinting with a cold light, "when the city is gripped by fear, its leadership divided, its people desperate, will our main host arrive. My Northmen, what remains of them, will lead the vanguard. We will not offer terms. We will demand unconditional surrender. And if they refuse…" He let the unspoken threat hang in the air.
Daemon Targaryen laughed, a harsh, appreciative sound. "By the Fourteen Flames, Stark, you have a chill that could freeze dragonfire! Psychological warfare, starvation, then the Northern wolves at the gate! It is a plan worthy of Maegor the Cruel himself!"
Rhaenyra, though visibly discomfited by the sheer ruthlessness of the strategy, could not deny its potential effectiveness. "And if they still resist, Lord Stark? If Aegon and Otto Hightower barricade themselves in the Red Keep?"
"Then we unleash the dragons upon the Red Keep itself, Your Grace," Ciel said flatly. "And my men will breach the walls. King's Landing will fall. The only question is how much of it needs to burn before it does so."
The political intrigues on Dragonstone swirled around Ciel like the volcanic fumes from the Dragonmont. Some lords, jealous of his influence, whispered that he was too young, too ruthless, too… Northern… to be entrusted with such power. Others, awed by his victories, saw him as Rhaenyra's divine champion. The Queen herself seemed to oscillate between profound gratitude and a deep-seated fear of the forces she had allied herself with – this cold-eyed boy lord and his terrifyingly efficient, black-clad attendant. She made subtle overtures, hinting at future betrothals between her younger children and hypothetical Stark kin, offering lands and titles in the South. Ciel deflected these with polite, noncommittal responses. His price for the North's blood was far greater, and far more fundamental, than mere southern baubles.
Sebastian Michaelis, meanwhile, moved through Dragonstone's shadowed halls like a whisper, his crimson eyes missing nothing. He gathered intelligence with an ease that was almost supernatural, learning of Otto Hightower's desperate attempts to secure sellsword companies from Essos, of Queen Helaena's descent into grief-stricken madness after the death of her sons (a tragedy that predated Ciel's arrival in Westeros but still cast a pall over the Greens), and of Aegon II's increasing paranoia and reliance on wine.
"King's Landing is a viper's nest of fear and ambition, my Lord," Sebastian reported to Ciel during one of their private nightly conferences. "The Gold Cloaks are said to be on the verge of mutiny over unpaid wages. The smallfolk whisper of a 'Dragon Queen' coming to deliver them, while simultaneously fearing her wrath. Otto Hightower schemes, but his web is frayed. The city is… ripe for a cleansing fire." He smiled, a brief, chilling flash of teeth. "And Prince Daemon, my Lord, watches you with an intensity that is… quite stimulating. He senses power, and he covets it. Or perhaps, he simply wishes to understand the nature of the… instrument… you wield so effectively."
Ciel knew Sebastian was referring to himself. "Let Daemon wonder," Ciel said. "His curiosity keeps him… manageable."
His greensight, in the oppressive, magic-saturated atmosphere of Dragonstone, continued to be a fractured, unreliable tool. But one night, as he stood staring into the fiery heart of a brazier in his chambers, a vision of startling clarity seized him. He saw King's Landing, not from above, but from within its walls. He saw the Dragonpit, its great dome shattered, smoke pouring from its ruins. He saw a mob, screaming, terrified, and a golden dragon (Sunfyre?) falling from the sky, wreathed in flame. And he saw himself, standing before the Iron Throne, not as a conqueror, but as… something else. A judge? An executioner? The vision ended before he could comprehend its full meaning, leaving him cold and shaken.
"The Dragonpit…" he murmured to Sebastian. "It will fall. And Sunfyre with it."
"A most auspicious omen for our cause, my Lord," Sebastian commented, unmoved. "Or merely a premonition of the inevitable chaos that accompanies the fall of cities. Such grand conflagrations often consume both the guilty and the… inconveniently innocent."
As the plans for the assault were finalized, the Black host began to assemble. Lord Corlys Velaryon's fleet, battered but still formidable, gathered in the waters around Dragonstone. Daemon's veterans, Riverlander contingents led by Lords Tully and Mooton, and knights from various Crownland houses loyal to Rhaenyra, swelled their numbers. Ciel's remaining Northmen, though few, were given a place of honor, their grim, battle-hardened faces a stark contrast to the more flamboyant Southerners. Prince Jacaerys, summoned back from his early campaign in the Reach, arrived with Vermax, now mostly healed, and a small but eager force of Reach knights who had declared for his mother.
Aemond Targaryen was, as Ciel had suggested, used as a psychological weapon. Rumors of his "confessions," of his denunciations of Aegon and Otto Hightower, were artfully spread by Rhaenyra's agents, sowing discord and paranoia in King's Landing. The prince himself, kept in isolation and darkness, his spirit broken by Vhagar's death and the hopelessness of his situation, was paraded briefly before the assembled Black fleet before they set sail, a gaunt, chained figure, a living symbol of Green defeat. He said nothing, his sapphire eye burning with a cold, dead hatred, but his very presence was a potent message.
Ciel addressed his own Northmen on the eve of their departure. They were gathered on the black sands of Dragonstone's main beach, the Dragonmont smoking ominously behind them, the sound of the restless sea a constant murmur. Sarx, his flank now scarred but his spirit undaunted, stood at Ciel's side.
"Warriors of the North!" Ciel's voice cut through the wind. "You have bled in the Riverlands. You have faced down dragons at Harrenhal. You have shattered the hosts of Cole and Baratheon. Now, the final battle awaits! King's Landing! The Usurper's den! We march to seat our rightful Queen upon the Iron Throne, to end this bloody war, and to secure the honors and rights promised to the North!"
He drew Dark Sister, Aemond's captured blade, its Valyrian steel gleaming dully in the grey light. "They call us Northern savages. They call us ice wolves. Let them! Let them learn to fear the bite of that ice! Let them learn to fear the howl of the wolf at their very gates! We are the winter storm, and we have come to cleanse this realm of treachery! For Winterfell! For the North! For Queen Rhaenyra!"
A roar went up from the Northmen, a sound of fierce, almost fanatical loyalty, their weariness forgotten, their blood stirred by their young lord's cold fire.
The Black fleet set sail on a grey, windswept morning, a vast armada of warships, transports, and supply vessels, the dragons – Caraxes, Meleys, Syrax, Vermax, and Moondancer – circling overhead like a promise of fiery doom. Ciel stood on the deck of Daemon's flagship, The Rogue, Sebastian a silent presence at his side, watching the dark silhouette of Dragonstone recede. He felt no elation, no fear, only a cold, focused resolve. He was the Queen's Watchdog once more, tasked with cleansing a corrupt city, but this time, the stakes were infinitely higher, the methods far more brutal.
As they approached Blackwater Bay, scouts reported that King's Landing was in a state of near panic. The psychological campaign had worked. The Gold Cloaks were deserting their posts, smallfolk were rioting for bread, and Otto Hightower was struggling to maintain order. Aegon II was reportedly barricaded in the Red Keep, rarely seen, his golden dragon Sunfyre still too wounded to fly effectively. Daeron and Tessarion had not yet been recalled from the Reach. The city was, as Sebastian had predicted, ripe.
Ciel's greensight vision of the burning Dragonpit, of the falling golden dragon, flashed in his mind. The time was now.
He gave a curt nod to Prince Daemon. "The city is afraid, Prince Daemon. A demonstration of our aerial strength now, over the Red Keep and the Dragonpit, might break what little will remains."
Daemon's eyes gleamed. "An excellent suggestion, Lord Stark. A dragon's roar is the most persuasive of arguments." He signaled to the other dragonriders.
As the dragons of House Targaryen, led by the fearsome Caraxes, peeled away from the fleet and soared towards King's Landing, their roars echoing across the Bay, Ciel knew the final act was beginning. The gates of madness were about to be breached. And he, Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, with his demon butler at his heel, would be the one to usher in the bloody dawn. The Iron Throne awaited, and its price would be paid in fire and blood.