77 AC
Outside Moat Cailin
Third Person Pov
The king's tent, a temporary sanctuary amidst the hostile landscape of the Neck, offered little comfort. The thick canvas trapped the humid air, mingling with the earthy stench of the surrounding swamp and the unwashed bodies of men weary beyond measure. Around the crudely fashioned table, its surface a chaotic landscape of stained maps and roughly carved markers, the king's war council had gathered. Outside, the flickering torchlight cast long, dancing shadows through the perpetual mist, and in the distance, the formidable silhouette of Moat Cailin loomed, a black, jagged tooth against the pale sky.
King Jaehaerys Targaryen stood at the head of the table, his silver-gold hair, usually so lustrous, now dull and tangled, a simple circlet of dark gold his only adornment. He looked the weight of the grueling campaign, lines etched deep around his usually vibrant violet eyes, his mouth a thin, resolute line. "We have reached Moat Cailin at last," he began, his voice steady despite the evident strain, "but let no man believe our ordeal is at an end."
His gaze, heavy with the burden of command, swept over his assembled lords and kin. Ser Ryam Redwyne, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood tall and unyielding, his once gleaming white armor now coated in layers of mud and grime, his stern face a testament to the hardships endured. Lord Rogar Baratheon, broad-shouldered and restless, his usual booming voice subdued, his dark eyes flickering with a barely contained impatience. Lord Eustace Hightower, gaunt and pale, his fingers a nervous tattoo against the hilt of his sword, his intellectual brow furrowed with concern. Lord Tymond Lannister, his golden hair matted and dull, yet a sardonic half-smile still played upon his lips, a flicker of his characteristic cynicism even in this dire situation. Lord Corwyn Velaryon, his face weathered by years at sea, his sharp eyes constantly assessing, ever vigilant. And his sons, the princes Aemon and Baelon, stood shoulder to shoulder, their youthful features shadowed by the grim realities of the Neck, their eagerness for action barely concealed.
Jaehaerys gestured to the battered map, its surface a testament to their arduous journey. "We arrived with two hundred and ten thousand strong. We now number one hundred and ninety thousand. Twenty thousand men swallowed by the Neck – the silent ambushes of the wolves and crannogmen, the insidious grip of fever, the gnawing emptiness of hunger. The men are weary, their spirits frayed, and what stands before us is no mere castle to be stormed. Moat Cailin is strong in ways no southern stronghold can comprehend. I would hear your counsel. How do we breach this?"
Lord Rogar Baratheon's large fist slammed onto the table, rattling the maps and tokens. "We cannot afford to linger, Your Grace," he declared, his voice rough with impatience. "Every hour we delay, more men succumb to sickness, more courage leeches from their souls. The crannogmen will continue their relentless harassment, and the enemy within those black walls grows bolder with each passing day. Let us strike, and strike now, before our strength utterly fails."
Lord Eustace Hightower shook his head slowly, his pale face etched with concern. "A rash assault, my lord, will break us against those ancient stones. Moat Cailin has never fallen from the south. Its walls are thick, its towers command the narrow causeway, a killing ground designed to funnel attackers into a deadly embrace. Even our ancestors, with all their might, shattered against those defenses. We must be wise, Your Grace, or we will lose more than we have already sacrificed."
Ser Ryam Redwyne's voice, usually a reassuring baritone, now held an edge of iron resolve. "The men are raw, Your Grace, but they have endured the unimaginable horrors of the Neck. They look to us for leadership, for courage. If we hesitate now, their fear will fester, rotting the army from within. But a direct assault…" He paused, his gaze drifting over the map, tracing the treacherous, twisting approach to the causeway. "We would be slaughtered in the mud, cut down like wheat before the scythe."
Prince Aemon, the king's eldest son, his young face already bearing the marks of command, spoke with a quiet intensity. "We cannot simply linger here, Father. If we remain on the edge of the Neck, we are nothing more than prey for every lurking wolf and unseen crannogman. We must take the moat, and swiftly. We have the means to overcome stone and mud – the dragons."
Prince Baelon, ever the more impetuous of the two, his eyes burning with a fierce eagerness, stepped forward. "Let me lead the first assault, Father," he pleaded, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. "Give me ten thousand men, and Vhagar. We will find a breach, we will tear down their walls."
King Jaehaerys raised a hand, silencing his eager son with a stern look. "We will first probe their defenses, Baelon. We will see if Moat Cailin can be broken by traditional means before we unleash the dragons. We do not need to create another cursed Harrenhal in the North. Fire is a weapon of last resort, not a tool for impatience."
Lord Rogar Baratheon scowled, his frustration evident. "The Prince is right about one thing, Your Grace – we cannot simply sit here and wither. The men are hungry, they are angry, and their patience is wearing thin. If we show fear now, the army will unravel."
Lord Eustace Hightower's voice, though soft, held a firm conviction. "We must use the land itself as our shield, Your Grace. Build dykes to divert the swamp waters, raise palisades to protect our flanks, dig trenches to impede their sorties. Force the moat's garrison to waste their strength on futile attacks. Winter will come soon enough, and the Northmen will feel its icy bite as keenly as we do."
Lord Tymond Lannister's lips curled into a sly smile, a hint of his characteristic cunning. "Perhaps, Your Grace, we can pursue both paths. Feint a massive assault upon the main gate, drawing their eyes and their strength to the causeway, while a smaller, more agile force slips through the treacherous marsh under the cover of night. Scale the seemingly impassable walls, find a hidden way into their garrisons."
Lord Corwyn Velaryon nodded slowly, his sea-weathered face thoughtful. "My men, Your Grace, can scout the waterways, those navigable by shallow-draft boats. The crannogmen know every hidden path, every submerged log, but they are not ghosts. Catch one, make him talk – and there are ways to make even the most stubborn crannogman yield – and we might find a way inside, a weakness in their seemingly impenetrable defenses."
Prince Aemon's hand tightened on his sword hilt, his youthful idealism clashing with the grim pragmatism of the council. "We should not rely on treachery alone, Father. If we attack, let it be with fire and steel, with the might of our armies. The men need a victory, not more waiting, more creeping through the mud."
Ser Ryam Redwyne's face remained grim. "A night assault might win us the walls, Your Grace – or lose us all in the dark and the treacherous mud. I would not send men where I would not willingly go myself. But Lord Tymond speaks wisely – while we press our attack openly, another hand, unseen, might indeed turn the key."
Prince Baelon, his eagerness barely contained, cut in once more. "Let me lead that hand, Father. Give me the men, the climbers. I will bring you the gate, or die trying."
King Jaehaerys's gaze was stern, his affection for his son tempered by the gravity of the situation. "You will not risk yourself for pride, Baelon. Your life is worth more than a single gate."
A tense silence descended upon the tent, broken only by the crackling of the nearby torches and the distant sigh of the wind rustling through the reeds.
Lord Eustace Hightower spoke softly, his voice a gentle counterpoint to the prevailing tension. "We must not forget the crannogmen, Your Grace. They are the true masters of this land, their knowledge of the swamps a weapon more potent than any steel. If we take the moat but lose half our host to their poisoned darts and hidden traps in the swamps, what have we truly won? We must find a way to blunt their knives, to navigate their treacherous domain."
Lord Corwyn Velaryon said, his sharp eyes thoughtful, "We have taken prisoners during our march through the Neck, Your Grace. Let me speak with them. Some might be turned, their loyalties fractured, their hatred for the North as strong as our own. With their unwilling guidance, we might find paths through the marsh that the defenders believe are unguarded."
Lord Tymond Lannister's soft laugh held a hint of cynicism. "Or they could lead us into quicksand, Your Grace. But I would risk a hundred men on the chance of seizing the gate, rather than ten thousand on a bloody, frontal assault against those formidable walls."
Ser Ryam Redwyne looked directly at the king, his gaze unwavering. "We must decide, Your Grace. The men will not wait forever. Their morale is a fragile thing, easily shattered by inaction."
King Jaehaerys glanced at each of his lords in turn, his violet eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight. "We will not wait," he declared, his voice firm with renewed resolve. "Corwyn, gather your best scouts. Find us a path through the marsh, a way to circumvent their defenses. Tymond, speak with the most skilled climbers among our ranks, and do so with utmost discretion. Ryam, ready the main force for a feint at dawn, a show of strength to draw their attention. Rogar, you and Baelon will prepare the vanguard, the men eager for battle. Eustace, see to the camp's defenses – we will not be caught unawares by any further swamp-born treachery."
The lords nodded, each already turning over the assigned tasks in their minds, the weight of their responsibilities settling upon their shoulders.
Prince Baelon, despite his father's earlier caution, could not entirely hide his excitement. "I will not fail you, Father," he vowed, his youthful enthusiasm momentarily eclipsing the grim reality of their situation.
Prince Aemon's voice was quieter, more measured, reflecting his more thoughtful nature. "I will stand with Ryam at the gate, Father. Our presence may lend courage to the men."
Lord Tymond Lannister was already whispering instructions to a nearby squire, his sly smile returning as he contemplated the intricacies of infiltration.
Lord Eustace Hightower's pale eyes never left the king's face, his concern unwavering. "If the moat falls, Your Grace, the North lies open to us. But if we bleed ourselves dry against its defenses, the realm will not forgive such a costly victory."
King Jaehaerys nodded slowly, the weight of their precarious position heavy upon him. "We have come too far, sacrificed too much, to fail now. Go, all of you. Let every man know – tomorrow, the dragon's banners will fly over Moat Cailin, or we will leave our bones to rot in the mud of the Neck."
One by one, the lords filed out of the stifling tent, their voices low, their faces set with grim determination. Only Lord Rogar Baratheon lingered, his massive hand resting heavily on the scarred table.
"Your Grace," he said quietly, his usual bluster replaced by a rare note of concern, "the men trust you. I trust you. But these lands… they do not love us. If things turn ill tomorrow –"
King Jaehaerys met his gaze, his violet eyes holding a steady resolve. "Then we stand together, Rogar, as we always have."
Lord Rogar nodded, his broad shoulders straightening. "I'll see the vanguard ready, Your Grace."
When the last of his council had departed, Jaehaerys stood alone in the flickering torchlight, the silence of the tent amplifying the sounds of the sprawling camp outside. He heard the ragged cough of wounded men, the distant clang of hammers as defenses were hastily erected, the endless, mournful sigh of the marsh wind. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to feel the crushing weight of every lost life, every whispered doubt that gnawed at the edges of his resolve.
Then, with a deep breath, he turned back to the battered map, his finger, stained with ink and the mud of the Neck, tracing the narrow, treacherous line of the causeway leading to the formidable black stones of Moat Cailin. Tomorrow, the realm would know if a king's will, backed by the might of the Iron Throne, could finally break the oldest stronghold in the North – or if the unforgiving Neck would swallow yet another southern army whole.