1 BC - Moat Cailin - Third Person POV
A moon had passed since the Northern lords rallied at Moat Cailin, their resolve forged in the face of Aegon Targaryen's conquest.
Aegon's host camped near Moat Cailin's walls, their banners—three-headed dragon, lion, rose, fish—fluttering in the marshy breeze. Aegon requested a parley, and both sides met in the open field, a tense tableau of power. Aegon, crowned with rubies, sat astride a black destrier, flanked by Visenya, her braid tight and Valyrian steel sword *Dark Sister* at her side, and Rhaenys, her silver hair flowing, a whip coiled at her hip. Behind them rode Lord Loren Lannister, his golden armor gleaming, Lord Garlan Tyrell, green cloak billowing, and Lord Osric Tully, his fish sigil glinting. On the Stark side, Torrhen, Alaric, and Brandon rode massive, horse-sized wolves, their fur bristling, eyes glowing with loyalty. Lords Harlon Umber, Torren Karstark, and Halys Bolton accompanied them, their Winter Steel weapons ready.
The southron lords' eyes widened at the wolves, their composure cracking. Loren Lannister's horse reared, snorting, and he cursed under his breath, yanking the reins. "Gods, what manner of beasts are those?"
Garlan Tyrell's hand twitched toward his sword, his face paling. "Wolves the size of stallions? This is sorcery!"
Osric Tully steadied his mount, whispering, "The North's full of tricks, but this… this is unnatural."
Aegon's gaze narrowed, but he controlled his steed with a flick of his wrist, his violet eyes unreadable.
Visenya's lips curled slightly, intrigued, while Rhaenys tilted her head, murmuring, "Fascinating… they ride wolves like we ride dragons."
Aegon raised a hand, his voice clear and commanding. "King Torrhen Stark, I greet you as a fellow King of Westeros. You've heard my terms. Will you bend the knee and join my realm, or choose the path of Harren and Gardener?"
Torrhen, atop his wolf, its claws digging into the earth, met Aegon's gaze. "King Aegon, I return your greeting, but not your crown. The North bows to no southron. We stand as we always have—unbroken."
Aegon's jaw tightened. "You know of Harrenhal, Stark. Its towers melted, its king roasted. Argilac fell, Mern burned, Loren knelt. Do you think Moat Cailin's walls will fare better against Balerion's fire?"
Torrhen's eyes blazed. "I know of Harrenhal, Targaryen, but you should know this: the North is not the south. Our stone is cold, our hearts colder. We will not bend, nor burn."
Aegon leaned forward, his voice low and deadly. "Then you choose death. Tomorrow, my dragons will reduce your fortress to ash, and your men will feed the crows."
Torrhen bared his teeth, his wolf growling. "Try it, dragonlord. We'll meet you on the field, and you'll find the North bites harder than your lizards."
Aegon straightened, his eyes cold. "So be it. We will meet at Dawn, Stark. Prepare to meet your gods." He wheeled his horse, his retinue following, their banners snapping as they rode back.
The next morning, battle loomed. Aegon's sixty thousand—Reach knights, Riverlands archers, Stormlanders, Valemen, Westermen, and Targaryen spears—arrayed before Moat Cailin, their armor glinting in the dawn mist.
Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes took wing, their roars shaking the earth, Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys astride them, ready to unleash fire. The allied army readied catapults and archers to cut down any Northerners fleeing the blaze.
Inside Moat Cailin, twenty-five thousand Northerners braced themselves. Some trembled, clutching runed spears, whispering prayers to the old gods: "Heart tree, guard us…" Others rallied their comrades, shouting, "For the North! We'll not burn!" Veterans gripped Alaric's seeking arrows, their resolve firm.
On the walls, Torrhen, Brandon, and the lords watched, their breath fogging in the chill. Lord Harlon Umber, gripping his greatsword, muttered, "What's Alaric doing out there, alone at the gates? Has he lost his wits? Dragon fire's coming!"
Lord Torren Karstark, peering through the mist, growled, "He's got a plan, Umber, but what? Those dragons'll roast him before he lifts a finger!"
Lord Ryman Bolton, his pale eyes narrowing, said softly, "Prince Alaric's no fool. His wolves, his steel, his lamps—all worked. But this? He'd better have something grand, or we're all ash."
Lord Bennard Glover, mailed fist clenched, added, "He promised dragon-killers. Where are they? I trust him, but gods, he's cutting it close!"
Lord Fenric Reed, calm, said, "Patience, my lords. Alaric's rice feeds my folk, his potions made those wolves. He'll deliver."
Lord Rodrik Dustin snorted, "Deliver or die, Reed. Those dragons are nearly here!"
A Song of Ice and Fire: Isekai Rebirth - Chapter 11
A moon had passed since the Northern lords rallied at Moat Cailin, their resolve steeled against Aegon Targaryen's conquest. Alaric Stark, twenty-four, had worked relentlessly, forging runed spears, seeking arrows, and binding nets to counter dragons, drawing on the Library of Knowledge and his Hashirama Senju bloodline. King Torrhen Stark, twenty-five, led with unwavering resolve, his son Edric safe in Winterfell with Maege. Brandon Snow, twenty-nine, commanded the Winter Wolves, one hundred elite guards wielding indestructible blades and enhanced by Alaric's potions. The North's innovations—four-crop rotation, windmills, cemented roads, sledges, magic lamps, and Essosi trade in soap, glass, and whiskey—had made it a powerhouse, but Aegon's sixty thousand men and three dragons challenged their defiance. With Dorne the last holdout, the North stood as the final bastion against Aegon's crown.
Aegon's army encamped near Moat Cailin's walls, their banners—three-headed dragon, lion, rose, fish—snapping in the marshy wind. Aegon called for a parley, and both sides met in an open field, a tense display of power. Aegon, ruby-crowned, rode a black destrier, flanked by Visenya, her braid tight and Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister at her hip, and Rhaenys, silver hair flowing, a whip coiled at her side. Behind them rode Lord Loren Lannister, golden armor gleaming, Lord Garlan Tyrell, green cloak billowing, and Lord Osric Tully, fish sigil glinting. The Stark side was a spectacle: Torrhen, Alaric, and Brandon rode massive, horse-sized wolves—Alaric's potion-enhanced beasts, fur bristling, eyes glowing with loyalty. Lords Harlon Umber, Torren Karstark, and Halys Bolton joined them, Winter Steel weapons drawn.
The southron lords' eyes widened at the wolves, their composure faltering. Loren Lannister's horse reared, whinnying, and he cursed, "Seven hells, what are those creatures?" as he wrestled the reins. Garlan Tyrell's hand jerked toward his sword, face ashen. "Wolves big as warhorses? This is witchcraft!" Osric Tully steadied his mount, muttering, "The North's full of dark arts, but this… unnatural!" Aegon's violet eyes narrowed, but he calmed his steed with a flick, his face unreadable. Visenya's lips twitched, intrigued. "They ride wolves as we ride dragons," she murmured. Rhaenys tilted her head, whispering, "Bold… and unsettling."
Aegon raised a hand, his voice resonant. "King Torrhen Stark, I greet you as a lord of Westeros. You've heard my terms: bend the knee, join my realm, and live. Refuse, and share Harren's fate. What say you?"
Torrhen, his wolf's claws gouging the earth, met Aegon's gaze, Stormdancer at his side. "King Aegon, I return your greeting, but not your crown. The North kneels to no southron. We stand as we have for millennia—unbroken."
Aegon's jaw clenched. "You know of Harrenhal, Stark. Its towers melted, its king charred to bone. Argilac fell, Mern burned, Loren knelt. Do you believe Moat Cailin's walls will withstand Balerion's fire?"
Torrhen's eyes flashed, his wolf growling. "I know of Harrenhal, Targaryen. But hear this: the North is not your soft south. Our stone is cold, our will colder. We will not bend, nor burn."
Aegon leaned forward, voice like steel. "Then you choose death. Tomorrow, my dragons will turn your fortress to slag, your men to ash. This is your last chance, Stark."
Torrhen bared his teeth. "Try your fire, dragonlord. We'll meet you on the field, and you'll find the North's bite sharper than your beasts."
Aegon straightened, eyes cold as Valyrian steel. "Dawn, then. Pray to your trees, Stark—they'll burn too." He wheeled his horse, his retinue following, banners trailing as they rode off.
The next morning, battle dawned. Aegon's sixty thousand—Reach knights, Riverlands archers, Stormlanders, Valemen, Westermen, and Targaryen spears—formed ranks before Moat Cailin, armor glinting in the mist. Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes took flight, their roars splitting the sky, Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys astride them, poised to rain fire. The allied army readied catapults and archers to slaughter fleeing Northerners. Within Moat Cailin, twenty-five thousand Northerners braced. Some shook, clutching runed spears, praying to the old gods: "Heart tree, shield us…" Others rallied, shouting, "Hold fast! For the North!" Veterans gripped Alaric's seeking arrows, eyes fierce.
On the walls, Torrhen, Brandon, and the lords watched, breath fogging. Lord Harlon Umber, greatsword in hand, growled, "What's Alaric doing out there by the gates? Has he gone mad? Dragons'll roast him!" Lord Torren Karstark, squinting, snapped, "He's got a plan, Umber, but what? Those beasts are nearly here!" Lord Halys Bolton, eyes like ice, murmured, "Prince Alaric's no fool. His wolves, his steel, his lamps—all worked. But this? It had better be spectacular." Lord Bennard Glover, fist clenched, said, "He vowed dragon-killers. Where are they? I trust him, but time's short!" Lord Fenric Reed, serene, replied, "Patience, my lords. Alaric's rice feeds my marshes, his potions grew those wolves. He'll deliver." Lord Rodrik Dustin snorted, "Deliver or we're cinders, Reed. Look—Balerion's coming!"
Outside the gates, Alaric stood alone, hands clasped, gathering nature chakra. As Balerion's shadow loomed, Alaric grinned, black sage mode lines tracing his face. He shouted, "Sage Art: True Several Thousand Hands!" The earth shuddered violently, cracks spiderwebbing as a colossal wooden statue rose, four hundred meters tall, dwarfing Moat Cailin's towers. Its thousand arms spread like a divine arsenal, each hand poised to strike. Alaric stood atop its head.
The North erupted in awe. Torrhen, gripping Stormdancer, laughed wildly. "Gods be good, Alaric, you mad, brilliant wolf! That's no statue—it's a bloody god!"
Brandon, Frostbite drawn, roared, "Look at it, brother! Aegon's dragons are ants to that! Alaric's outdone the old kings!"
Lord Harlon Umber's jaw fell, his greatsword clattering. "Old gods… that's Alaric's doing? A giant taller than the Wall!"
Lord Torren Karstark, eyes bulging, stammered, "That's sorcery to shame Valyria! He'll smash those dragons!"
Lord Ryman Bolton's thin smile widened. "The prince plays a bold hand. Aegon's move now."
Lord Bennard Glover bellowed, "That's our dragon-slayer! Alaric, you mad genius!"
Lord Fenric Reed murmured, "The old gods speak through him."
Lord Rodrik Dustin laughed, "Burn us, Aegon? Try burning that!"
Northern soldiers cheered, fear banished, shouting, "Alaric! North!" Some knelt, praying, "Heart tree, you've sent a titan!"
Aegon's army faltered, discipline shattering. Lord Loren Lannister, on his horse, gaped, his golden armor dim. "What in the Seven's name is that? A god risen from the earth?"
Lord Garlan Tyrell, cloak flapping, choked, "No mortal made that! Stark's brother's a demon!"
Lord Osric Tully, fish sigil dull, whispered, "We're dead… no dragon fights that!"
Southron soldiers dropped weapons, some fleeing, others wailing to the Seven. "Warrior save us!" an archer cried. Arrows loosed, splintering uselessly against the statue's wood.
Above, Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys pulled their dragons higher, circling for reconnaissance. Aegon, on Balerion, ruby crown flashing, stared, shock breaking his stoic mask. "What witchcraft is this? A wooden colossus, four hundred meters tall? The Starks wield magic beyond our blood!"
Visenya, astride Vhagar, clutched Dark Sister, her voice sharp. "Aegon, that's no idle statue—it's alive! We strike now, or it'll rip us from the heavens!"
Rhaenys, on Meraxes, whip taut, gasped, "Its size… Balerion's a hatchling beside it! Brother, we must rethink—Harrenhal was child's play compared to this!" Balerion roared, climbing, its fire withheld, wary of the statue's thousand arms.
Torrhen turned to Brandon on the walls, his voice fierce. "Alaric's given us the edge, brother. Ready the Winter Wolves—when those dragons waver, we charge." Brandon grinned, feral. "Aye, Torrhen. Let's show Aegon wolves and titans rule the North."
The battlefield teetered, Alaric's four-hundred-meter titan towering over Moat Cailin, defying dragon fire. The North, united in faith and fury, stood ready to meet Aegon's wrath with magic, steel, and the old gods' might.