Chapter 16: The Wine-Dark Sea and Dragonstone's Shadow
The Pentoshi galley, The Swift Serpent, sliced through the choppy waters of the Bay of Crabs, its dark purple sails billowing with a favorable wind. Behind them, the coast of the Riverlands receded, the pillar of smoke marking the pyre of Antlers a fading testament to their desperate escape. On board, an uneasy quiet settled over the surviving Northmen and Prince Jacaerys's retinue. They had achieved the seemingly impossible: capturing Prince Aemond Targaryen and spiriting him away from the very jaws of Vhagar. Yet, the victory felt hollow, tainted by the screams of Antlers' burning citizens and the ever-present knowledge of their own grievous losses.
Ciel Phantomhive, Lord Cregan Stark, stood on the pitching deck, his gaze fixed on the turbulent grey sea. The salt spray was cold on his face, a stark contrast to the infernal heat of Harrenhal and Vhagar's breath. He had Aemond chained securely in the galley's hold, guarded by a rotating watch of his most trusted Stark men, with specific, chilling instructions from Sebastian on how to manage any outbursts from their captive prince without causing undue alarm or permanent damage. Dark Sister, Aemond's Valyrian steel sword, was now belted at Ciel's own hip, a constant, tangible reminder of their captive's status and a potent symbol of the shift in power.
Prince Jacaerys, his arm still bandaged and his youthful face etched with a weariness that aged him beyond his years, approached Ciel. Vermax, too injured to fly, had been left in the care of Lord Tully at Riverrun, a painful separation for the young prince.
"Lord Stark," Jacaerys began, his voice subdued, "what befell Antlers… it was a terrible necessity. But necessary all the same. My mother will understand. Your butler, Sebastian… he is a man of… singular methods." There was a new note in Jacaerys's voice when he spoke of Sebastian – a mixture of awe, fear, and profound unease. He had witnessed things that day that defied easy explanation, actions performed with an efficiency and ruthlessness that bordered on the inhuman.
"Sebastian ensures my orders are carried out, Your Grace," Ciel replied evenly, offering no further explanation. "And my order was to secure Prince Aemond and deliver him to Dragonstone. Antlers was a regrettable but calculated sacrifice to that end. War demands such calculations." He knew Sebastian would rejoin them. The demon was bound by their pact, and a mere burning town or an enraged dragon would hardly be an impediment to him. He almost anticipated the dramatic flair with which Sebastian would choose to reappear.
The first few days of the voyage were blessedly uneventful, allowing the exhausted men a chance to rest and tend their wounds. Maester Lorcan, who had insisted on accompanying Ciel's party despite his age, worked tirelessly in the cramped confines of the galley, his knowledge of healing herbs and battlefield surgery proving invaluable. The Pentoshi captain, a man named Vorro, kept his distance, clearly intimidated by his Northern passengers and their high-value, high-risk cargo. He had been paid exceptionally well, but Ciel suspected no amount of gold could truly compensate for the terror of potentially having Vhagar descend upon his ship.
Ciel spent much of his time in strategic contemplation, or in tense, brief "conversations" with his captive. Aemond, chained and miserable in the rocking hold, remained defiant, alternating between furious threats against Ciel and mournful calls for Vhagar.
"She will find me, Stark!" Aemond would snarl, his one sapphire eye blazing with feverish intensity. "The bond between a dragon and its rider is unbreakable! She will follow us across the Narrow Sea if she must! She will pluck this pathetic little rowboat from the waves and tear you all limb from limb!"
"Your faith in your pet is touching, Targaryen," Ciel would reply, his voice like chipped ice. "But Vhagar is wounded, grieving, and a thousand leagues away. Your only hope now is the mercy of your sister, Queen Rhaenyra. And she is not known for her tender feelings towards kinslayers."
These exchanges rarely yielded useful intelligence, but Ciel observed Aemond keenly, cataloging his psychological weaknesses, his points of pride, the raw, festering wound of his ambition and perceived victimhood. Every man, Ciel knew, had a breaking point, or at least a lever.
His greensight vision of the ship in stormy seas, the shadow beneath the waves, haunted his waking thoughts. He pushed Sarx, still back in the Riverlands (a painful but necessary separation, as a direwolf on a ship was impractical and would draw too much attention), to his limits, trying to scout their path through the wolf's connection to the land, but the sea was an alien environment. Instead, he found himself trying to warg with the seabirds that followed their galley, gaining fleeting, dizzying glimpses of the vast, indifferent ocean and the ship ploughing through it. It was disorienting, but it gave him a strange sense of the immensity of the world, and their own insignificance upon its waters.
Sebastian's reappearance came on the fourth night, during a sudden, violent squall that had descended upon them as they rounded Crackclaw Point and entered the harsher waters of the Narrow Sea proper. The Swift Serpent was tossed about like a toy, waves crashing over the deck, the wind howling like a banshee. The Northmen, unused to such violent seas, were either clinging to the railings, deathly ill, or praying to their Old Gods.
Amidst a particularly vicious lurch of the ship that sent men sprawling, a figure appeared on the prow, seemingly materializing out of the spray and the storm-wracked darkness, as if he had simply walked out of the tempest itself. It was Sebastian, his black attire plastered to his lean frame, his crimson eyes glinting with an almost joyful light as he surveyed the chaos. He was, Ciel noted with a mixture of exasperation and grudging admiration, carrying a small, covered basket.
"My Lord," Sebastian said, his voice cutting through the howl of the wind as he approached Ciel, who was braced against the mainmast. "A rather invigorating passage. I trust your journey has been less… eventful… than my own recent sojourn through the burning remains of Antlers?" He offered the basket. "I took the liberty of procuring some rather excellent smoked eels from a terrified fisherman just before the port became entirely inhospitable. I thought they might provide a welcome change from ship's biscuit."
Jacaerys and the few Northmen who witnessed his arrival stared, speechless. They had all but assumed him dead, heroically sacrificed. To see him appear thus, unharmed, bearing smoked eels amidst a raging storm, was beyond comprehension.
"Sebastian," Ciel said, his tone dry. "Your timing is, as always, impeccable. And Vhagar?"
"Ah, the grand dame," Sebastian replied, a faint smile playing on his lips. "She was… thoroughly displeased. After expending considerable energy reducing Antlers to cinders and searching for her errant rider, she appeared to tire. Her wounds, I believe, are taking their toll. She was last seen flying slowly, and rather erratically, inland towards the Gods Eye, perhaps seeking a familiar lair to recover. A most distressed and formidable creature. I do hope she finds some peace, eventually. Or at least, a worthy final opponent." There was a hint in his tone that suggested he might have enjoyed being that opponent, had circumstances allowed.
The storm raged for another day, pushing them further off course. It was during the eerie calm that followed, under a sky bruised purple and green, that Ciel's greensight vision fully manifested. The sea was unnaturally flat, the air heavy and still. The Pentoshi sailors muttered fearfully, making signs to ward off evil.
Then, the water beside the ship began to churn.
A vast, dark shape, larger than any whale, rose from the depths, its surface glistening and rubbery. Tentacles, thick as tree trunks and lined with suckers the size of dinner plates, uncoiled, reaching for the galley. A colossal, intelligent eye, ancient and fathomless, broke the surface, fixing on the ship. A kraken.
Panic erupted. Sailors screamed, Northmen drew their swords futilely. The Pentoshi captain fell to his knees, wailing prayers to his strange gods.
"By the Seven Hells!" Jacaerys breathed, his hand instinctively going to where his sword would be, if he hadn't lost it in the earlier chaos.
Ciel felt a cold dread, but his mind was already racing. This was it. The shadow beneath the waves.
"Sebastian!" Ciel snapped. "Can you…?"
"Discourage our overly affectionate cephalopod friend, my Lord?" Sebastian interrupted, his eyes gleaming with a predatory excitement Ciel had rarely seen, even in battle. "It has been centuries since I last tasted fresh kraken. Though I fear this one may be a trifle too large for a simple hors d'oeuvre."
Before Ciel could respond, a massive tentacle slammed onto the deck, crushing timber, sending men flying. Another wrapped around the mainmast, causing it to groan and splinter. The ship tilted dangerously.
Ciel knew they were doomed if the kraken got a firm grip. He barked orders. "Archers! Aim for its eye! Axemen! Try to sever the tentacles on deck!"
But arrows bounced off the kraken's rubbery hide, and axes made little impression on the sheer mass of its limbs.
It was Sebastian who turned the tide. He moved with a speed that was a black blur against the grey sea. He was not attacking the kraken's body, but something else. He snatched up a harpoon from the deck, then, with a leap that seemed to defy gravity, he plunged it deep into the kraken's single, colossal eye.
The monster let out a soundless scream, an earth-shattering psychic shriek that Ciel felt resonate in his bones, far worse than any dragon's roar. The sea around them churned violently as the wounded kraken thrashed in agony, its tentacles flailing, smashing parts of the ship's railing and superstructure. Dark, oily ichor, the kraken's blood, gushed from its ruined eye, staining the sea black.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the kraken released its grip and plunged back into the depths, leaving the Swift Serpent battered, listing, and its crew terrified but alive.
A stunned silence descended, broken only by the creak of damaged timbers and the whimpers of the wounded.
Sebastian calmly retrieved the harpoon, wiping the black ichor from it with a piece of sailcloth. "A rather robust creature, my Lord. Its ocular fluid is quite… distinct. Not entirely unpleasant."
Jacaerys stared at Sebastian, his mouth agape. The Northmen looked at the butler with a new level of profound, almost religious terror. This was no mere man, however skilled. What they had witnessed was beyond human capability.
Ciel met Sebastian's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. The demon had revealed a fraction more of his true nature, forced by circumstance. The implications of that, particularly Jacaerys's dawning comprehension, would have to be managed.
"Captain Vorro," Ciel said, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. "Assess the damage. Can this ship still make Dragonstone?"
The Pentoshi captain, pale and trembling, could only nod mutely. The Swift Serpent was crippled, her mainmast cracked, her hull leaking, but she was still afloat.
The remainder of the journey was a limping, miserable affair. They bailed water constantly, rationing their dwindling supplies. But the encounter with the kraken, and Sebastian's terrifying intervention, had changed something. The Northmen now looked at Ciel not just with respect, but with an almost fanatical devotion, as if he were a leader touched by powers beyond their understanding, capable of commanding even devils to his will. Jacaerys, however, grew more withdrawn, his interactions with Ciel polite but strained, his gaze often flicking towards Sebastian with a mixture of fear and horrified fascination.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a dark, volcanic island rose from the misty sea, its silhouette jagged and foreboding against the grey sky: Dragonstone. The ancestral seat of House Targaryen. Smoke plumed from the Dragonmont, its peak hidden in cloud. As they limped closer, they could see the fortress itself, a grim, gargoyle-encrusted edifice that seemed to have been sculpted from black flame and shadow.
Smaller, swifter Targaryen ships, bearing the three-headed dragon banner, sailed out to meet them, their crews eyeing the battered Pentoshi galley with suspicion. A dragon – smaller than Vermax, perhaps Seasmoke or Silverwing – circled overhead, its rider indistinct.
Prince Jacaerys, visibly relieved to be home despite his disquiet, identified their ship. Soon, they were being escorted into the island's harbor, a volcanic caldera filled with dark, steaming water.
The reception was somber. Word of Harrenhal and Aemond's capture had indeed preceded them, but so too had news of Antlers' destruction and the heavy losses. Queen Rhaenyra herself was not on the quay to greet them, but a delegation of her councilors was, led by the Sea Snake, Lord Corlys Velaryon, Jacaerys's grandsire, his weathered face grim and unreadable. With him was Rhaenys Targaryen, "The Queen Who Never Was," her silver-gold hair streaked with grey, her expression proud but weary. Her dragon, Meleys, the Red Queen, was visible perched high on the Dragonmont, a splash of scarlet against the black rock.
"Prince Jacaerys! Lord Stark!" Lord Corlys greeted them, his voice gravelly. "You have returned. And you bring… the prisoner?"
"He is below, Lord Velaryon," Ciel confirmed, stepping onto the solid, volcanic rock of Dragonstone, Sarx (who would have been a welcome, familiar presence now) a notable absence he felt keenly. Sebastian stood a pace behind him, his demeanor impeccably composed, as if he had just stepped off a leisurely river cruise rather than survived a storm, a dragon hunt, and a kraken attack. Dark Sister was still at Ciel's hip.
Aemond Targaryen, still chained, was brought up from the hold. He blinked in the dim light, his sapphire eye fixing on his Velaryon kin with a look of utter contempt. Despite his captivity, his wounds, and his disheveled state, he carried himself with an unbroken, arrogant pride.
"Nephew," Rhaenys Targaryen said, her voice cool, her gaze lingering on Aemond's bound hands, then on Dark Sister at Ciel's waist. "You have caused much grief. Your presence here is… unwelcome, yet necessary."
Aemond merely sneered. "I am sure my dear sister Rhaenyra eagerly awaits my arrival. No doubt she has prepared a grand celebration for the return of her beloved brother."
Ciel ignored him. He looked at Lord Corlys. "We have fulfilled our pact, my lord. Aemond Targaryen is delivered. The North has paid a heavy price for this victory. We trust Queen Rhaenyra will honor her commitments as readily."
Lord Corlys's gaze was shrewd. He took in Ciel's youth, his one cold eye, the formidable presence of the silent butler behind him, and the battered, hardened look of the Northmen. "Queen Rhaenyra is aware of your service, Lord Stark. She awaits you in the Stone Drum. She has much to discuss with the Wolf of the North who cages dragons."
As Ciel and his retinue were escorted towards the dark, forbidding fortress of Dragonstone, he knew he was stepping into a new kind of battlefield, one of a different kind of dragon's den. The war of swords and sorcery was about to give way to a war of whispers, politics, and royal intrigue. And here, too, he intended to win. Sebastian, he noted, seemed to find the grim architecture of Dragonstone, with its leering gargoyles and volcanic stone, rather… appealing. The game was far from over.