77 AC
Moat Cailin
Third Person Pov
Seven days had passed since the urgent message had been dispatched to Dragonstone, each one a grinding eternity spent before Moat Cailin's unyielding walls. The continuous skirmishes with the crannogmen in the swamp, the relentless chill of the Neck, and the constant psychological burden of the unknown dragons weighing on their minds had taken a heavy toll on the southern army. Then, just this morning, a new shadow had fallen across the battlefield, though this one brought a desperate glimmer of hope.
The arrival of Queen Alysanne and Princess Alyssa had been a spectacle of awe and relief. Silverwing, Alysanne's graceful silver she-dragon, circled above the camp, her cries a familiar, comforting sound to the weary Targaryens. Following her, a streak of scarlet lightning, was Meleys, Alyssa's vibrant red dragon, her powerful wings beating the air with fierce energy. Their presence, a stark contrast to the grim desolation of the camp, injected a much-needed surge of morale into the beleaguered southern ranks. Soldiers who had been on the verge of despair whispered excitedly, pointing to the sky, a reminder that the Targaryens still commanded the greatest power in Westeros.
Now, in the war tent, the air felt charged with a different kind of tension. King Jaehaerys stood at the head of the table, his face still etched with the strain of the past days, but with a renewed fire in his eyes. Beside him stood Queen Alysanne, regal even amidst the rough canvas, her gaze sharp and assessing. Princess Alyssa, a striking figure in her riding leathers, her hand never far from the hilt of her dagger, stood beside her mother, her eyes burning with an eagerness for battle that rivaled Baelon's.
"My Queen, Alyssa," Jaehaerys began, his voice resonating with gratitude and the weight of the moment, "your arrival is a beacon in this darkness. We have faced an enemy unlike any we have known." He gestured to the grim faces of Ryam, Rogar, Eustace, Aemon, and Baelon. "They have seen it, felt it. The dragons we encountered… they are a new force."
Queen Alysanne's expression was grave. "We saw them, Jaehaerys. Four beasts, truly immense. And the largest… without a rider. It sent a chill through me even from a distance. " Her gaze settled on her sons. "Tell us everything. From the beginning."
Aemon recounted the aerial skirmish with somber detail, describing the terrifying speed and coordination of the ridden dragons, the unnerving coldness of the black flame from the colossal beast, and the blinding white fire from another. "They were skilled, Mother," he concluded, his voice tight. "They moved as a unit, herding us, testing us. They were not wild."
Baelon, ever impatient, interjected, "Vhagar tried to grapple with the riderless one, Mother. It shrugged her off like a bothersome fly! And its flame… it felt like death itself."
Alyssa, who had listened intently, now spoke, her voice surprisingly calm despite the gravity of the situation. "And the riders? Could you discern anything about them?"
Lord Ryam Redwyne stepped forward. "No, Princess, their identities obscured. They flew with a confidence that spoke of mastery, not just familiarity. We have no intel, no reports of any dragonriders in the North, save for your Grace's own House."
Eustace Hightower wrung his hands. "This is unprecedented. Dragons, outside of your bloodline… it is an omen, Your Grace. A dark one."
Alysanne, however, cut him off with a firm hand gesture. "Omens can be defied, Lord Hightower. Jaehaerys, what is our immediate course of action? We cannot allow these… new dragons to hold dominion over our skies."
Jaehaerys's voice, now imbued with a chilling calm, cut through the tent. His eyes, fixed on his queen and daughters, held a fierce, calculated glint. "Precisely, my love. We've tested Moat Cailin by land, and it's resisted. We've now faced the aerial threat. We won't repeat the errors of the past two days." He turned to Alysanne and Alyssa, his resolve burning brighter than ever. "Today, we fly. All of us. Vermithor, Caraxes, Vhagar, Silverwing, Meleys. We'll engage these new dragons, whatever their origin. We'll test their limits, and they will know the true power of House Targaryen."
Then, his gaze flickered to Ser Ryam Redwyne, his expression hardening further. "And while we are engaging them in the skies, Ser Ryam," the King continued, his voice dropping to a low, unwavering command, "you are to make a full frontal assault on the walls of Moat Cailin. Do not give them a gap. Press them on every inch of the causeway. Make sure of that. We will draw their dragons, and you will draw their men. Their attention will be split, and their courage will break."
The final words in the war tent were sharp, laced with grim determination. Jaehaerys's command for a full frontal assault on Moat Cailin, while the dragons clashed above, was a desperate gamble. But the King's will was absolute.
Minutes later, the royal family emerged. The damp, cold air of the Neck stung their faces, but their gaze was fixed on their waiting mounts. Vermithor, Caraxes, Vhagar, Silverwing, and Meleys, the heart of Targaryen power, ascended into the grey sky, leaving Ser Ryam Redwyne's vanguard below to prepare for their own suicidal charge.
As they broke through the low-hanging mists, four distinct shapes coalesced above Moat Cailin. The unknown dragons. Their scales glinted – Pristine white, pale green, mottled grey, and a shimmering, crystalline blue.
"There they are!" Baelon's voice crackled, a mix of awe and furious anticipation.
Jaehaerys studied their opponents. The largest, still riderless, was a terrifying, autonomous force. On the backs of the others, he could now discern the figures of their riders. The enemy dragons accelerated to meet them.
"Hold formation!" Jaehaerys roared. "Stay tight! We strike as one!"
The five Targaryen dragons surged forward, ready to attack the "ice dragons," whatever chilling power these creatures wielded.
The battle began with a terrifying roar that echoed across the Neck. Five Targaryen dragons met the four Northern beasts in a maelstrom of ice and fire. The air crackled with raw power.
Jaehaerys, on Vermithor, unleashed golden flame towards the dark grey Northern dragon. Alysanne, on Silverwing, blasted silver fire at the pale green dragon. Alyssa, on Meleys, became a scarlet blur, darting towards the blue dragon. Baelon, with typical bravado, immediately targeted the massive, riderless black dragon.
The colossal, riderless white dragon became the focal point. Vhagar, driven by Baelon's commands, slammed into the leviathan, her claws scraping against unyielding, ice-like scales. The white dragon didn't cry out, but emitted a deep, vibrating rumble as it slowly, powerfully shrugged Vhagar off, sending the mighty bronze green dragon spinning, Baelon clinging desperately.
"Gods, it's like hitting a mountain of iron!" Baelon screamed, regaining control of Vhagar, whose flanks bled from deep gouges.
Jaehaerys urged Vermithor forward, blasting golden flame into the white dragon's face. The beast flinched, pulling its head back with a guttural growl. Then, it retaliated. A monstrous torrent of chilling dark blue flame erupted, a consuming darkness that stole warmth and left bone-chilling cold. The blast forced Vermithor and Vhagar into desperate, impossible evasions. The flame's edge licked Vermithor's tail, turning scales a sickly, frosted grey.
"It's not just fire, Father, it's ice!" Baelon yelled, Vhagar shivering despite the air's warmth. The horrifying truth solidified: these were ice dragons, creatures of myth.
The other three Northern dragons engaged Caraxes, Silverwing, and Meleys in a brutal aerial ballet. These ridden dragons, though smaller, were incredibly agile, and their riders demonstrated frightening skill.
The pale green dragon met Silverwing head-on. Alysanne's silver fire clashed with the green dragon's brilliant white flame, dissolving into a shimmering cloud of steam and light. "They match Silverwing's breath!" Alysanne exclaimed in alarm. "This is not merely brute strength; they are well-trained!"
Alyssa, on Meleys, found herself in a furious dogfight with the blue dragon. Meleys used all her renowned speed to dodge rapid, precise bursts of azure flame. The blue dragon moved like lightning, its long, slender body twisting with unnerving fluidity, always just out of reach. Alyssa, furious, returned fire, but the elusive beast and its shadowy rider evaded every blast.
"It's too fast!" Alyssa cried, narrowly avoiding a claw rake. "It's playing with me!"
Caraxes was locked in a brutal exchange with the dark grey dragon. The grey beast was powerfully built, guided by a grim-faced, broad-shouldered rider. Their flames, Caraxes's golden and the grey dragon's grey, clashed repeatedly. Caraxes was faster, but the grey dragon was surprisingly strong, its jaws snapping dangerously close to his neck.
"Damn them!" Aemon roared, urging Caraxes into a tight spiral, narrowly avoiding a grey blast that singed his dragon's wing. "They're fighting with purpose!"
As the engagement raged, a chilling shift occurred. The dark grey dragon, relentless and powerful, seemed to focus its entire might on Caraxes. Its rider, a formidable presence, pushed the beast to its absolute limits. The grey dragon launched a relentless barrage of searing grey flame, forcing Caraxes to expend more and more energy in desperate evasions. Then, with a sudden, devastating burst of speed, the grey dragon slammed into Caraxes from above.
The impact was bone-jarring. Caraxes screeched, his serpentine body buckling. The grey dragon, using its weight and the momentum of the blow, began to drive Caraxes downwards, relentlessly pushing him through the air, its powerful claws raking at his back. Aemon, struggling desperately, felt his dragon's strength draining away.
"Caraxes!" Aemon bellowed, gripping his saddle, but it was too late. The grey dragon, with a final, brutal push, forced Caraxes into an uncontrolled descent. The ground rushed up. With a sickening thud, Caraxes, along with Prince Aemon, slammed into the muddy earth of the Neck, a cloud of dirt and mist erupting around them. Caraxes roared in pain, struggling to rise, but the grey dragon landed heavily on his back, pinning him down, its jaws dangerously close to Aemon.
Simultaneously, the blue dragon, which had been toying with Meleys, abruptly changed tactics. Its playful evasion morphed into aggressive pursuit. It unleashed a continuous stream of freezing azure flame, chilling Meleys to the bone. The Red Queen, renowned for her speed, found herself sluggish, her vibrant scales frosting over. The blue dragon, then, with terrifying speed, whipped its long, slender tail, striking Meleys's wing with devastating force.
Meleys shrieked, her powerful wing buckling at an unnatural angle. The blue dragon, seizing the moment, dove, grappling onto Meleys's back and driving her downwards. Alyssa, shocked and struggling, felt the inevitable pull. With a loud, pained roar, Meleys crashed into the mud, not far from Caraxes, her broken wing twisted beneath her. The blue dragon landed lightly beside her, its neck coiling, its icy gaze fixed on Alyssa as she scrambled free, her heart pounding.
Two Targaryen dragons, and two of the King's children, were now pinned to the ground, defeated. The sky battle had swung violently. The tide had turned, and the true, devastating power of the ice dragons had been chillingly revealed.
While the battle of ice and fire raged above, a grim, brutal drama unfolded below. Ser Ryam Redwyne, a pillar of iron amidst the swirling chaos, led the southern army in their desperate, full frontal assault on Moat Cailin. His voice, hoarse but unwavering, cut through the din of the distant dragon battle, rallying his men.
"Forward! For the King! For the realm!" Ryam bellowed, his sword gleaming dully in the mist. He rode at the head of the charge, a wave of human bodies surging behind him, a sea of steel and desperate courage.
The ground shuddered beneath their thunderous advance. Thousands of men, their armor clanking, their boots churning the thick mud of the causeway, became a living battering ram aimed at Moat Cailin's unyielding black walls. Arrows from the towers rained down, and boiling oil hissed, but the men pressed on, their eyes fixed on the distant stone, their lives wagered on the hope that the dragons above would provide the decisive distraction.
They were within a stone's throw of the walls, the shouts of the Northern defenders growing clearer, the stench of burning pitch thick in the air. Then, the ground began to tremble, not with their own charge, but with a deeper, more resonant vibration. A sound like thunder, yet sharper, colder, echoed across the Neck. It wasn't from the sky, but seemed to emanate from the very earth itself.
The Southern soldiers, already on edge from the distant dragon roars, exchanged bewildered glances. What new horror was this?
Before they could fully comprehend, a blinding flash erupted on their southern flank, not at the walls of Moat Cailin, but far behind their main assaulting force, closer to their camp. It was followed by a deafening, concussive blast that ripped through the air.
A shockwave, visible as a ripple through the mist, slammed into the advancing ranks. Soldiers near the impact zone were lifted off their feet like rag dolls, their bodies twisted grotesquely, flung outwards with incredible force. A chorus of screams, sharp and disbelieving, tore through the charge. Horses shrieked, rearing in terror, throwing their riders into the churned mud. The ground itself seemed to heave, cracking beneath their feet.
The momentum of the charge instantly shattered. Men stumbled, fell, and scrambled, their formation dissolving into chaos. Those further from the blast were thrown off balance, disoriented, their ears ringing. They looked back, their faces pale with terror, to see a swirling cloud of dust and debris rising from where their supply lines and camp lay, a gaping, smoking crater where solid ground had been moments before.
Ser Ryam, thrown from his horse by the concussive force, landed hard in the mud, his armor ringing. He pushed himself up, spitting out grime, his gaze snapping towards the plume of smoke. "What in the Seven Hells…?" he gasped, his voice lost amidst the rising screams and cries of panic.
The Northern defenders on the walls, who had been bracing for impact, paused their relentless barrage, their own faces showing momentary confusion before a triumphant roar erupted from their ranks. This was no act of their own making, yet it had shattered the southern charge with devastating efficiency.
The assault on Moat Cailin had been utterly broken, not by the walls themselves, but by a catastrophic blow from within their own lines, delivered by an unseen, terrifying force. The ground assault, once a desperate gamble, had become a rout, a bloody disaster amplified by a mysterious and devastating explosion.
The initial thunderous blast was not an isolated incident. For the next fifteen agonizing minutes, the very earth beneath the southern army's feet seemed to convulse. More explosions ripped through their rear and flanks, not with the fire and smoke of wildfire, but with a cold, concussive force that threw men and horses into the air. Each blast was accompanied by that strange, almost supernatural thunder, and a plume of dust and debris that suggested solid ground had simply ceased to be. Panic, raw and unreasoning, seized the southern ranks. Their formations, already strained by the initial charge, shattered completely, transforming an organized assault into a terrified, struggling mass.
The initial, deafening blast was not an isolated incident. For a horrifying fifteen minutes, the southern flank of the besieging army, closest to their camp and supply lines, was wracked by a series of continuous, thunderous explosions. Each concussive wave sent more men and horses flying, tearing gaping holes in the ranks, igniting supply wagons, and turning sections of the swampy ground into smoking, churning craters. Panic, raw and unbridled, seized the southern soldiers. Their discipline, already frayed by days of fruitless assault and the terrifying dragon fight overhead, shattered completely. The causeway, meant for attack, became a bottleneck of terrified, screaming men trying to flee.
As the last echoes of the explosions faded, leaving behind only the acrid stench of sulfur and burning timber, a new horror emerged. With a groan of ancient wood and rusted iron, the immense main gates of Moat Cailin, which had withstood two days of relentless assault, swung open.
From the darkened maw of the fortress poured forth forty thousand Northern soldiers, a disciplined, unyielding tide of grey and green. Their war cries, deep and guttural, resonated with a savage joy as they surged onto the causeway, their ranks perfectly formed amidst the disarray of the collapsing southern army.
Leading them was a figure of legend and terror: King Theon Stark, his imposing form unmistakable even from a distance. In his hands, he wielded two magnificent blades, twin swords that seemed to drink the meager light of the morning – Jon and Theo. Beside him, moving with silent, predatory grace, was a massive direwolf, its fur the color of snow, its eyes piercing blue. And behind this terrifying vanguard, not one or two, but up to thirty direwolves, their powerful forms low to the ground, their eyes gleaming with predatory hunger, streamed from the gate, a living, snarling wave of destruction.
The Northern army, seizing the chaos born of the thunderous blasts, struck with surgical precision. They hit the already breaking southern formations like a hammer, their disciplined lines cutting swathes through the bewildered and terrified southerners. The direwolves, more phantom than beast, tore through the ranks, their fangs ripping flesh, their snarls adding to the symphony of terror. They moved with an intelligence and ferocity that seemed beyond mere animals, targeting vulnerable flanks, scattering small groups, and adding to the utter pandemonium.
The battle raged for a brutal, hour-long eternity. King Theon Stark was a whirlwind of death, his twin blades a silver blur. He moved with a speed and ferocity that defied belief, cutting down man after man. Legends would later speak of his prowess; in that single hour, King Theon Stark alone accounted for up to one hundred southern soldiers, his swords never tiring, his resolve unbreakable.
Ser Ryam Redwyne, fighting with a grim determination, found himself swallowed by the tide of Northern steel and direwolf fangs. He battled valiantly, his Lightbringer striking down numerous foes, but the sheer weight of numbers and the disciplined ferocity of the Northern charge overwhelmed him. He was eventually disarmed and dragged down by a dozen Northmen, his face a mask of fury and defeat.
Lord Rogar Baratheon, trapped with his vanguard on the causeway, fought like the bull he was, his great warhammer crushing Northern skulls. But the relentless pressure from King Theon's vanguard and the savagery of the direwolves eventually brought him to his knees. He was seized, battered and bruised, and taken captive.
Lord Eustace Hightower, frail and scholarly, but possessing an unexpected courage, found himself surrounded near the rear of the collapsing southern line. He drew his sword, trying to defend himself, but he was no warrior. A swift, brutal blow from a Northern axe ended his life, and his body slumped into the churned mud, unmourned amidst the greater catastrophe.
As the hour-long massacre concluded, the causeway was a charnel house, thick with southern dead. Moat Cailin now stood not as a barrier, but as the gaping maw of a trap. The North had not merely held; it had counter-attacked with an unprecedented, devastating force. The southern army, shattered and routed, was in full, panicked flight, leaving behind a horrifying trail of bodies and the chilling reality of their utter defeat. The roar of the victor, King Theon Stark, echoed over the desolate landscape, a new, terrible king had announced himself to the world.