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Chapter 77: Fire in the Marsh
It is the day Daeron received the letter.. (Seven days after the events of the last chapter)
The sun hung heavy above Moat Cailin, its pale light seeping through the drifting mists of the Neck. The old stones, slick with moisture and ancient blood, bore silent witness to the gathering storm. Howland Reed stood atop the crumbling battlements of the northmost remains of the curtain wall, his greying hair damp with sweat and fog, his hand resting on the hilt of a dagger he doubted he would use.
Below, the land stretched out in a slow, crawling descent, its marshes and bogs giving way to the firmer ground from which the enemy came.
They were coming now.
From the north, the Ironborn army poured across the land like a rot flooding a wound. Longships pulled up along the feverish banks of the Saltspear had birthed raiders by the hundreds, and now they marched with axes glinting and shields raised. The banners of House Greyjoy snapped in the faint breeze: the golden kraken on black, reaching as though to strangle the very world.
Howland let out a long breath.
"They're close," he murmured to no one in particular.
Behind him, the sounds of preparation rang quietly—men stringing bows, sharpening steel, whispering prayers to the old gods beneath the Heart Tree nestled deep within the ruins. Two hundred Northmen held Moat Cailin now: seasoned archers, left behind by King Daeron as a final line of defense in the Neck. And Howland Reed—lord of Greywater Watch, Warden of the Neck, and now, he supposed, the final stone standing between the Ironborn and the vulnerable North.
A quiet footstep drew near. One of his retainers, a crannogman with mud-streaked face and swamp-colored eyes.
"We've done all we can, my lord," the man said, glancing toward the horizon.
Howland nodded solemnly. "Then it's up to the gods now."
Three days of torment had led to this. When the Ironborn landed twenty miles north, they'd found no opposition—at least, none they could see. But the crannogmen had been there. With reed darts, poisoned thorns, nets hidden in the reeds, and arrows that came from nowhere, they had harassed and ambushed the invaders at every step. Over six hundred Ironborn now lay dead in bogs, hung from trees, or missing entirely—lost to the shifting, deceptive terrain.
And just as importantly, those who remained looked like ghosts. Hollow-eyed, smeared with muck, dragging themselves forward with desperation rather than bloodlust. Howland's men made sure that the Ironborn found no proper sleep or rest these last three days.
But now Howland had pulled his remaining crannogmen out before the battle, knowing they'd be little use in open war. Now it was just him, his handful of retainers, and the northmen archers on the walls.
The King placed Moat Cailin in Howland's care, and he swore he'd die with a spear in his hand before yielding it to the Ironborn.
Howland could see the fury in the Ironborn lines—the hunger for vengeance that overcame the sheer exhaustion. Their leader, a looming figure in dark armor, rode ahead. Victarion Greyjoy. Even at a distance, Howland could feel the man's presence, like a thundercloud waiting to break.
The enemy drew near. War cries echoed across the boglands, answered only by the twang of bowstrings.
"Loose!" came the cry, and the air filled with death.
The Ironborn stumbled and fell. Shields splintered, men cried out, and still they came. The Northmen held fast, raining volley after volley down from the high ground of the ruined fortress. The enemy numbers thinned, but not fast enough.
Howland's heart beat steady, even as the Ironborn closed the distance, inch by inch.
"Another volley!"
The archers obeyed, but it was clear now—they would be overrun. Even weakened, even bloodied, the Ironborn were too many. Soon, they would reach the base of the hill, and then—
A sudden shadow fell across the field.
Howland turned his eyes to the sky. For a heartbeat, he thought a cloud had drifted over the sun—but then the shadow moved, and the air filled with a deep, ear-splitting roar.
The soldiers froze. Both Ironborn and Northmen stopped in place, every head turning skyward.
Out of the clouds came a shape of legend.
The dragon.
Obsidian scales shimmered in the sunlight. Massive wings beat the air like thunderclaps. Fire flickered in the beast's throat as it descended, screeching its fury to the world.
"Lyrax," Howland whispered, his voice trembling with relief.
She dove.
Flame poured from her maw, a black-hot torrent that scorched the ground and turned the Ironborn charge into a panicked rout. Victarion's men screamed and scattered as the fire consumed ranks of soldiers. Ash filled the air. Men dropped weapons and fled. The charge was over before it began.
Lyrax soared upward again, a beacon of fire and fury, then wheeled around and descended once more, her eyes glowing like twin suns. Her fire did not chase—it punished. Carefully, precisely, she struck where the enemy was thickest, where the resistance was heaviest.
On the battlements, the Northmen stood in awe. Their arms were lowered, their faces lit by flame and wonder.
Howland dropped to his knees, overwhelmed.
The letter had made it. King Daeron had received his plea.
And he had answered.
Through the flames and smoke, Howland watched as Ironborn fled into the marshes they had once thought to conquer. Behind them, the hill of Moat Cailin stood untouched.
Not a single man had breached the gates.
Howland rose slowly, his joints aching, and turned to his archers.
"Hold your fire," he said. "The dragon fights for us now."
Cheers erupted from the men on the wall, some throwing helmets into the air, others dropping to their knees thanking the old gods.
Howland Reed turned back to the sky, where Lyrax wheeled overhead like a star of war, and he allowed himself a smile.
The Moat was still theirs.