Chapter 10: The Black King of Harrenhal
The colossal, fire-blackened ruin of Harrenhal loomed before them like a monument to hubris and despair. Its five impossibly tall towers, twisted and melted by Balerion the Black Dread's flames nearly two centuries prior, clawed at the leaden sky. Even from a distance, the castle exuded an aura of profound desolation and ancient malice that settled like a physical weight upon the Northern army. Men muttered uneasily, their bravado from Riverrun dimming in the face of this cursed behemoth. Horses shied, and even Sarx, padding beside Ciel, let out a low, unhappy whine, the fur along his spine subtly raised.
"A charming edifice, my Lord," Sebastian Michaelis commented, his voice a silken counterpoint to the oppressive atmosphere. His crimson eyes, however, held a spark of something Ciel could only interpret as professional interest, perhaps even a dark appreciation for the sheer scale of suffering that had soaked into Harrenhal's stones. "One can almost taste the centuries of fear."
Ciel merely grunted, his own single blue eye scanning the sprawling, dilapidated ramparts. "It is a fortress designed to break spirits. We will not allow it to break ours." His greensight had warned him of the darkness here, but seeing it, feeling its oppressive presence, was another matter entirely. It was a cold, cloying sensation, like cobwebs brushing against his soul.
Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, circling high above on Vermax, descended to give his report. He landed his green dragon a safe distance away, its reptilian eyes warily surveying the monstrous castle. "Lord Stark, my scouts confirm Prince Aemond and Vhagar departed eastward at dawn, likely on another of their terror raids along the Kingsroad. The garrison within Harrenhal appears to be no more than a few hundred men, mostly sellswords and Green loyalists from the Crownlands. They rely on the castle's reputation and Vhagar's shadow for defense."
"Then they are fools," Ciel stated. "Reputation does not stop steel, and Vhagar's shadow is currently cast elsewhere." He turned to his commanders – Bennard Stark, Lords Manderly and Karstark, Elmo Tully, and Ser Rodrik Cassel. "We have a window. Aemond could be gone for a day, perhaps two if he ranges far. We must take Harrenhal before he returns. This will not be a siege; we do not have the time. This will be an assault – swift, brutal, and decisive."
The plan was audacious, born of necessity. Harrenhal's sheer size made a conventional assault with their numbers difficult. Its walls, though ruined in places, were still immensely thick. But its vastness was also its weakness; the small Green garrison could not hope to defend every section.
"Lord Manderly, your men are well-armored. You will take the main King's Gate, or what remains of it. Use rams if you must, but speed is paramount," Ciel commanded.
"Lord Karstark, your wild Northmen are fearless. There are breaches in the eastern wall near the Widow's Tower. Scale them, create a diversion, sow chaos."
"Lord Tully, your Riverlanders know this terrain. Secure the Flowstone Gate by the lake. Prevent any escape or reinforcement by water."
"Uncle Bennard, Ser Rodrik, you are with me. We will take the least defended section – the postern gate near the Tower of Dread, if my intelligence is correct. Sarx has scented few patrols there. Once inside, we make for the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, the command center. Sebastian," he glanced at his butler, "you will accompany me. Ensure any… particularly stubborn resistance… is efficiently neutralized."
Sebastian bowed, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. "It would be my distinct pleasure, my Lord."
Prince Jacaerys mounted Vermax once more. "I will patrol the skies, Lord Stark. I will warn you of Aemond's return and ensure no ravens leave this cursed place to alert him. May the Warrior guide your blades." With a roar, Vermax launched into the air, a green guardian against the grey sky.
The assault began an hour past noon, under a sky that threatened rain. Manderly's men, with their heavy shields and determined shouts, charged the main gate, their battering ram thudding against the ancient, iron-bound wood. Karstark's warriors, howling like winter winds, swarmed towards the eastern breaches, grappling hooks flying.
Ciel, with his chosen Stark contingent and Sebastian, moved with deadly quiet towards the Tower of Dread. This tower, even more so than the others, radiated a palpable sense of menace. Sarx, leading the way, sniffed the ground, his ears pricked, guiding them through the overgrown, rubble-strewn approaches. The postern gate was, as expected, lightly guarded. A handful of sellswords, startled by the sudden appearance of Northmen from the shadows, barely had time to cry out before Sebastian was upon them. It was over in seconds, a blur of black cloth and crimson-eyed fury.
"The gate is ours, my Lord," Sebastian reported, wiping a non-existent speck of dust from his sleeve, though his gloves were now stained a darker shade.
"Efficient, as always," Ciel acknowledged, pushing open the groaning postern. They stepped into a dark, narrow passage that reeked of mildew and something else… something akin to old blood and despair. The air was unnaturally cold.
As they moved deeper into Harrenhal's labyrinthine courtyards and crumbling halls, the oppressive atmosphere intensified. Shadows seemed to dance at the edge of their vision, whispers echoed from empty chambers, and sudden cold drafts swept through corridors that had no windows. The Northmen, brave as they were, clutched their sword hilts tighter, their eyes darting nervously. Even Ciel, who had faced demons and delved into London's darkest underbelly, felt the unnatural chill of the place. It wasn't just the memory of death; it felt like the castle itself was a malevolent entity, watching them.
He focused his warging sense through Sarx, who moved with a low growl, sniffing out ambushes, guiding them through the confusing maze of Harrenhal. The direwolf seemed particularly agitated, his hackles often rising for no apparent reason.
They encountered pockets of resistance – Green soldiers rushing to defend their designated sectors. The fighting was brutal, close-quarters combat in shadowy halls and ruinous courtyards. Ciel fought with a cold, precise fury, Cregan's young body moving with a strength and skill honed by Sebastian's relentless training. His Valyrian steel dagger, a gift from Lord Manderly who'd acquired it through White Harbor's trade, flashed in the dim light, finding gaps in armor, severing tendons. Sebastian was a whirlwind of destruction, his movements too fast for the eye to follow, each strike precise and utterly lethal. He seemed to revel in the grim surroundings, his usual polite smile replaced by something sharper, more predatory.
In the vast, cavernous ruin of the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, they found the Green commander, Ser Simon Strong, a distant cousin of the castle's last true lords, and a handful of his household knights. Ser Simon was an old, grim-faced warrior, who clearly intended to die defending his post.
"Traitors!" Ser Simon roared, his greatsword whistling as he charged. "You defile this sacred place with your rebellion!"
"This place was defiled long before we arrived, Ser," Ciel retorted, meeting his charge. Sarx lunged, hamstringing one of Strong's knights, while Sebastian engaged three others simultaneously, his movements a blur of impossible grace and deadly intent.
Ciel's duel with Ser Simon was brief but brutal. The old knight was strong, experienced, but Ciel was faster, his movements imbued with a preternatural precision. He parried a heavy blow, stepped inside Ser Simon's guard, and drove his dagger deep into the old knight's gorget. Ser Simon choked, his eyes wide with surprise, and then collapsed, the last loyal commander of Harrenhal falling in its cursed hall.
With their commander slain, the remaining Green defenders lost heart. Some surrendered, others tried to flee, only to be cut down by the advancing Northmen or the Manderly and Tully forces who were now pouring in from the other gates.
By late afternoon, the fighting had died down. Harrenhal, or what mattered of it, was in Black hands. Stark, Targaryen, and Tully banners were raised over the King's Gate and the Tower of Kingspyre, defiant splashes of color against the black, brooding stone. The sheer scale of the castle was overwhelming. It was less a fortress and more a ruined city, its courtyards vast enough to swallow armies, its halls echoing with the ghosts of millennia.
"We hold it, my Lord," Bennard Stark reported, his armor dented, his face smeared with grime and blood, but his eyes alight with triumph. "Harrenhal is ours."
"For now," Ciel cautioned, his gaze sweeping the immense, shadowed courtyard. "This place… it feels wrong." He could still feel the lingering coldness, the whispers at the edge of hearing. His greensight was a low thrum in his mind, amplifying the castle's inherent malevolence. He saw fleeting images: a woman screaming in a dark cell, children crying, the glint of gold and the stench of betrayal from the days of House Qoherys who had been extinguished by Harwin "Hardhand" Hoare, and then the Hoares themselves cooked alive in their towers by Aegon's dragons. The stones themselves seemed to weep despair.
"It is said that Harren the Black and his sons still haunt these halls," Elmo Tully said, his voice hushed. "That every lord who has held Harrenhal since has met a grim end. The castle is cursed, Lord Stark."
"Curses are stories told to frighten children, Lord Tully," Ciel said, though he didn't entirely believe his own words. The oppressive feeling was too real. "It is the living we should fear, not the dead." He looked up at the sky. "Prince Jacaerys, what news of Aemond?"
The young prince landed Vermax in the vast central courtyard, the dragon's roar echoing off the ruined towers. "He was last seen flying south along the Kingsroad, near the Hayford lands. He shows no sign of turning back yet. But Vhagar is swift. We may have a day, perhaps less, before he learns of our presence here."
A day. Not enough time to truly secure a castle of this magnitude, not enough time to rest.
"We cannot hold this place indefinitely with our current numbers, not if Aemond returns with Vhagar and a larger host," Ciel stated, his mind already working through the strategic implications. "But we can deny it to the Greens. And we can make a statement."
He turned to Sebastian. "My Lord," the butler said, anticipating his question, "the castle is riddled with tunnels, hidden passages, and dungeons. Many are collapsed, but some remain… accessible. There are also stores of sorts, mostly rotting grain and rusted weaponry, but some salvageable items. And prisoners, my Lord. A handful of Black loyalists kept in the dungeons beneath the Tower of Dread."
"See to the prisoners," Ciel ordered. "And search the castle thoroughly. Any documents, maps, messages from King's Landing – I want them." He looked around the vast, gloomy hall. "This castle has seen too much suffering. Perhaps it is time it served a different purpose, however briefly."
Later, as dusk began to settle, casting Harrenhal into even deeper shadow, Ciel stood alone in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. The bodies had been removed, but the stench of blood lingered, mingling with the ancient dust and despair. He felt the castle pressing in on him, its dark history a palpable weight.
Sebastian appeared silently at his side. "A melancholic place, is it not, my Lord? Soaked in ambition, betrayal, and agony. A veritable feast for certain… sensibilities." His crimson eyes held a flicker of something that might have been nostalgia, or perhaps just a demon's appreciation for concentrated human misery.
"Do you believe in curses, Sebastian?" Ciel asked, his voice unusually subdued.
"I believe in cause and effect, my Lord," Sebastian replied. "Men build monuments to their pride, they commit atrocities in their name, and the echoes of those actions linger. Some call these echoes ghosts, curses. I call them… residue. The stain of a soul's passing, particularly a tormented one, can be quite potent." He paused. "But true power, the kind that shapes destinies and devours souls, that is a different matter entirely. This castle… it is merely a decaying corpse, reeking of its past sins. It has no true power of its own."
"Perhaps," Ciel said. "But it has power over the minds of men. And Aemond will not take its loss lightly."
Just then, a messenger rushed in, his face pale. "My Lord Stark! Prince Jacaerys! Scouts report a massive column of smoke to the east! And a rider from Hayford claims Prince Aemond and Vhagar turned back hours ago! They say he learned of our march on Harrenhal from a fleeing sellsword! He is returning!"
A cold dread, sharper than any Harrenhal ghost, gripped Ciel. Aemond was returning. And Vhagar, the Black Dread's only living rival in destructive power, was with him. Their window of opportunity had just slammed shut.
"How long?" Ciel demanded.
"Hours, my lord," the messenger stammered. "At Vhagar's speed… he could be here by morning, or sooner."
The assembled lords looked to Ciel, their faces grim. They were trapped in a cursed castle, with the realm's most fearsome dragon and one of its deadliest warriors bearing down on them.
Ciel's mind raced. They could not fight Vhagar here, not without catastrophic losses. They could not flee and abandon Harrenhal now that they had taken it; the blow to their morale and reputation would be immense.
He looked at the vast, shadowy hall, at the banners of Stark and Targaryen hanging defiantly. A desperate, audacious plan began to form in his mind, a gamble worthy of the cursed king who had built this monstrous place.
"Bar the gates," Ciel ordered, his voice ringing with a newfound, almost feral resolve. "Reinforce our positions. We will not abandon Harrenhal. If Prince Aemond wants his castle back, he will have to come through us." He turned to Jacaerys. "Your Grace, Vermax is our swiftest messenger and our best defense against Vhagar in the open. But within these walls…"
Jacaerys nodded, understanding. "Vermax cannot fight Vhagar in confined spaces, but he can harry her, perhaps draw her fire. What is your plan, Lord Stark?"
Ciel's single eye gleamed in the torchlight, reflecting the ancient, predatory spirit of the North, now mixed with something darker, more calculating. "Harrenhal was built to withstand armies, not dragonfire from within. And Prince Aemond, for all his fury, is still a man. Men can be surprised. Men can be trapped." He allowed himself a chilling smile. "This castle is a tomb. Let us see if we can make it Prince Aemond's."
The Black King of Harrenhal, as some were already starting to call him in awed whispers, was about to play his most dangerous hand yet.