The Shadow of Winterfell Chapter 18

Eddard Stark

The council chamber reeked of smoke. Even within the Red Keep, behind walls of stone, the stench clung like death—char and ash, and something fouler beneath, the stink of burned flesh. Ned Stark sat stiff in his chair at the council table, the weight of the Hand’s responsibilities heavier than ever.

A thousand souls, that was the count of who was burned to cinders, with whole streets devoured by green flame. One moment Rhaeny’s hill had stood tall, the Dragonpit resting at its peak, and the next it was gone. An entire hill vanquished by green flame, with the surrounding parts of the city taking the brunt of the damage.

Ned had seen the ruin himself, the blackened ruins strewn with corpses, cobblestones split and glassed over by heat, timbers charred to ash. An entire part of the city was now uninhabitable, cordoned off by gold cloaks still trying to quell what fires remained.

Robert Baratheon loomed at the head of the table, a half-drained goblet of wine before him, his great hands clenched into fists. His beard was unkempt, his face red from drink and rage both.

“Seven bloody hells.” The king growled, pounding the table so hard the goblets jumped. “I want to know who did this! I want their heads on spikes before the day is out!”

“Alas, Your Grace, the answer may not please you.” Varys voice was smooth, and Ned wondered how the eunuch could be so calm while facing Robert’s rage. “The pyromancers swear the fault is not theirs, but the truth is plain. The blast was wildfire, the weapon prized so highly by Aerys II Targaryen.”

Robert cursed. “Wildfire? I thought we rid ourselves of that madness when we rid ourselves of the Mad King.”

Across from Ned, Grand Maester Pycelle gave a solemn nod, his chains clinking as he shifted in his seat. “The substance is most… volatile, Your Grace. Once lit, it cannot be quenched by water, only smothered. The alchemists were meant to keep but a few jars for their… experiments.”

“A few jars?” Robert spat the words like venom. “That hill burned like the Seven Hells themselves! How many jars, Pycelle?”

Sweat matted Pycelle’s brow. “O-Obviously more than a few, your Grace.”

“It’s not simply the pyromancers to blame for this.” For once, Varys looked unsettled, his face was pale as his hand shook. “I’ve managed to learn that these caches were prepared in the days of the Mad King, stashed throughout the city in the event of a sack.”

Ned felt a chill run down his spine, realizing just what Varys meant by those words. It wasn’t just his father who Aerys intended to burn with wildfire, as it seemed the Mad King wanted to burn all of Kings Landing to ash.

“How many?” His voice felt almost strangled as he spoke. “Say it plain.”

Varys’s dark eyes lingered on him a heartbeat before sliding back to the group. “Thousands of jars, my lords. Secreted away in vaults and cellars all across the city. Beneath the septs and the gates, the marketplaces and the very streets. Beneath this very castle.”

“Gods preserve us.” Muttered Ser Barristan, his face was grave. “If what the eunuch says is true—”

“It’s true enough.” Robert cut him off, voice rough as a rasp. “Seven hells. Seven bloody hells! That treacherous bastard meant to burn us all! Burn his city, his people—burn me. If one stash of Wildfire can do that, what would happen if the rest go up? Half my kingdom in ashes!”

“All of it.” Varys whispered. “The pyromancers claim that should every cache ignite, King’s Landing would not survive the hour.”

Pycelle made a sound like a dying animal, while Renly cursed under his breath. Yet Ned could only think about his father and brother in that moment, trying and failing to imagine the agony Rickard Stark had gone through in his last moments as he was burned alive with wildfire.

“Find them!” Robert roared, shoving back his chair so hard it toppled. “Every cursed jar. Tear the city apart if you must, brick by bloody brick! I’ll not sleep with wildfire under my feet!”

Varys inclined his head, calm as a pond. “As you command, Your Grace. Though… it may take time. Years, perhaps. The caches were hidden well.”

“Then start now!” Robert bellowed. “I want the Guildmaster in chains before nightfall—”

The doors to the small council chambers suddenly opened then, as Ned’s nephew walked in. Harry looked worse than Ned had ever seen him, covered in soot with his armor filthier than ever. He had known the boy was out helping the gold cloaks put out the flames, and it seemed something of importance had occurred for him to show up here.

“My Lord, your Grace-” Harry went to kneel, only for Robert to interrupt.

“What is it? Speak!”

“I have managed to locate every stash of wildfire throughout the city, my Lords.” Harry pulled out a map, and with Ned’s approval he laid it across the table. Ned saw various parts of the city were marked, as he couldn’t help but lean in. “Underneath all of the main gates leading into the city, beneath some of the streets with fleabottom having quite a few, as well as under the Sept of Baelor and the Red Keep.”

The map was detailed with each location carefully marked, meaning that Harry had either found the caches himself or had men find each location and report back to him. His respect for his nephew rose even higher in that moment, realizing the efforts he had gone to.

“Seven hells!” Robert hissed as if scalded by a hot iron, while Renly went deathly pale. “Is there no end to Aerys’ madness?”

“There is good news, in that Wendel and I have managed to subdue what fires remain on Rhaenys hill.” Harry added. “The City Watch commander sent me to inform you, my Lords, and soon the smallfolk will be able to return to the area.”

Wendel Manderly and the rest of the City Watch had been working tirelessly since the explosion to smother the fires. A tall order and a terrible task, and Ned would have to learn the cost they paid to put out the green flames later.

“But if I may, my Lords, your Grace, I believe we’ll need more manpower to handle the rest of the caches. There is also the issue of the smallfolk, with many of their homes destroyed and us potentially having a riot on our hands.” Harry continued on, and Ned and the others present listened attentively. However, it seemed that some did not appreciate his nephews presence.

“That’s enough out of you, boy.” Pycelle scowled down at Ned’s nephew, before turning to face the rest of the room. “My Lords, should we really allow this bastard to remain in our presence?”

Before Ned could scold the Grand Maester, Robert did so for him. The King spun to face Pycelle with a look of absolute fury on his face. “Shut your mouth, Pycelle, or I’ll have you thrown from this tower!”

The Grand Maester sputtered an apology, and for once Ned appreciated Robert’s crassness.

Robert then turned to face Hadrian, his face hard yet kind. “Tell me what you need, boy, and I’ll see it done.”

If Harry was nervous about facing the most powerful man in Westeros, he didn’t show it. “We’ll need more men than just the gold cloaks, your Grace. Each stash will need to be secured by the City Watch, and then laborers will have to carefully load each barrel into wagons for transport out of the city. Obviously we’ll prioritize the Red Keep and the Sept of Baelor, but this whole process could take weeks, even moons.”

“The boy speaks true.” Ser Barristan nodded. “Just one slip-up, one barrel dropped, and what happened at Rhaenys hill could repeat itself.”

“We’ll pay the laborers handsomely to ensure such accidents don’t happen.” Ned decided then. “Those who lost their livelihoods on Rhaenys hill can be hired to move the caches, ensuring they’ll know just how important their task is.”

Indeed, the Crown’s finances were beginning to return to normal, with Littlefinger’s looted gold being slowly recuperated. Such gold would be needed to pay so many laborers, and to ensure the operation ran smoothly.

“An excellent idea, my Lord Hand.” Varys gave him a strange, approving nod.

“That will help with the growing unrest.” Harry spoke up. “But the smallfolk still want someone to blame.”

The room went silent at that, until it was Robert of all people who broke it. “Pycelle, send ravens to every corner of the realm of what happened here. Tell every Lord of Aerys madness, and his plan to destroy Kings Landing.”

Quiet greeted the King’s proclamation, as everyone silently digested the scale of the mess they were embroiled in. It was almost a blessing in disguise that the wildfire didn’t go off earlier, or that someplace other than the abandoned Dragonpit didn’t explode first. There was also the terrifying thought of what if Aerys actually succeeded in his scheme to destroy King’s Landing, doing so after Robert’s entire army had entered the city. He would have ended both the Rebellion, and the Targaryen Dynasty in one fell swoop.

“Why not stop there, your Grace?” The last person Ned expected to raise their voice, spoke in that very moment. Harry got the attention of the room’s occupants, along with Robert who looked at him curiously. “Why not say that this was a Targaryen plot you managed to foil, and that it was Viserys Targaryen’s foolish attempt to regain power.”

Nobody moved, no one dared even breath at Harry’s words. The claim was so outlandish, so extreme to Ned, that his heart skipped a beat in sheer disbelief.

“Y-You would blame this mess on Viserys Targaryen?” Ned stood, as the rest of the small council looked on in shock.

“Hah! I like you boy!” Robert laughed, clearly liking the idea.

“Robert, you cannot do this!” Ned stated.

“Why not?” His nephew’s words were like knives. “This will further the Realm’s stability and legitimize his Grace even further. That’s without mentioning how it will demoralize those who still support the Targaryens, tarnishing their name for eternity. Who would dare support a boy who tried to burn five hundred thousand people alive?”

His logic was cold and brutal, and cut the wind out of Ned’s sails. His response died on his lips then, as the Lord of Winterfell went quiet. His own son was married to Robert’s daughter after all, their Houses intertwined, and the success of House Baratheon directly tied to Winterfell’s prosperity.

“Ned?” Robert asked curiously.

“Do it.” The words felt like ash on his lips, knowing that sending such a message would destroy any chance the Targaryens had of ever getting into power ever again. It would doom the Targaryen children across the sea, making their lives even more miserable than before.

Gods, let winter come. He thought. Let it come and sweep all this southron rot away.

/////

Hadrian Snow

It was tedious and laborious work to find all of the caches of wildfire, and even more so to remove them all safely. The areas around each stash had to be locked down and put under guard of rotating gold cloaks, and from there, routes to remove each stash from the city were made. Streets were blocked off for carts carrying wildfire, all leading out of the city to designated disposal zones.

And then came the hordes of laborers needed to handle the barrels of wildfire, each needing to be intelligent, as well as careful, else they cause a disaster. Something that Harry had ingrained into the skull of every man working under him.

He had each barrel wrapped in cloth and rope upon transport, lessening the risk they explode from sudden movements. From there they were hoisted onto cranes and moved from whatever cellar they were in and into the carts waiting above.

“Careful lads! Else you risk bringing down the place with one wrong move!” One of the senior gold cloaks barked at a group of men who were handling a barrel of wildfire a bit too harshly.

“Relax, you old shit.” One of the laborers spat back. His face was rough with a couple of his teeth missing. “All you lot do is stand around and yell as we real men do the dirty work.”

“Even now, the golden shits are more useless than ever.” One of the laborers muttered under his breath.

The gold cloak grasped the pommel of his sword. “Shut yer mouth you dumb cunt!”

“That’s enough.” Harry’s words came out as a cold breeze, his mere presence making the group of men immediately stop and kneel. “We all live in this city together after all, and each of us has seen the destruction that befell Rhaenys hill. I doubt any one you want such a thing to happen again?”

“No, my Lord!” The group said in unison.

“Good.” Harry replied. “Then do your best to be careful, and not let our tempers get the best of us.”

They nodded and returned to their work, as Harry let out a sigh of irritation. He would much rather be with Arianne or Margaery in that moment, getting his cock sucked and not standing in some dusty cellar.

“LOOKOUT!”

He spun, his neck nearly snapping at the speed his head turned as he looked over to see a barrel of Wildfire come crashing down. It fell from a crane, plummeting a dozen meters downwards towards where they were all working.

Harry knew that disaster would happen if that barrel managed to land. An entire stockade of wildfire sat around them in that cavern, and just one barrel exploding would set the entire place off. That would only lead to another disaster, as another section of King’s Landing would be wiped out.

His hand reached out, pointing at the barrel as it fell in slow motion.

“Leviosa.”

The barrel slowed mid-air, then came to a stop. The barrel then began moving downwards slowly, before coming to a stop on solid ground. The room was silent, as everyone watched the container with bated breath, until finally someone let out a sigh of relief.

A gold cloak ran up to the barrel and inspected it before turning back to him with wide eyes. “G-Good catch, my Lord.”

“Of course.” He nodded casually, keeping his expression neutral.

The gold cloak didn’t say anything more, nor did any of the laborers, but Harry knew exactly what they were thinking. Magic might be frowned upon in Westeros, but the group could hardly complain when he had just saved everyone’s lives in that cavern.

It was somewhat of a public secret that he could do magic, yet to do so openly was something he tried to avoid. It would just bring another wave of scrutiny and rumors upon him, yet Harry had long ago learned to ignore it all and keep moving forward.

/////

Kinvara

The stench of King’s Landing had not been exaggerated.

The smell of tar and burned flesh filled her lungs as the cog drifted into port, the city’s red roofs stained with ash, its towers blackened as they looked out over the bay.

Even days out from the city, Kinvara had heard the explosion from her ship, and witnessed the raging glow of green flame in the evenings. The death of thousands could be felt as she got ever closer, the ship’s crew getting more uneasy as the days went by. Sadly, the presence of a foreign red priestess did not settle their nerves.

Soon her ship settled into its dock, as she descended the gangplank. Few men watched her, with most far to preoccupied with their work to stare at some foreign beauty. The atmosphere reeked of tension and despair, but Kinvara could care less about the livelihoods of such worms.

Her new Lord was waiting for her, the one who could match the Lord of Light in strength, and Kinvara wasn’t going to keep him waiting.

Disclaimer: All Characters are over the Age of 18

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