Chapter 25: The Maiden's Cry and the Winter Wolf's Bite
The decision to march on Maidenpool was a spark thrown into the tinderbox of the Northern army's weary but resolute spirit. They had endured the frozen hell of the Neck, had brought their own harsh winter into the softer lands of the Riverlands, and now, their Queen's staunchest ally, Prince Daemon Targaryen, was besieged, his back to the sea, facing the might of the Stormlands under Lord Borros Baratheon. The Northmen, despite their exhaustion, felt a grim sense of purpose. This was a battle worthy of their sacrifice.
Ciel Phantomhive, Lord Cregan Stark, pushed his new army with a relentless urgency that bordered on the cruel. Every hour mattered. They force-marched through the frosted, desolate landscape of the eastern Riverlands, the biting wind carrying the distant, faint scent of smoke and the even fainter, almost imperceptible tremor of ongoing conflict. He allowed minimal rest, his own slight frame seeming to draw sustenance from the very air of crisis. The raw recruits, who had barely survived the Neck, now found themselves driven beyond what they thought were their limits, their initial fear of their young lord slowly morphing into a kind of terrified awe. The veterans, who knew his methods, simply tightened their belts and marched, their faith in the Wolf Lord absolute, if unspoken.
Sarx, his direwolf, was Ciel's constant shadow and his foremost scout. Through the wolf's senses, Ciel tasted the wind, mapped the frozen ground, and felt the subtle shifts in the land that warned of Baratheon patrols or hidden enemy camps. He also extended his warging senses to the hardy winter birds, carrion crows and stoic owls, using their aerial vantage to piece together a clearer picture of the siege at Maidenpool. He saw the ring of Baratheon campfires, the siege lines tightening around the small port town, the occasional flash of dragonfire as Caraxes or Meleys launched desperate sorties from within.
Sebastian Michaelis, ever the paragon of eerie competence, ensured the army's logistics, strained as they were, did not entirely collapse. When supply wagons bogged down in frozen mud or vital foraging parties returned empty-handed, Sebastian would invariably find a solution – a miraculously cleared path, a hidden cache of grain in an abandoned sept, a "persuaded" local miller. His methods remained his own, but the results were undeniable. He also undertook several lone reconnaissance missions, cloaked in darkness and winter mist, returning with chillingly precise intelligence on Baratheon's troop dispositions, command structure, and morale.
"Lord Borros Baratheon is a proud, blustering fool, my Lord," Sebastian reported one frost-rimed morning, after one such nocturnal excursion. "He relies on the brute strength of his Stormlanders and the fear inspired by his own harsh discipline. He believes Prince Daemon is trapped, his dragons weary. He does not anticipate a significant relief force, certainly not one appearing from the north in this season. His arrogance is… palpable. And his camp security, while formidable, has certain… exploitable deficiencies in alertness, particularly amongst the night watch who seem more concerned with their wine skins than their duties."
Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, his young dragon Vermax now mostly recovered from his wounds at Harrenhal, met their vanguard as they approached the outskirts of the besieged area. Jacaerys looked haggard, his youthful face drawn with worry and the strain of constant harrying actions against Baratheon's much larger host.
"Lord Stark!" he exclaimed, relief warring with exhaustion in his voice as Vermax landed beside Ciel's marching column. "By the Gods, you came! My uncle Daemon… he is hard-pressed. Lord Borros has tightened the noose. They have siege engines now, and their numbers are overwhelming. We feared…"
"Fear is a luxury we cannot afford, Your Grace," Ciel cut him off, his tone cold but not unkind. "What is the status of Prince Daemon's dragons? And have you sighted Lord Baratheon's other anticipated ally?" He was referring to his greensight vision of Tessarion.
Jacaerys paled slightly. "Caraxes and Meleys still fight, but they are weary. Princess Rhaenys was wounded in their last sortie when Meleys took a scorpion bolt to the leg. As for… other dragons… my scouts report that Prince Daeron Targaryen and Tessarion were seen flying south from King's Landing some days ago, their destination rumored to be Lord Baratheon's camp. If they have not yet arrived, they will soon."
Ciel nodded grimly. His vision was holding true. This battle would indeed involve the blue dragon. "Then we must strike before Daeron can join his strength to Baratheon's. Give me your latest assessment of Baratheon's siege lines, their weakest points."
The plan Ciel devised was audacious, relying on the element of surprise, the North's winter-hardened ferocity, and a precise coordination that seemed almost impossible given the circumstances. The Northern army, under cover of a pre-dawn snow squall that Sebastian had… confidently predicted… would materialize, would launch a three-pronged assault on Baratheon's encampment.
Lord Manderly, with his heavy infantry and knights, would strike the western flank, aiming to break through towards Maidenpool's main landward gate. Lord Karstark, with his fierce warriors and the Mormont contingent, would hit the eastern flank, tasked with sowing chaos and preventing any organized retreat. Ciel himself, with the core of his Winterfell veterans, Sarx, and Sebastian, would lead a daring central thrust, aiming directly for Lord Borros Baratheon's command tent, which Sebastian had meticulously located. Prince Jacaerys and Vermax, despite the dragon's recent injuries, would provide what aerial support they could, focusing on disrupting Baratheon reserves and signaling Daemon within the town.
"This is a wolf's hunt, my lords," Ciel addressed his commanders, his voice a low growl in the pre-dawn darkness, the falling snow muffling their assembly. "We are the winter storm. We strike hard, we strike fast, and we show no mercy. Lord Borros expects a desperate sortie from Daemon, not an avalanche from his rear. We will give him a dawn he will never forget."
As the first grey light of dawn filtered through the swirling snow, the Northern army attacked. They fell upon the unsuspecting Baratheon camp like a winter wraith, their war cries, the fierce howls of the Northmen and the deeper bellows of Sarx, muffled by the blizzard until they were almost upon the enemy.
The Stormlanders, caught completely by surprise, stumbled from their tents into a maelstrom of grey steel and white fury. The Northmen, accustomed to fighting in snow and ice, moved with a deadly confidence that their Southern foes lacked. Lord Manderly's armored column smashed into the western siege lines, his knights carving a bloody path through the dazed Baratheon men-at-arms. Lord Karstark's warriors, howling like banshees, swept through the eastern encampment, their axes and longswords reaping a grim harvest.
Ciel, at the head of his Winterfell elite, charged directly towards the heart of the camp. Dark Sister, Aemond's blade, felt like an extension of his own arm, its Valyrian steel singing a deadly song as it bit through armor and flesh. Sarx was a grey demon at his side, tearing out throats, hamstringing horses, his massive form a terrifying apparition in the swirling snow. Sebastian, a black phantom, moved with an impossible, lethal grace, his movements almost too fast to follow, every touch, every strike, utterly fatal to any Green soldier unfortunate enough to cross his path. He seemed less a butler and more an angel of death, his crimson eyes glowing with an unholy light in the dim dawn.
Lord Borros Baratheon, a large, bull-necked man with a fiery temper, was roused from his sleep by the sounds of battle and the screams of his men. He emerged from his command tent, bellowing for his knights, his face purple with rage at the audacity of the attack. He was a formidable warrior, his warhammer capable of crushing helms and breastplates, but he was also arrogant, overconfident, and now, utterly bewildered.
"Treason! Ambush!" he roared, as Ciel's Northmen burst into his command area. "To me, Stormlanders! Slay these Northern dogs!"
The fighting around Baratheon's command tent was brutal and desperate. The Lord of Storm's End was surrounded by his household guard, a core of heavily armored knights who fought with the courage of cornered stags. But Ciel's veterans, tempered in the fires of Harrenhal and the Gullet, were implacable.
Ciel himself sought out Borros Baratheon. The Stormlord, seeing the slight, black-clad youth who dared challenge him, laughed contemptuously. "A pup leading wolves! I'll send your head back to your frozen wasteland, boy!" He swung his massive warhammer in a deadly arc.
Ciel, with a speed that belied his youth, dodged the blow, Dark Sister flashing. He was no match for Baratheon in brute strength, but he was faster, more agile, and his mind worked with chilling precision. He used Baratheon's own momentum against him, deflecting, parrying, seeking an opening. Sarx, meanwhile, harried the Stormlord, snapping at his legs, forcing him to divide his attention.
It was Sebastian who created the decisive opening. With a movement that seemed to bend time and space, he appeared behind Baratheon's most formidable champion, a giant of a man named Ser Davos Swann, and with a single, almost casual touch to the back of the knight's neck, sent him crashing to the ground, insensate. This momentary distraction was all Ciel needed. He lunged, Dark Sister slipping past Baratheon's clumsy guard, plunging deep into the Stormlord's exposed side, just beneath his raised arm.
Borros Baratheon roared in pain and disbelief, his warhammer clattering to the snowy ground. He staggered, clutching his bleeding side, his eyes wide with shock. "Impossible…" he gasped, before Ciel, with a cold, final thrust, silenced him forever.
At that moment, a new, piercing shriek cut through the sounds of battle. From the southern sky, a brilliant blue dragon, graceful and terrible, descended like a sapphire meteor – Tessarion, with Prince Daeron Targaryen astride her. Ciel's vision.
"Daeron!" Jacaerys's voice cried out from above, as Vermax, despite his weariness, rose to meet the new threat.
Within Maidenpool, Prince Daemon, seeing the Northern banners and hearing the sounds of battle from Baratheon's camp, had launched his own desperate sortie. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, erupted from the town gates, Rhaenys and Meleys close behind, their combined dragonfire sowing fresh chaos amongst the now-leaderless Stormlanders.
The battle became a three-way conflagration. The Northern army, having broken the main Baratheon force, now found itself facing a new, terrifying enemy in Tessarion. Daeron Targaryen, though young, was a skilled dragonrider, and Tessarion, known as the "Blue Queen," was swift, agile, and her flames burned with an intense, sapphire heat. She swooped down upon the Northmen, her fire turning snow to steam, men to ash.
Ciel, seeing his men fall, felt a cold rage. He remembered his vision: himself, on a hill, facing the blue dragon. He rallied his remaining Winterfell guard around him, on a slight rise in the ravaged encampment that offered some meager elevation. "Archers!" he commanded. "Aim for her eyes! Her rider! Sebastian! Protect our flanks!"
Tessarion, seeing the concentration of Stark banners, dove towards them, Daeron's youthful face a mask of grim determination. Ciel stood his ground, Dark Sister held ready, Sarx snarling at his side. It was a moment of pure, suicidal defiance.
But before Tessarion could unleash her fire upon them, Caraxes, with Daemon Targaryen's battle-mad laughter echoing, intercepted her. The Blood Wyrm, older, larger, and far more savage, slammed into Tessarion, the impact shaking the ground. The two dragons grappled in mid-air, a terrifying tangle of claws, teeth, and dragonfire, red against blue. Meleys and Vermax joined the fray, harrying Tessarion, trying to give Caraxes an advantage.
The dragon battle was short but cataclysmic. Tessarion, though swift, was outmatched by the combined fury of three Black dragons, especially the savage Caraxes. With a shriek of pain, Tessarion broke free, one wing badly burned, her blue scales scorched black in places. Daeron, realizing his position was hopeless with Baratheon's army shattered, turned his wounded dragon and fled south, pursued for a time by a triumphant Caraxes.
The siege of Maidenpool was broken. Lord Borros Baratheon was dead. His army was annihilated. The Northmen, alongside Prince Daemon's forces, stood victorious amidst a field of slaughter, the snow stained crimson with the blood of Stormlanders.
But the victory, as always, had been costly. Many Northmen lay dead or dying, victims of Baratheon steel or Tessarion's fire. Lord Manderly was gravely wounded, an arrow lodged deep in his thigh. Even Sarx had taken a nasty burn along his flank.
Ciel, weary to his very soul, stood over the body of Borros Baratheon. He felt no triumph, only a vast, empty coldness. He had won another battle, had saved Daemon, had crippled another Green army. But the cycle of violence seemed endless, the price of victory ever higher.
Daemon landed Caraxes nearby, his face flushed with the exhilaration of battle, his armor smeared with soot and blood. He looked at Ciel, at the dead Stormlord, then at the retreating form of Tessarion in the southern sky.
"You have done it again, Stark," Daemon said, a strange mixture of admiration and perhaps, a new wariness in his voice. "You have plucked another Green stag from the field. And your timing… impeccable, as always." He glanced at Sebastian, who was calmly wiping blood from Dark Sister, which Ciel had handed to him. "Your methods are… effective. Frighteningly so."
Ciel did not reply. He looked at the carnage around him, at the weary faces of his surviving Northmen. They had brought winter's fury south, and the Riverlands, once more, ran red with blood. He knew this victory would send shockwaves through King's Landing, would further destabilize the Greens. But he also knew that the Dance of the Dragons was far from over. New enemies would rise, new battles would be fought.
And he, Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, with his demon butler at his side, would have to lead his pack through the heart of the inferno, whatever the cost to the North, and to his own soul. The maiden's cry from the besieged town had been answered. But the dragon's dance continued, its fiery steps leading inexorably towards a final, terrible reckoning.