1 BC Moat Cailin Third Person POV
Moat Cailin's ancient towers stood resolute over the Neck's marshes, a bulwark against the south. King Torrhen Stark's ravens had summoned the North's lords to the great hall of the central tower. The Winter Wolves, one hundred elite guards wielding indestructible blades and enhanced by Alaric's potions, patrolled the walls.
The hall crackled with tension as lords Harlon Umber, Torren Karstark, Bennard Glover, Ryman Bolton, Rodrik Dustin, Godric Manderly, and Fenric Reed sat around a scarred oaken table, their banners—chained giant, White sun, mailed fist, flayed man, axe, merman, and lizard-lion—adorning the walls. Tankards of "Stark's Fire" whiskey, Alaric's creation, clinked as the lords aired their fears.
Lord Harlon Umber, a giant with a Winter Steel greatsword strapped to his back, slammed his fist down, his roar shaking the rafters. "Sixty thousand men, My King? That's double our host, maybe more! I've crushed wildlings and Ironborn, and I'll gut these southrons, but dragons? Balerion turned Harrenhal's towers to dripping wax! Harren thought his castle unbreachable, and now he's dust. What keeps Aegon from torching Moat Cailin? Speak plain, Your Grace—how do we stand against that?"
Lord Torren Karstark, his greying beard bristling, leaned forward, gripping his tankard. "Umber speaks true, Your Grace. I trust your crown, and Prince Alaric's works but dragons aren't men. I heard of Vhagar's shadow over the Vale when Sharra Arryn bent the knee. One swoop, and our levies are ash. We've got twenty-five thousand, thirty if we empty every keep. Numbers won't win this. What's Prince Alaric brewing to slay those beasts? I'd hear it from his lips, not whispers."
Lord Bennard Glover, his mailed fist sigil sewn on his cloak, nodded, his voice heavy. "The Field of Fire burned four thousand in a heartbeat, Your Grace. House Gardener's erased, gone like smoke. Lannisters knelt, Tullys rose, Baratheons claimed Storm's End—all from dragon fire. Alaric's lamps light my halls, his roads got my men here fast, but I'm with Umber and Karstark. How do we fight flames that melt stone? I'll die for the North, but I'd rather not roast. What's the plan, Your Grace?"
Lord Ryman Bolton, pale as frost, sipped his whiskey, his eyes cold and piercing. "Dragons are troubling, aye, but the men concern me more. Sixty thousand—Reach knights, Riverlands archers, Stormlanders, Valemen, Westermen, and Targaryen spears. They outnumber us, blooded from smashing Harren and Argilac. Your Winter Steel's fine, Your Grace—my dagger slices mail like silk—but numbers are a weapon too. The Winter Wolves are fierce, but one hundred against thousands? What strategy do we have, or are we banking on Prince Alaric's… alchemical tricks?" His tone was soft, laced with skepticism.
Lord Fenric Reed, slight and sharp-eyed, spoke from the table's end, his voice steady. "The Neck's our shield, my lords. My crannogmen know every mire, every stream. Aegon's army will drown in bogs before they touch Moat Cailin's gates. Alaric's rice feeds my folk, his sledges let us strike in winter. I trust him to counter dragons, but we must use the terrain—poisoned darts, hidden traps, night raids. Still, I'd hear Prince Alaric's plan. What can he forge to kill Balerion?"
Lord Rodrik Dustin, his axe sigil glinting on his doublet, growled, "Enough dragon talk! It's the southrons I mistrust. Tyrells, Lannisters—they've knelt, but they're vipers. Alaric's trade—glass, paper, whiskey—has them seething with envy. They'll use this war to chain us, maybe push daughters our way to spy. I say we show them Northern might, but we need a clear path, Torrhen. Your brother's miracles—roads, lamps, crops—are grand, but can they stop an army twice our size? Speak, Your Grace!"
Lord Godric Manderly, broad and hearty, raised his tankard, his merman sigil catching the torchlight. "My lords, ease your hearts! Alaric's given us riches—my ships carry his goods to Braavos, and their gold piles high in White Harbor. His roads sped us here, his windmills feed our host. But I'll not lie—dragons chill my blood. My sailors still whisper of it. Alaric's Winter Wolves are fierce, but three dragons? We need more than steel, Your Grace. What's Prince Alaric crafting to bring those beasts down? I'd wager on him, but I need to hear the plan."
The hall grew louder, voices overlapping. Lord Harlon Umber thundered, "We can't sit here quaking! I say we march south, hit Aegon before he reaches the Neck. Take the fight to him, dragons be damned!"
Lord Torren Karstark shook his head. "That's folly, Umber! Marching south leaves the North open. We hold Moat Cailin, let the swamps bleed them."
Lord Bennard Glover cut in, "Hold or march, it's the fire I fear. Harrenhal's ruin proves walls alone won't save us. Alaric's got to deliver something—spears, arrows, anything!"
Lord Halys Bolton's lips curled slightly. "Strategy, not bravado, wins wars. Aegon's men are many, but stretched—Riverlands, Reach, Stormlands, all far from home. Harass their supplies, starve them. But dragons… Prince Alaric's potions and runes must counter them, or we're lost."
Lord Fenric Reed added, "The Neck's our blade. My men can strike and vanish, poisoning wells, felling scouts. But dragons fly over bogs. Prince Alaric, what's your answer?"
Torrhen listened, his grey eyes scanning each lord. The din peaked, fears of dragons and armies clashing with calls for action. He rose, slamming his tankard on the table with a *clang* that silenced the hall. All eyes turned to him, his iron crown glinting, *Stormdancer* at his side. He met each lord's gaze—Harlon's fire, Torren's doubt, Bennard's resolve, Halys's calculation, Fenric's trust, Rodrik's defiance, Godric's hope.
"My lords," Torrhen began, his voice steady as stone, "I hear your fears, and I share them. Dragons melt stone, aye—Harrenhal's a smoking grave. Sixty thousand men march north, twice our number, hardened by war. Aegon's crushed every king save Dorne's, and his dragons—Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes—are death on wings. You're right to worry. But hear me now: we are the North, unbowed for millennia. Andals broke against our blades, Ironborn drowned in our seas, wildlings fell to our walls. This dragonlord will fare no better."
He paused, his gaze fierce. "You fear dragon fire? I say this: my brother Alaric will counter it. You doubt him? Look around! His crops feed your smallfolk, his windmills grind your grain, his roads brought you here, his whiskey warms your bellies. His Winter Steel arms our Wolves, his magic lamps light our halls, his trade fills our coffers. Alaric turned the North from a frozen land to a power Essos envies. When he says he'll deal with dragons, I believe him. I ask you to trust him, as you've trusted his miracles before."
Lord Harlon Umber grunted, his scowl softening. "Aye, Your Grace. Alaric's crops saved my folk from starvation. His sledges let me raid wildlings in blizzards. If he says he can kill dragons, I'll hold my tongue—for now."
Lord Torren Karstark nodded slowly. "Prince Alaric's windmills feed my holdfasts, his roads let me march men here in days, not weeks. I'll trust him, Torrhen, but I want to see these dragon-killers soon. My men won't face fire without hope."
Lord Bennard Glover raised his tankard. "Alaric's lamps light Deepwood Motte, his cement strengthened my walls. If he's got a plan for dragons, I'm with him. Let's hear it, Your Grace—when do we see these weapons?"
Lord Ryman Bolton's eyes narrowed, but he inclined his head. "Your brother's Winter Steel is unmatched, Your Grace. My dagger proves it. If he can forge dragon-slaying tools, I'll follow. But the army—sixty thousand—needs a strategy. What's your plan?"
Lord Godric Manderly beamed, his voice warm. "Prince Alaric's ships carry my wealth to Braavos, his paper's in every maester's hand. His magic's real—I've seen his lamps glow. If he vows to kill dragons, I'm all in. What's the plan, my king?"
Torrhen raised his hand, silencing the murmurs. "As for Aegon's sixty thousand, I say this: Andals were never our match, not when they came with swords, not now with dragons. Moat Cailin's walls will hold. The Neck's swamps, Lord Reed's crannogmen, will swallow their army. Our Winter Wolves, runed blades in hand, will carve through their knights. We've faced worse odds and won. Aegon's men are far from home, their supply lines long—we'll cut them, starve them, break them. The North fights as one, and we'll show these southrons our might!"
He drew *Stormdancer*, its lightning runes crackling, and thrust it skyward. "For the North!"
The hall erupted, lords leaping to their feet, tankards raised. "For the North!" Harlon Umber's bellow shook the beams. Torren Karstark's shout followed, then Bennard Glover's, Fenric Reed's, Rodrik Dustin's, Godric Manderly's. Even Halys Bolton joined, his voice soft but clear. The chant grew, echoing off the stone, a vow of defiance against dragon fire.
Torrhen sheathed his sword, grinning. "Drink, my lords! Tonight, we feast. Tomorrow, we prepare. Aegon's coming, but he'll find the North ready—steel, magic, and heart!"
The lords roared, draining their tankards. Harlon Umber clapped Rodrik Dustin's shoulder, laughing. "Let's see Aegon try to burn *us*! Alaric's got something cooking, I wager!" Torren Karstark toasted Bennard Glover, saying, "To Alaric's dragon-killers!" Fenric Reed shared a quiet word with Godric Manderly, both nodding at Alaric, who stood silent, his mind on runed spears and dragon-slaying arrows. Halys Bolton watched, his smile thin, but raised his cup.
As whiskey flowed and songs of old Northern kings filled the hall, the lords steeled themselves for war. In the south, Aegon marched, his dragons darkening the Trident's skies. Alaric, forging weapons in his workshop, prepared to meet fire with magic, the North's fate in his hands.