A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 70: The Siege of Maidenpool: Part II

The night was black as pitch, the storm rolling in from the east, and with it came the promise of death. Maidenpool's walls stood scarred but unbroken, the fires of the previous battle still smoldering along the eastern gatehouse.

Clement Celtigar sat on his warhorse, his crimson cloak soaked through with rain. His men stood behind him, bloodied but determined, their faces set like stone. Ser Robin Darklyn, his trusted captain, reined in beside him, his helm dented from battle, his blade slick with blood.

"We lost too many in that last charge," Robin muttered, glancing toward the distant walls. "Damn these Vale knights. They fight like cornered lions."

Clement's grip on his Valyrian steel axe, Crab's Pincer, tightened. "Then we'll skin the lions alive."

The defenders were worn down, but the knights of the Vale—led by the infamous Lyn Corbray—were the spine of Maidenpool's resistance. Their shields had held the line, their steel unbroken, but even the strongest shield shatters under the weight of war.

The final assault was at hand. This would end tonight.

The crash of waves against the docks mixed with the sound of drums beating in the dark, the steady rhythm of impending battle. The first wave of ladders slammed against the walls, and Celtigar soldiers began their ascent.

The defenders met them with a storm of arrows. Flaming shafts streaked through the night, embedding themselves into shields and flesh alike.

Clement stood at the head of his second wave, waiting for the right moment. Rain drenched the battlefield, turning the ground to slick, bloody mud. The siege towers rumbled forward, drawn by teams of oxen, their wooden frames scored with fresh scars from enemy fire.

"Hold," Clement growled, his breath misting in the cold night air. His warriors stood tense, hands gripping weapons, waiting for the order.

A boulder, hurled from the enemy's trebuchet, smashed into one of the siege towers, splintering wood and crushing men beneath the debris. The screams of the dying were swallowed by the storm, but still, the warriors did not falter.

Clement raised his axe high, its Valyrian steel edge catching the torchlight, and bellowed, "CHARGE!"

With a thunderous roar, his soldiers surged forward.

The first to reach the walls threw grappling hooks, their ropes lashing onto the stone battlements. The defenders tried to cut them down, but Targaryen archers rained fire from behind, forcing them to take cover.

Clement led the vanguard, scaling the walls himself, his axe swinging in broad, savage arcs. The first defender he met was a Mooton archer, his bow still drawn when Clement's axe caved in his skull. Blood sprayed against the cold stone as Clement leaped onto the ramparts, his men climbing up behind him.

The battle for the walls had begun.

The knights of the Vale charged like thunder, their swords flashing beneath the torches. Clement met them head-on, his axe cleaving through steel and bone alike.

Ser Lyn Corbray led the counterattack, Lady Forlorn a blur of Valyrian steel. He cut down three Celtigar men in quick succession, his movements fast as a striking viper.

Robin Darklyn rallied the troops, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Hold the line! Push forward!"

The clash of steel echoed through the streets as the battle spilled down into the city itself. Targaryen warriors stormed the gatehouse, overwhelming the last defenders and forcing the great gates open from within.

A deafening cheer rose as the main host poured in, banners of the Crimson Dragon flying high above them.

The streets became a slaughterhouse.

Horses trampled fallen men, blood ran in the gutters, and the smell of burning wood and flesh choked the air. The cries of the dying were lost beneath the roar of battle.

Corbray cut through five men, carving a bloody path toward Clement. "Face me, Celtigar!" he shouted, Lady Forlorn dripping red.

Clement snarled. "With pleasure."

Corbray moved like a shadow, striking fast, forcing Clement onto the defensive. Lady Forlorn bit deep, glancing off Clement's armor, slicing across his side.

Clement gritted his teeth and swung Crab's Pincer in a brutal arc, the force behind it like a crashing wave.

Corbray barely dodged, rolling to the side. "Too slow, old man."

Clement growled and pressed forward. He feinted high, then brought the axe low, aiming for Corbray's legs.

Corbray tried to leap back—too late.

The axe bit deep into Corbray's thigh, shattering bone. He stumbled, falling to one knee, his breath ragged.

Clement stood over him, breathing hard, rain and blood mixing on his face.

"You fought well," he admitted.

Corbray grinned, spitting blood. "Then finish it, you—"

Clement swung.

Lady Forlorn clattered to the ground, lifeless.

Corbray's head rolled into the mud, his eyes forever frozen in shock.

The remaining Vale knights saw their commander fall—and with him, their will to fight crumbled.

By dawn, Maidenpool belonged to the Dragon.

The last of the defenders were dragged from their hiding places, their hands bound in chains.

Lord William Mooton, pale and trembling, was hauled before Clement.

"Mercy, my lord!" Mooton stammered. "I never wanted to resist! It was the Vale knights, they forced my hand!"

Clement looked down at the craven lord, then to the burning city behind him. The bodies of his men littered the streets, their blood staining the rain-soaked earth.

"There is no mercy for traitors."

With a single swing of his axe, Mooton's head joined Corbray's in the mud.

Victory for House Targaryen

The gates of Maidenpool were thrown open, and Targaryen banners flew from the towers.

Clement stood atop the battlements, surveying the smoking ruins below. His army had paid in blood for this victory, but they had won.

Maidenpool belonged to Aerion Targaryen now.

The war was far from over—but the march to King's Landing had begun.