77 AC
Moat Cailin
Third Person Pov
The first sight of dawn painted the mist-shrouded landscape of the Neck in hues of grey and sickly yellow. A nervous energy gripped the southern army encamped before the looming black walls of Moat Cailin. Lord Ryam Redwyne, his face grim, surveyed the assembled ranks, ten thousand men poised at the head of the causeway, their shields gleaming dully in the nascent light. Beside him stood Prince Aemon, his young face set with a determined resolve, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Remember the plan," Lord Ryam's voice boomed across the ranks, each word carrying the weight of command. "A feigned assault. Draw their eyes to the gate. Make them believe this is our main thrust."
Baelon nodded, his gaze fixed on the formidable towers of Moat Cailin. "And while they focus on us," he said, his voice tight with anticipation, "William's climbers will find their way over the walls."
Hidden within the murky depths of the surrounding swamp, a smaller, more agile force moved with stealthy purpose. William, a renowned climber from the West, led a handpicked company of the South's most skilled ascent specialists. They navigated the treacherous terrain, their movements guided by the reluctant whispers of a captured crannogman, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hatred.
"Are you certain this path is clear?" William hissed at the scout, his breath misting in the cool morning air.
The Scout, a wiry man with skin the color of moss and eyes that darted like startled frogs, croaked, "The mud will swallow you whole if you stray. The trees have eyes, they watch. The water… it bites with teeth you cannot see."
William tightened his grip on the scout's arm, his knuckles white. "Just tell us if the path leads to the walls. And if there are guards."
"Guards always watch," the scout whispered, his gaze flicking nervously towards the looming black stones, as if expecting them to awaken. "But the mist… it hides many things. And the crannogmen… we know how to move unseen."
As William's climbers slipped through the swamp, their movements silent as the falling mist, Lord Ryam gave the signal. With a thunderous roar that shattered the morning stillness, the southern vanguard surged forward, their war cries echoing across the narrow causeway. A torrent of arrows, black feathers tipped with steel, rained down from the castle walls, peppering the advancing ranks like a sudden, deadly storm.
"Hold the line!" Lord Ryam bellowed, his voice a rallying cry amidst the growing chaos. "Shields up! For the King! Show these Northmen the steel of the South!"
Men fell almost instantly, their cries of pain swallowed by the din of battle – the clash of steel, the thud of arrows against shields, the guttural roars of dying men. The causeway, narrow and exposed, became a killing ground, a strip of blood-soaked earth leading to the unyielding black stone. Yet, the southern soldiers pressed on, driven by the promise of victory, the ingrained discipline of their training, and the ever-present fear of the king's wrath should they falter.
On the castle walls, the Northern defenders, clad in the muted greys and greens of their land, held their ground with grim determination. Their faces, hardened by the harsh Northern winters, showed no fear. They rained down arrows with deadly accuracy, hurled jagged stones that crunched through armor, and poured steaming, viscous oil that sizzled and burned upon the advancing southerners. The black stones of Moat Cailin seemed to drink the blood of the invaders, its ancient defenses, forged in a time of constant warfare, holding firm against the onslaught.
While the main assault raged at the gate, a desperate dance of death and stone unfolded at the base of the walls. William's climbers reached their objective. The black stones were slick with moisture and a treacherous layer of green moss, offering scant purchase for hands and feet. The mist, while providing a veil of concealment, also clung to the stone, making the ascent a perilous endeavor.
"Hurry!" William urged his men, his voice a low, urgent hiss. "Before they realize we're here. Every moment we delay is another arrow in our backs."
The climbers, their movements agile despite the difficult terrain and the weight of their grappling hooks and ropes, began their ascent. Their calloused fingers scrabbled for the slightest holds, their bodies pressed flat against the cold, unforgiving stone, each movement a testament to years of training. Arrows rained down from the battlements above, guided by unseen eyes. Some found their mark with sickening thuds, sending men tumbling back into the murky swamp with muffled splashes and strangled cries.
"Damn them!" William cursed under his breath as a climber just ahead of him gasped and fell, a Northern arrow protruding from his neck like a grotesque flower. "Move faster! We're sitting ducks here!"
They reached a narrow, jagged ledge halfway up the wall, a precarious perch offering a brief, agonizing respite. Below them, the swamp bubbled and hissed, claiming its fallen. Above, the sounds of the main assault continued unabated – the clang of steel, the shouts of men, the ominous thud of heavy objects impacting the ground.
"Can you see any way over?" William asked a wiry climber who had edged ahead, his movements like a mountain cat.
The climber, his face inches from the cold stone, peered through the swirling mist, his brow furrowed in concentration. "There's a sally port, my lord, higher up. Just above that outcropping. But it's guarded. I saw movement… two men, I think."
"Guarded how?" William pressed, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
"Ten men, my lord. With spears. They seem…alert."
William's lips, usually curved in a sardonic smile, now tightened into a grim line. "Ten men are nothing," he declared, his voice low and dangerous. "We take that gate. It's our only chance."
As William's remaining climbers, their numbers already dwindling, prepared to assault the sally port, the main assault at the gate began to falter. The narrow causeway was choked with the mangled bodies of the fallen, a gruesome carpet of blood and steel. The relentless barrage from the castle walls, combined with the natural choke point of the approach, had taken a heavy toll.
"We can't hold them much longer, Ryam!" Prince Baelon shouted, his young face grim with exertion and frustration, his usually pristine armor stained with blood and mud. "Their defenses are too strong! We're being butchered out here!"
Lord Ryam, his own armor bearing several dents and scratches, his breath coming in ragged gasps, surveyed the carnage with a heavy heart. "We have drawn their attention, Prince. William and his climbers should have reached the walls by now. Their sacrifice must not be in vain."
But there was no signal from above, no answering cry, no sign that William's desperate gamble had paid off. The feigned assault, meant to be a diversion, had become a bloody stalemate, a testament to the impregnable nature of Moat Cailin.
"Now!" Prince Baelon roared, seizing the opportunity amidst the chaos. "For the King! To the gate! Press the attack!"
As they reached the gate, they found it still barred, the heavy iron-bound wood holding firm. The Northern defenders, though shaken, had rallied with grim determination, their arrows and spears finding their mark amongst the advancing southerners, their defiance echoing from the black walls.
"We need to breach this gate!" Prince Baelon shouted, hacking furiously at the heavy wooden bars with Dark Sister, sparks flying with each desperate blow.
Meanwhile, William's climbers reached the sally port. The two Northern guards, alerted by the sounds of the main assault, stood ready, their spears pointed menacingly at the narrow opening.
"For the King!" William roared, his voice echoing in the confined space, leading the desperate charge.
The climbers, though weary from their arduous ascent and diminished in number, attacked with the ferocity of men with nothing left to lose. Steel clashed against steel in the narrow confines of the sally port, the sounds echoing eerily against the cold stone. One of William's men, a young boy barely a man grown, fell with a strangled cry, a Northern spear piercing his unprotected chest. But the others pressed on, their desperation fueled by the knowledge that the main assault below was faltering, their sacrifice meaningless if they failed here.
William himself engaged one of the Northern guards, his skilled movements honed by years of scaling treacherous cliffs. With a swift thrust, his blade found its mark, slipping between the guard's ribs, and the Northman fell, his lifeblood staining the ancient black stone.
"Open the gate!" William shouted to his remaining climbers, his voice hoarse with exertion and the sting of a minor wound. "Quickly! Every moment counts!"
They strained against the heavy bars securing the sally port, their hands slick with sweat and blood, their muscles screaming in protest. Finally, with a loud groan of protesting wood and rusted metal, the sally port swung inward, a dark, narrow opening onto the battlements above.
But their triumph was short-lived, a fleeting moment of hope extinguished by the harsh reality of their situation. As they emerged onto the battlements, they were met by a hail of arrows, loosed by the Northern defenders who had anticipated such a desperate maneuver. The narrow walkway became a death trap, more climbers falling, their bodies tumbling from the high walls to the ground below with sickening thuds.
Below, the southern attack on the main gate had stalled, the initial momentum lost against the stubborn Northern defense.
"Fall back!" Lord Ryam roared, his voice filled with bitter frustration, seeing the futility of continuing the assault against such formidable defenses. "Regroup! We're gaining nothing but casualties!"
The southern soldiers, their spirits broken by the unyielding defenses and the heavy losses, began a slow, disorganized retreat, leaving behind a bloody trail of fallen comrades, their sacrifices seemingly in vain. Prince Baelon, his young face etched with grim frustration, reluctantly followed his lord commander's order, his hand still gripping the hilt of Dark Sister, a silent promise of future vengeance.
As they retreated, their eyes were drawn to the chaos erupting on the battlements high above. William's small force of climbers was engaged in a desperate, last-ditch struggle against overwhelming numbers of Northern defenders, their figures silhouetted against the smoke and the flickering flames. Arrows flew thick as rain, and the sharp clang of steel against steel echoed across the blood-soaked battlefield, a tragic symphony of a failed gambit.
Then, a volley of arrows, launched with deadly accuracy, struck William. He staggered, his skilled hands losing their grip on the battlements, his blade clattering against the stone as it fell from his grasp. He clutched at his chest, his eyes, filled with a mixture of pain and defiance, fixed on the retreating southern army far below. With a final, desperate cry that was swallowed by the sounds of battle, he toppled from the battlements, his body plummeting through the air to land on the unforgiving ground with a sickening thud, a stark and brutal testament to the North's unwavering defense. The desperate gamble had failed, and the black walls of Moat Cailin stood defiant against the bloodied dawn.
It has been two days since they tried to breach Moat Cailin, and the army has lost another fifteen thousand men. The camp was a somber, mud-soaked testament to failure. Inside the king's tent, gloom hung heavy. Ryam reported no ground gained, only unyielding defenses and plummeting morale. Rogar raged about the Northmen's devilish resilience. Eustace Hightower, pale and drawn, lamented the high cost and the approaching winter.
Aemon, his eagerness replaced by grim resolve, faced his father. "We have probed them, Father. They cannot be broken by traditional means."
Jaehaerys, his face etched with weariness, looked at his exhausted lords. The grim faces and mounting casualties pointed to one truth. The traditional methods had failed.
A new, cold fire burned in Jaehaerys's violet eyes. "Summon Prince Baelon," he commanded, his voice ringing with renewed authority. "We will prepare the dragon for the final assault tomorrow. Tomorrow it shall be a full frontal assault. If the stone will not break, then it shall burn."
A collective sigh of relief and trepidation rippled through the tent. They had seen the cost of conventional warfare. Now, they would see the fury of a dragon. The battle for the Neck was not over; it was merely entering its most devastating phase. The black stones of Moat Cailin had held against steel and mud, but now, they would face fire and blood.