77 AC
Moat Cailin
Third Person Pov
The horrifying spectacle below tore at Jaehaerys's heart. Caraxes and Meleys, brought low, pinned to the earth, their riders, Aemon and Alyssa, surely captured or worse. On the causeway, the southern army was not merely breaking; it was being annihilated, crushed by a forty-thousand-strong Northern host led by a fearsome King Theon Stark and his pack of direwolves. The thunderous blasts from their southern flank meant their rear was compromised, their supply lines shattered. This was no longer a battle; it was a massacre.
"Fall back!" Jaehaerys's voice, raw with anguish and fury, cut through the wind to Alysanne and Baelon. "Fall back! To the camp! There's nothing more we can do here!"
Alysanne, her face pale but resolute, understood. Silverwing wheeled gracefully, pulling back from the fierce green dragon that had been her opponent. Baelon, his jaw set in a grim line, reluctantly disengaged Vhagar from the still-unyielding black behemoth, the massive dragon protesting with a low rumble of frustration. With one last, furious blast of flame at their victorious foes, the three Targaryen dragons turned and fled, leaving the sky over Moat Cailin to the four triumphant ice dragons and the devastation below.
The atmosphere in the war tent was one of utter devastation. The canvas walls seemed to press in, suffocating them with the weight of their catastrophic defeat. King Jaehaerys, his face a mask of profound grief and rage, sat slumped at the head of the battered table. Queen Alysanne sat rigidly beside him, her hand gripping his arm, her eyes haunted. Baelon paced, his usual bravado replaced by a restless, simmering fury.
Gathered around them were the surviving lords: Ser Ryam Redwyne, his armor caked in mud and blood, a deep gash on his cheek; Lord Corwyn Velaryon, his face pale and etched with shock; Lord Rodrick Arryn, grim and silent; Lord Glover Tully, his expression one of utter disbelief; and Lord Leo Tyrell, whose usual courtly demeanor had vanished, replaced by open despair. The faces of the missing, Prince Aemon, Princess Alyssa, Lord Rogar Baratheon, and Lord Tymond Lannister, loomed like specters in the cramped space.
"Report," Jaehaerys finally managed, his voice hoarse, his eyes sweeping over the grim assembly.
Ser Ryam, despite his wounds, was the first to speak, his voice flat. "Your Grace, it was… a rout. The explosions on our flank shattered our formations just as we reached the walls. Then the gates opened, and they poured out. Forty thousand, I'd wager. Led by King Theon Stark himself, with his direwolf and a pack of them." He swallowed hard. "He fought like a demon, Your Grace. Unstoppable. His twin swords… he cut down a hundred men himself, by my reckoning."
Corwyn Velaryon chimed in, his voice trembling slightly. "The direwolves, Your Grace. They were not mere beasts. They moved with cunning, scattering our men, tearing through flanks. They were… like soldiers themselves."
Lord Rodrick Arryn, rarely one to show emotion, now spoke with a tremor. "Our losses are catastrophic, Your Grace. The vanguard was annihilated. Our rear guard was caught in the explosions. We are likely down to less than fourty thousand men, and most are in full retreat, scattered across the Neck."
Glover Tully, his face ashen, added, "And the prisoners, Your Grace. We saw them. Prince Aemon and Princess Alyssa… they were pulled from their dragons' backs. And Lord Rogar Baratheon, and Lord Tymond Lannister… they were taken alive." He hesitated, then added, "Lord Eustace Hightower… he fell near the camp. Killed."
The news of Eustace's death hung heavy, another bitter taste in the mouth of defeat.
Jaehaerys closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the full weight of the disaster. His children, captured. His greatest lords, taken. His army, decimated. And the dragons… ice dragons.
Baelon finally spoke, his voice low and dangerous. "We must go back. We must take Vhagar, Silverwing, Vermithor, and we must burn Moat Cailin to ash. Burn them all. We cannot leave Aemon and Alyssa in their hands."
Queen Alysanne placed a calming hand on Baelon's arm. "And risk our remaining dragons? Risk ourselves, for a vengeful strike that would gain us nothing but more loss? We must think, my son. We must consider."
Ser Ryam, despite his own injuries and the crushing defeat, seemed to find a spark of something. He looked directly at the King. "Your Grace," he began, his voice raspy, "this was a complete disaster. But… the fact that they took them alive. Prince Aemon, Princess Alyssa, Lord Rogar, Lord Tymond. They are valuable hostages."
He paused, then continued, a faint flicker of hope in his eyes. "Your Grace, we can negotiate for their return and peace."
The words, though cold and pragmatic, resonated in the tent. Negotiation. It was a humiliating thought after such a resounding defeat, but it was also a lifeline, a slim thread of hope for his captured children and lords. Jaehaerys looked at Ryam, then at his remaining council, the bitter taste of defeat warring with the desperate need to save his blood and his strongest allies.
The grim silence in the war tent was broken only by the crackle of a dying fire in the central brazier. The words, "negotiate for their return," hung in the air, unpalatable yet undeniably true. Jaehaerys, his face still a mask of profound grief, slowly opened his eyes. He looked at Ser Ryam, truly seeing the wisdom in his counsel amidst the chaos. To charge blindly back would be to squander their remaining strength, and risk losing the last of their dragons.
His gaze then shifted to Lord Glover Tully, who sat slumped, his normally robust frame seeming diminished by the day's events.
"Lord Tully," Jaehaerys's voice was low, but steady, holding a newfound, chilling authority. "You have connections, a way with words. You know the Riverlands, and their ways, perhaps even the North's."
Glover Tully looked up, startled, his eyes meeting the King's.
"Send a messenger," Jaehaerys commanded, his voice gaining strength with each word. "The fastest, bravest soul you can find. Let them carry a white flag, a symbol of parley." He leaned forward, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his remaining lords. "Tell lord Theon Stark that King Jaehaerys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, offers terms for peace negotiations."
A collective intake of breath filled the tent. Peace. After so much bloodshed, so much pride, so much loss.
"State our intent clearly," Jaehaerys continued, his voice devoid of emotion, a cold, hard resolve setting in. "We seek the safe return of Prince Aemon, Princess Alyssa, Lord Rogar Baratheon, and Lord Tymond Lannister. For their lives, we are prepared to parley. Do not give away our weakness, Tully. Make it sound as a pragmatic step, not a desperate plea."
Glover Tully, though still pale, straightened his shoulders. This was a task he could manage, a means to perhaps avert further slaughter. "It shall be done, Your Grace," he replied, rising from his seat, the weight of the King's desperate hope now resting on his shoulders. He would send the messenger, and pray to the gods that Theon Stark was a king who understood the language of negotiation, even after such a brutal victory. The fate of his children, and perhaps his entire reign, now rested on a parchment and a ride through the perilous Neck.
On the Northern side
While despair settled like a shroud over the southern camp, the ancient halls of Moat Cailin thrummed with a raw, triumphant energy. The air, usually heavy with the swamp's chill, was thick with the scent of roasted meat, strong ale, and the boisterous joy of victory. Torches cast dancing shadows on the black stone walls, illuminating faces flushed with drink and battle-lust. Northern lords, their furs still damp with the Neck's perpetual mist, clapped each other on the back, their laughter echoing through the ancient fortress.
In the Great Hall, a long, rough-hewn table groaned under the weight of venison, wild boar, and freshly caught fish from the nearby rivers. At its head sat King Theon Stark, his twin swords, Jon and Theo, laid carefully beside him, their hilts still stained with the drying blood of southern men. His direwolf, Frost, a magnificent creature with eyes like chips of blue ice, lay curled at his feet, occasionally raising its head to survey the revelry with a calm, predatory intelligence.
"To the North!" boomed Lord Dustin, raising a horn of ale, his face beaming. "And to King Theon, who delivered us from the dragons!"
A thunderous cheer erupted, horns clanging against tankards. Theon merely offered a grim, satisfied smile. His face, usually carved from granite, held a rare, almost feral joy. He had personally seen to the decimation of the southern vanguard, his swords a blur of death, his direwolves a terror. Aemon and Alyssa, the dragon-blooded prince and princess, were now shackled in his dungeons, a testament to the North's defiance.
"To the Ice Dragons!" cried Lord Umber, raising his own horn. "The true masters of the sky!"
Another roar of approval. The unknown dragons, their unexpected allies, had been the decisive factor in the aerial battle, mirroring the ground victory. The North had weathered the storm, and now, they reveled in their triumph.
Just as the celebrations reached their peak, a flurry of activity near the hall's entrance signaled new arrivals. Two drenched, mud-splattered riders, their faces streaked with exhaustion and exhilaration, pushed their way through the throng. They wore the sigils of the eastern and western coastal lords, their eyes bright with urgent tidings.
"My King!" the first rider, a young man from House Manderly, gasped, bowing low, his voice hoarse. "News from the east! The southern fleet… decimated! Lord Wylis Manderly sends word – their ships were caught in the narrows, battered by the storms, and then set upon by our longships! Their fleet is broken, burnt, sunk! Few survived to tell the tale!"
A fresh, even louder roar erupted in the hall, shaking the very timbers. Northern men slammed their tankards on the table, their joy boundless. The threat from the sea, a constant worry, had been utterly annihilated.
Before the cheers could fully subside, the second rider, a veteran from the western coast, stepped forward, his eyes alight. "And from the west, Your Grace! The Ironborn, under Lord Maron Greyjoy, engaged the southern fleet near the Stoney Shore! It was a bloody fight, Your Grace, But their ships burned, their strength broken! Maron Greyjoy is dead, and Tytos Lannister is taken captive. The western coast is safe, my King!"
The Great Hall exploded. The twin news of their naval supremacy, coming so swiftly after the utter rout at Moat Cailin, was almost unbelievable. It was not just a victory; it was a total, crushing triumph on every front. The South had been beaten back, its armies shattered, its fleets sunk, its royal children and lords captured.
King Theon's grim smile widened into a rare, genuine grin. He rose from his seat, and the hall, though raucous, quieted to hear him. "The gods are with the North!" he boomed, his voice resonating with power. "The Dragon King thought to burn us, to break us! But the North remembers! We are stronger than he knew! We are the North! And we are free!"
Another deafening cheer answered him, a primal roar of triumph that echoed from the ancient stones of Moat Cailin, a testament to their enduring strength and newfound power. Cups were refilled, songs of victory erupted, and the revelry grew even wilder.
It was amidst this unparalleled celebration, as the night deepened and the ale flowed freely, that another figure, smaller and less triumphant than the previous riders, was announced. A southern messenger, his face pale and mud-splattered, stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, flanked by two grim-faced Northern guardsmen. He clutched a rolled parchment, a white flag tied to its hilt.
The hall quieted, the sudden silence stark against the previous din. All eyes turned to the newcomer. A messenger from the Dragon King, here, in their moment of absolute triumph?
King Theon Stark, still beaming from the naval victories, raised an eyebrow. "What brings a southerner to a Northern feast?" he asked, his voice laced with sardonic amusement. "Has the Dragon King lost his way, or merely his courage?"
The messenger, though clearly terrified, held his ground. He bowed deeply, his voice trembling slightly but clear enough for all to hear. "Your Grace," he began, addressing Theon, "I come from King Jaehaerys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and Lord of the Six Kingdoms." He paused, taking a fortifying breath. "He bids me carry a message of parley. He seeks peace negotiations."
A collective murmur swept through the hall, a mixture of disbelief and triumphant chuckles. Peace negotiations? Now? When the Targaryens were at their weakest, and the North at its strongest?
The messenger continued, his voice gaining a slight steadiness, as if bolstered by the importance of his words. "King Jaehaerys offers terms for the safe return of Prince Aemon Targaryen, Princess Alyssa Targaryen, Lord Rogar Baratheon, and Lord Tymond Lannister. For their lives, he is prepared to parley."
The laughter that followed was not of amusement, but of scorn. Northern lords scoffed, some openly jeering. "Peace?" one bellowed, "They came for war, and they got it! Now they want peace?"
Lord Umber, his giant frame shaking with laughter, called out, "Tell your King, messenger, that the only peace we offer is the peace of the grave for his kin!"
King Theon, however, remained silent, his grey eyes fixed on the messenger. He listened to the jeers, to the triumphant boasts of his lords, but his expression was unreadable. He had captured the Dragon King's children, two dragons, and some of his most powerful lords. He had shattered their army and sunk their fleets. This was not merely victory; it was complete subjugation of their invading force.
He looked around his hall, at the celebrating faces, at the blood on his swords, at the silent, watchful Snow at his feet. The Dragon King, the mighty Jaehaerys, was suing for peace. It was an unprecedented moment, a turning point in the history of Westeros. The North, for so long the wronged party, was finally dictating terms to the Targaryens.
Theon finally spoke, his voice cutting through the remaining murmurs in the hall, commanding instant silence. "Tell your King," he said, his voice deep and clear, "that I, Theon Stark, King in the North, have heard his offer. He wishes to negotiate for the return of his blood and his lords. We will meet in the morning. And he will learn that the price of challenging the North… is steep."
He dismissed the messenger with a wave of his hand, leaving the southerner to be led out under heavy guard, the weight of Theon's chilling response undoubtedly settling upon his shoulders. The revelry in the Great Hall, momentarily quelled, erupted anew, louder and more fervent than before. The North had won. And now, they would decide the fate of the dragons and their captive kin.
The Southern messenger, a pale shadow of a man, was swiftly escorted from the Great Hall, his every step a testament to the chilling silence that had fallen upon the victorious Northerners. As the heavy oak doors clanged shut behind him, cutting off the last vestige of the outside world, King Theon Stark rose from his seat. The flickering torchlight danced across his grim, triumphant face, and the vast hall, still echoing with the earlier revelry, hushed completely.
His direwolf, Frost, uncurled from his feet and stood, a silent, watchful sentinel. Theon's gaze swept across the assembled lords – Dustin, Locke, Flint, Umber, Bolton, and countless others, their faces flushed with ale and the heady wine of victory.
"My lords! My loyal banners!" Theon's voice boomed, rich and resonant, filling every corner of the ancient hall. "Today, we have not merely won a battle. We have claimed a victory for the ages! The Dragon King came to burn us, to break us, to claim our ancient lands and bend our knee!" He paused, letting his words sink in. "But the North remembers! And the North stands free!"
A roar, even more deafening than before, erupted, punctuated by the furious clanging of horns and swords against tables. This was not the drunken revelry of moments before, but a primal, unified cry of defiance and triumph.
"Our armies on land have shattered theirs!" Theon continued, his voice riding the wave of sound. "Our fleets on both coasts have sent theirs to the bottom of the sea! And in the skies, our newfound allies have met the dragonfire with ice, proving that the North is not to be trifled with!"
He raised a hand, and the hall quieted once more, anticipation thick in the air. "The Dragon King, who thought himself unchallenged, now sues for peace. He offers to negotiate for his captured kin and his broken lords." A ripple of scornful laughter ran through the room. "And we," Theon declared, his eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction, "will grant him that courtesy. But it will be on our terms."
He then laid out his commands, his voice firm and unwavering. "This victory belongs to every man who stood on that causeway, every direwolf that hunted in the mud, every one of our allies in the sky. Rest tonight, for you have earned it!"
His expression then softened, a subtle shift that only those closest to him would notice. "However, the prisoners are of great value to us. Prince Aemon, Princess Alyssa, Lord Rogar Baratheon, and Lord Tymond Lannister are to be treated with respect. They are Targaryen blood, and lords of the South, even if they are our enemies. Ensure their injuries are tended to. See that they are well-fed and given appropriate quarters, under heavy guard."
He surveyed his lords once more. "We will hold council tomorrow morning, at first light, to discuss the terms we shall present to the Dragon King. Until then, let the celebrations continue! To the North! To freedom!"
With a final, resounding cheer, the Great Hall of Moat Cailin descended back into joyous celebration, the sound of their triumph echoing far into the night, a stark contrast to the despair of the southern camp. The war was far from over, but the North had dealt a blow that would reshape the very power dynamics of Westeros.