77 AC
Moat Cailin
Third Person Pov
The next day, within the war tent, the air crackled with a mixture of anticipation and dread. King Jaehaerys and his sons, Aemon and Baelon, finalized their plan, their faces grim but resolute. They would mount their dragons, unleashing fire upon the unyielding defenses of Moat Cailin. After a tense discussion of tactics, they left the tent, the fate of their army and the North resting on their scaled mounts.
As they mounted their dragons, the ground trembling beneath the massive beasts, an unnatural sound reached their ears – a dragon's roar, but not their own. A roar that echoed with a power and resonance that chilled even their experienced blood.
Jaehaerys, Aemon, and Baelon turned their gazes upwards, their faces etched with stunned disbelief. Against the pale sky, four dragons descended with terrifying speed. The largest was a behemoth, its size dwarfing even Vhagar, rivaling the legendary Balerion the Black Dread. The smallest was comparable to Silverwing in size, but its movements were swift and predatory. These were not dragons of the South. These were dragons unknown, their presence a terrifying mystery, their intentions unclear. The battle for Moat Cailin, already a desperate struggle, had taken a turn into the realm of nightmare.
The sudden, unexpected roar sent a jolt of pure dread through King Jaehaerys. His gaze, along with Aemon and Baelon's, snapped skyward, the initial shock quickly giving way to a desperate need for evasion. With a shouted command, Jaehaerys banked Vermithor sharply to the left, Aemon veering Caraxes to the right, and Baelon pulling Vhagar into a steep climb. The colossal forms of the unknown dragons streaked past the space where they had just been, the wind of their passage buffeting the Targaryen mounts.
Once they had put some distance between themselves and the terrifying newcomers, Jaehaerys risked another glance. His heart hammered against his ribs. The four dragons were now clearly visible against the overcast sky, their scales a kaleidoscope of unfamiliar hues. But it wasn't just their presence that sent a shiver down his spine; it was what he saw on their backs.
Riders.
Three of the four dragons bore figures astride their necks, cloaked and armored, their identities obscured by the distance and the swirling mist. Their posture was assured, almost casual, even as they moved with breathtaking speed. These were no wild beasts; they were commanded.
Then his gaze fell upon the fourth, the largest of them all, a monstrous creature that dwarfed even the mighty Vhagar, truly the size of Balerion the Black Dread. And it was riderless. The sheer power emanating from the colossal beast was palpable, a primeval force unburdened by a master.
A cold, hard knot formed in Jaehaerys's stomach. This was a nightmare made real. The North now possessed its own winged beasts, and one of them was a force of nature comparable to the legendary Black Dread. The king's plans, his assumptions about this war, were shattered in that horrifying realization. This was not merely a challenge; it was an existential threat.
The terrifying sight of four unknown dragons, one colossal and riderless, obliterated all other concerns. The planned assault on Moat Cailin vanished from Jaehaerys's mind, replaced by the primal instinct of self-preservation and the urgent need to understand this new, monstrous threat. Evasion was only a temporary measure; to flee blindly was to invite a strike from behind.
"Hold formation!" Jaehaerys roared, pulling Vermithor into a wide, arcing turn. "We test their strength! Aemon, Baelon, keep their flanks! Do not break formation!"
Aemon, his face pale but determined, nodded grimly as Caraxes wheeled beside Vermithor. Baelon, ever eager for a fight, let out a defiant cry, urging Vhagar forward, though his initial bravado was now laced with a healthy dose of awe at the sheer size of the largest unknown beast.
The Northern dragons, sensing the Targaryens' shift from evasion to confrontation, responded in kind. The three ridden dragons, smaller than Vhagar but swift and agile, spread out, forming a loose crescent. The colossal, riderless dragon, however, moved with an unsettling, deliberate majesty, positioning itself directly in front of the Targaryen trio, its immense shadow falling over them like a pall.
"They mean to engage!" Aemon shouted, his voice barely audible over the growing roar of dragon wings.
The first volley of fire came from the ridden dragons. A stream of blue flame erupted from the largest of the three, streaking towards Vermithor. Jaehaerys reacted instantly, pulling Vermithor into a barrel roll, the fiery jet sizzling harmlessly past his wing. At the same moment, two bolts of white and grey flame shot towards Caraxes and Vhagar. Caraxes banked sharply, the white fire grazing his tail, while Vhagar, with a powerful beat of her wings, soared above the burning streak.
"Their fire is cold!" Baelon cried, his face grim. "And fast!"
Jaehaerys knew this was no mere skirmish. This was a test of raw power, a deadly dance in the sky. He urged Vermithor forward, aiming a blast of his golden flame at the colossal, riderless dragon. The King understood the psychological impact of such a beast; if it could be shaken, even slightly, it might give them an edge. Vermithor's flame, a hot, brilliant gout, struck the massive dragon on its shoulder. The scales, dark and ancient-looking, shimmered, absorbing the impact. The beast barely flinched, letting out a low, guttural rumble that vibrated through the air, more a sound of annoyance than pain.
The riderless leviathan retaliated with a terrifying display of power. Its jaws unhinged, and a torrent of dark blue flame, thick and noxious, erupted forth. It was unlike any dragonfire Jaehaerys had ever seen – a crushing, suffocating darkness that seemed to devour the light itself. The flame enveloped the space between Vermithor and Caraxes, forcing them to split wide, narrowly avoiding the deadly inferno. The cold was immense, even from a distance, chilling the air and making Vermithor whine in discomfort.
"Gods above, what was that?" Aemon gasped, his face pale. "It's… it's colder than other flames!"
Baelon, always the most aggressive, roared defiance and unleashed Vhagar's mighty breath, a wave of orange-yellow fire, directly at one of the ridden Northern dragons. The smaller Northern dragon, its scales a mottled grey, twisted in the air with surprising agility, barely evading the blast. Its rider, a cloaked figure, leaned low, seemingly whispering commands.
The engagement quickly devolved into a swirling aerial ballet of fire and evasion. The three Targaryen dragons, though powerful, found themselves outmaneuvered by the agile ridden dragons, who darted and weaved, always forcing the Targaryens to react. Their coordinated movements suggested years of practice, a terrifying synergy between dragon and rider.
One Northern dragon, its scales a pale green, roared and spewed a blinding white flame, a searing light that temporarily disoriented Caraxes. Aemon cried out, momentarily losing control as Caraxes lurched, forcing Jaehaerys to swoop Vermithor close, drawing the green dragon's attention away with a warning roar.
All the while, the colossal, riderless dragon maintained its imposing presence. It did not engage in the frantic dogfighting of the others. Instead, it moved with deliberate, powerful strokes, its focus entirely on the Targaryen kings. It was a looming threat, a silent, unblinking force of nature that struck fear into the hearts of even the most hardened dragonriders.
Baelon, seeing its relentless advance, made a desperate gamble. He dove Vhagar, aiming her colossal weight directly at the riderless dragon, hoping to force a physical confrontation, to use Vhagar's raw strength where fire seemed ineffective.
"Baelon, no!" Jaehaerys bellowed, understanding the immense risk.
Vhagar crashed into the larger dragon's side with a sickening thud that reverberated through the sky. Vhagar roared, trying to grapple, to tear at the ancient scales. But the colossal dragon merely let out another deep, vibrating rumble. It twisted, not violently, but with an immense, slow power, shrugging Vhagar off as if she were a bothersome fly. Vhagar was thrown clear, spinning uncontrollably for a moment, her own scales scraped and scarred from the impact, her rider Baelon clinging precariously to her neck.
The riderless dragon, seemingly unperturbed, then unleashed another blast of its dark blue flame, this time a wider, sweeping arc, forcing all three Targaryen dragons to scatter wildly. The very air around the blue flame felt heavy, oppressive, stealing heat and light.
The battle continued, a relentless assault on the Targaryen dragons. The ridden Northern dragons, despite their smaller size, proved incredibly resilient. They moved with a tactical precision that spoke volumes of their riders' skill. They'd fire, then dart away, drawing the Targaryens into unfavorable positions, always herding them closer to the massive, unridden beast.
Caraxes, having recovered from the white flame, roared in frustration. Aemon tried to pin one of the Northern dragons, a swift, serpentine creature, against the clouds, but the beast twisted, its rider guiding it through impossibly tight turns, then blasted Caraxes with a stream of hot, purple fire that sent him screeching.
"They're faster, Father!" Aemon called out, struggling to keep Caraxes steady. "And they're working together!"
Jaehaerys, his jaw tight, knew his sons spoke the truth. Vermithor was strong, Caraxes agile, and Vhagar massive, but these Northern dragons, coupled with their skilled riders, were a cohesive, terrifying unit. The sheer power of the riderless dragon was also draining them; every evasion, every defensive maneuver, demanded immense effort from the Targaryen beasts.
Another of the ridden dragons, a sleek, dark grey beast, darted underneath Vhagar, then shot upwards, raking her belly with claws before she could react. Vhagar roared in pain and fury, blasting fire downwards, but the grey dragon was already gone, disappearing into the mist.
The Unthinkable Reality
The grim realization settled over Jaehaerys like a shroud. This wasn't merely a test of strength; it was a revelation. The North, isolated for so long, had not just survived; it had evolved. These dragons, these riders, represented a terrifying new power, a challenge to the Targaryen supremacy that had endured doom. The riderless behemoth, in particular, was an enigma, a raw, untamed force that defied all understanding.
The battle raged for what felt like an eternity, a dizzying, dangerous dance in the sky above the unyielding Moat Cailin. Fire streaked, claws raked, and the air was thick with the scent of ozone and singed scales. But the Targaryen dragons, for all their might, could not gain an advantage. The Northern dragons, through their coordinated attacks and superior maneuverability, kept them on the defensive. The riderless Balerion-sized beast, meanwhile, continued its silent, crushing pressure, every black flame a warning of the catastrophic power it wielded.
Finally, Jaehaerys saw a fleeting opportunity. The ridden dragons had pressed too close, momentarily separating themselves from their larger companion. He barked a command to his sons. "Break off! To the east! We pull back!"
It was not a retreat born of fear, but of grim necessity. They had tested the waters, and found them to be a raging, dragon-filled ocean. Their assumption of aerial dominance had been shattered. With a final, desperate burst of speed, Vermithor, Caraxes, and Vhagar broke formation, streaking towards the eastern horizon, leaving the four Northern dragons in command of the skies above Moat Cailin.
The roars of the victorious Northern dragons echoed behind them, a chilling declaration of their unexpected power. Jaehaerys knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that the war for the North had just taken a terrifying turn. The dragons were not merely a threat; they were the new masters of this conflict, and the Targaryens were no longer alone in the sky. The implications were catastrophic.
The roar from above abruptly silenced the battlefield. Southern soldiers froze, Northern defenders lowered their weapons. Every eye, from the mud-caked footman to the highest watchman, snapped skyward.
A collective gasp, terrified silence, fell over the entire battlefield. The very air vibrated as four colossal, unknown dragons joined the familiar Targaryen beasts in a desperate aerial dance. Streams of alien fire—black as night or blinding white—seared the air.
Whispers of "More dragons? From where?" rippled through the Southern ranks. The sight of a Balerion-sized beast, riderless and unleashing dark blue flame, sent shivers down spines. This wasn't just a battle for a castle; it was a terrifying shift in the world's understanding.
On Moat Cailin's walls, Northern defenders, initially stunned, murmured with awe and defiance. The unknown dragons felt like a powerful blessing.
The ground battle paused. No one moved to fight, unwilling to disturb the titanic struggle overhead. Soldiers were mere spectators to a clash of gods, their own war rendered insignificant. The fate of Moat Cailin, and perhaps the realm, would now be decided by fire and scale in the mist-shrouded skies.
The war tent fell silent, thick with the weight of the dragons' aerial clash. King Jaehaerys, weary, slumped onto a stool, while Aemon stood rigid and Baelon paced with raw frustration.
"Four of them," Baelon muttered, his gaze fixed on the tent flap. "One was monstrous, like a shadow. It barely felt Vhagar."
"Their fire was different, too," Aemon added. "The Dark blue flame, chilling. The white light, blinding. These aren't beasts we've faced."
Jaehaerys rubbed his temples. "No. And three were ridden. By whom? The North holds no dragonseeds we know of." He looked at Lord Rogar Baratheon. "Any new lords, unusual companions?"
Rogar shook his head. "Nothing, Your Grace. The scouts speak of no such beasts. And the Moat's garrison seemed as stunned as our own men. They are not their dragons."
"Then whose are they?" Eustace Hightower murmured nervously. "Wild dragons? But a riderless beast the size of Balerion, acting in concert with ridden ones? It defies all sense."
"Wild dragons don't act in concert," Aemon countered. "They fought with precision, forcing us into positions where the larger beast could strike."
The implication hung heavy: someone in the North, or allied with them, now wielded dragons – powerful, skilled ones, including a beast rivaling Balerion.
"This changes everything," Lord Ryam Redwyne finally said, his voice a low growl. "Our aerial superiority is gone. It's challenged."
"Challenged?" Baelon scoffed. "We were defensive. This isn't a challenge; it's a revelation of power."
Jaehaerys stood, his gaze hardening. "Indeed. A game-changer. Moat Cailin, the crannogmen… these were obstacles. These dragons are a direct threat to our House, to our very claim." He picked up a splintered token. "We cannot fight a prolonged siege against an enemy that can unleash such devastation from the skies."
He turned to his sons, his voice firm. "Aemon, Baelon, your experience today is invaluable. We saw their strength. We also learned we are not alone in the skies."
He then addressed a waiting runner. "Send a rider. The fastest we have. To Red keep."
Jaehaerys's eyes hardened, thinking of Alysanne. This was beyond normal warfare.
"Tell the Queen," Jaehaerys commanded, his voice ringing with renewed authority, "that the North holds unexpected fangs. Tell her to bring Alyssa with her. And tell her to bring their dragons."
Aemon's eyes widened, understanding the depth of his father's concern. To summon Alysanne and Silverwing meant dire straits.
The runner departed, leaving the lords to exchange uneasy glances. The King had called for the Queen. The stakes of this war had just been raised to an unimaginable height.