Chapter 11: The Price of Providence
The news of the annihilation at Bitterbridge fell upon the Red Keep not like a thunderclap, but like the final, suffocating shovelful of earth upon a freshly filled grave. The hope that had sustained them, the grand southern host of Ormund Hightower, had been snuffed out as easily as a candle flame in a hurricane. There were no conflicting reports, no room for doubt. There was only the testimony of the lone survivor, Ser Victor Hightower, a young knight whose mind was now a broken mirror, endlessly reflecting the single, terrifying image of a walking mountain and a voice that spoke inside his head.
The Small Council chamber had become a mausoleum of lost ambitions. Dowager Queen Alicent sat rigid in her high-backed chair, her face a pale, stoic mask that could not quite conceal the trembling of her hands. Her piety offered no comfort against a demon that seemed to mock the very idea of gods. Otto Hightower, the Hand, looked a decade older, the intricate tapestry of his plans now a heap of scorched thread. But it was Prince Aemond who was the most changed. His frantic rage had cooled, solidifying into something far more dangerous: a cold, black, obsessive hatred.
"He said the scales must be balanced," Aemond stated, his voice a low monotone that was more chilling than any shout. He paced before the hearth, his single eye fixed on the flames. "Meleys is taken from the Blacks. Cole's host is taken from us. The Triarchy fleet, which would have aided us, is gone. The Hightower host, which would have aided us, is gone. The scales are not being balanced. They are being cleared."
Larys Strong, the Clubfoot, watched from his customary place in the shadows, his expression unreadable. "You ascribe purpose to it, my prince. An intellect."
"The survivor was left alive for a reason, Lord Larys," Aemond countered, turning from the fire. "He was a message. A beast does not leave a messenger. An army does not leave a single survivor. A god, or a devil playing at one, does. It is talking to us. It is telling us that our armies, our fleets, our wealth… are irrelevant."
"Then what is relevant?" Alicent whispered, her voice fragile. "What do we fight with when swords and dragons are rendered meaningless?"
"We have one sword left that matters," Aemond said, his hand falling to the hilt of his own blade, his gaze distant. "Vhagar. It has avoided a direct confrontation. It has struck at fleets and armies, but it has not yet faced the last daughter of Old Valyria. Perhaps it fears her."
"Or perhaps it is simply… efficient," Larys Strong murmured, his voice a dry rustle of leaves. "Why fight a dragon when you can eat an army? Why duel a prince when you can bankrupt a kingdom? This is not a warrior. This is a merchant, and his currency is terror."
"Then we have nothing left to sell," Otto said, his voice hollow with defeat. "We are barricaded in this city with a grieving king and a mad queen, waiting for a monster to decide which of us it will devour next. Or for Rhaenyra's armies to march up the Kingsroad, a victory they have not even earned."
"No," Aemond said, his eye glittering with a final, desperate spark of defiance. "It will face me. It will face Vhagar. I will hunt it. I will find it. And I will burn it from the sky." His vow hung in the air, the brave words of a man trying to convince himself that the game was not already lost.
On Dragonstone, the mood was the polar opposite. Euphoria reigned. The news of the Hightower host's dissolution was the final proof: their cause was blessed, their victory assured. The lords of the Black Council gathered around the Painted Table, their voices loud and triumphant, their eyes gleaming with the prospect of victory.
"It is over!" declared Lord Celtigar, slapping the table with a mailed fist. "The Greens have no armies left. The path to King's Landing is clear! Lord Corlys, your ships can land our men at the Blackwater Rush without opposition!"
The Sea Snake nodded, his grim face finally allowing a flicker of triumph. "My ships are ready. The men are eager. We can have twenty thousand soldiers at the gates of the capital within a week. The city will not stand against us." He looked directly at Rhaenyra, his voice resonating with authority. "The time for caution is past, my queen. Now is the time to claim your throne."
A chorus of assent filled the chamber. Rhaenyra, her heart soaring with a hope she had not felt since before Lucerys's death, rose to her feet, her eyes shining. "My lords, you are right. We have mourned, and we have waited. Now, we will act. We will…"
"No."
The single word, spoken quietly by Daemon, silenced the entire room. He had been standing apart, observing the celebration with an unnerving stillness. Now, he moved to the table, and the atmosphere in the chamber shifted, the triumphant heat replaced by a sudden chill.
"Husband?" Rhaenyra asked, confused. "What do you mean, no? Victory is within our grasp."
"Is it?" Daemon asked, his gaze sweeping across the eager faces of the lords. "Or is it within the grasp of the thing that has been winning our victories for us? Three times, a great Green force has been assembled. Three times, it has been erased from existence by a power we do not understand. And you wish to march our last great army, our sons on their dragons, into the heart of that same mystery?"
Lord Corlys's jaw tightened. He stepped forward to face his son-in-law. "You were the one who spoke of a third player. Now you sound as if you fear it. I have never known you to fear anything, Daemon."
"I do not fear it. I respect it," Daemon said smoothly, his expression unreadable. "It has shown us its power. It has not shown us its allegiance. We know it has destroyed our enemies. We think it is our friend. But we also know that Princess Rhaenys, one of our own, is gone. It is a fire, my lords. A great, cleansing fire. And I do not intend to lead our queen and her host into its hearth to see if it will burn us as well."
The lords murmured, his words planting seeds of doubt in their triumphant minds. He was right. The nature of their benefactor was a terrifying unknown.
"Then what do you propose?" Corlys challenged. "We cannot simply sit here on our island while this… phantom… reshapes the world."
"I agree," Daemon said, a predatory glint in his eye. "We cannot sit. So while this entity keeps the great beasts of the Greens occupied, we will consolidate our power. We will take the pieces they can no longer hold. The Riverlands are in turmoil. The key to their loyalty, and a dagger to the throat of the westerlands, is Harrenhal."
He paused, letting the name of the great, cursed fortress hang in the air.
"The castle is held by House Strong, loyal to the Greens. But their lord, Larys, is in King's Landing. The garrison is strong, but isolated. While all eyes are on King's Landing, I will fly there myself. I will take Harrenhal for the Queen. From there, I will rally the riverlords to our cause. We will surround our enemies, choke them off, and let our great ally bleed them dry for us."
It was a masterstroke of political maneuvering. He presented a plan that was both aggressive and seemingly cautious. He appeared the heroic prince, willing to undertake a perilous solo mission, while in truth, he was simply preparing the ground for his secret weapon. He was giving Krosis-Krif a target, a task that would serve both the dragon's hunger and Daemon's own ambition.
Rhaenyra looked at her husband with shining eyes, her heart swelling with pride. "It is a brilliant plan. But it is dangerous. Alone…"
"Caraxes and I are never alone," Daemon said with a confidence that chilled Corlys to the bone. "Let me have this, my queen. Let me deliver you the Riverlands."
How could she refuse? The council, swayed by his logic and his charisma, gave their assent. Daemon had his mandate. He would fly to Harrenhal, the conqueror, to claim a prize he knew would be waiting for him, already gift-wrapped.
Krosis-Krif did not need a raven. He had felt Daemon's intent, the focused desire aimed like a spear at the great black castle of Harren the Black. It was a pleasing development. This 'consultancy' was proving to be remarkably efficient. His new pawn was intelligent, and his appetites aligned perfectly with Krosis-Krif's own.
He arrived at Harrenhal under the cover of a moonless, starless night. The castle was a monument to hubris, its five gargantuan towers clawing at the sky like the skeletal fingers of a dead giant. It was said that the castle was cursed, that the dragonfire of Balerion had not just melted its stones but had baked the pain and terror of its original defenders into the very fabric of the place. Krosis-Krif could feel it. The castle had a psychic resonance, a taste of ancient sorrow and fear that was… delicious.
The Strong garrison was vigilant, but they were watching for men with ladders or dragons of conventional size. They were not prepared for a sentient piece of the night sky to detach itself and land in their largest courtyard, the Court of Dread.
Krosis-Krif's landing was not a crash. It was a deliberate, ground-shaking placement. The ancient paving stones, each the size of a millwheel, cracked and shattered under his weight. His sheer bulk filled the entire courtyard, his head towering over the battlements of the great hall, his tail coiled around the Tower of Dread.
The garrison, woken by the earthquake of his arrival, poured onto the battlements and into the yards, their torches creating a constellation of panicked lights. Their shouts of alarm died in their throats, replaced by a wave of utter, soul-crushing silence as they beheld the creature that had come to visit. Its black scales seemed to drink the torchlight. Its golden eyes, burning like twin dying stars, regarded them with a complete lack of passion, the way a man might regard a spill of wine on a table.
Ser Simon Strong, the castle's castellan and great-uncle to Lord Larys, was a man of sixty years, known for his stern, unbending nature. He strode onto the battlements of the Kingspyre Tower, his hand on his sword, his heart a block of ice in his chest. "In the name of King Aegon the Second," he bellowed, his voice straining to remain steady, "I command you to name yourself, beast!"
Krosis-Krif turned his immense head to look at the defiant little man. He did not answer with fire or with his telepathic voice. He answered with a demonstration. He focused his gaze on the Tower of Dread, one of the five colossal towers of the fortress. He took a slow, deep breath, and the air around his snout shimmered with heat. Then he exhaled.
A concentrated, almost solid beam of white-hot plasma, no wider than a cart, shot out and struck the tower halfway up. There was no explosion. The ancient, blackened stone simply… ceased to exist. The beam passed clean through the tower, leaving behind a perfectly circular, glowing hole thirty feet in diameter. The top half of the immense tower, weighing hundreds of thousands of tons, tilted for a moment in the sudden silence, then slid sideways and crashed into the courtyard below with a cataclysmic roar that shook the entire countryside.
The display of effortless, absolute power was the only answer required. The will of the garrison shattered. Men dropped their swords, falling to their knees, weeping and praying.
Ser Simon Strong stared, his mouth agape, his stern façade crumbled to dust. He had just witnessed a power that made the fires of Balerion the Black Dread seem like a kitchen hearth.
Krosis-Krif then began his feast. He moved with a lazy, almost bored efficiency. He plucked men from the battlements with the tip of a claw. He used his fire to herd others into the great hall, before sealing the doors with a river of molten stone. He consumed the living, but he also seemed to be consuming the castle itself, drawing in the ancient sorrow, the dark energy of the curse, feeding on the very essence of the place.
He left Ser Simon Strong alive. He left a handful of servants, who had hidden in the deepest cellars, alive. He needed witnesses. He needed the story to be told correctly. When he was done, he slipped away as silently as he had arrived, leaving the four remaining towers of Harrenhal to stand sentinel over a silent, empty courtyard.
The next morning, a single, blood-red dragon circled the castle before landing gracefully amidst the rubble of the fallen tower. Prince Daemon Targaryen dismounted, his black armor gleaming, a confident smirk on his face. He strode towards the gaping doors of the great hall, Dark Sister held loosely in his hand.
He found Ser Simon Strong sitting on the floor in the center of the vast, empty hall, rocking back and forth, his eyes vacant.
Daemon's smirk widened. He kicked a stray helmet out of his path, the clang echoing in the cavernous space. "I am Prince Daemon Targaryen," he announced, his voice booming with theatrical authority. "This castle now belongs to Queen Rhaenyra. Do you yield?"
The old castellan looked up at him, but his eyes were seeing a far greater horror. "Yield?" he whispered, his voice a dry, rattling thing. "My prince… there is nothing left to yield. There is no one left to surrender." He pointed a trembling finger towards the broken tower. "It came. The shadow. The silence. It did not want the castle. It… it wanted the quiet. It ate the noise. It ate the screams."
Daemon looked at the broken man, then around at the great, silent hall. He had just conquered the most formidable fortress in Westeros without losing a single man, without Caraxes breathing a single puff of flame. This new, divine power was a gift beyond his wildest imaginings. The price, whatever it may be, seemed a triviality in the face of such absolute results. He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword, threw back his head, and laughed. The sound echoed through the haunted hall, the triumphant, hubristic laughter of a man who believed he had just tamed a god.