Chapter 60: The Flames of War in the Pale Mountains
"Brothers, move out—our target is the Pale Mountains." Prince Rhaegar Targaryen raised his longsword and spurred ahead of the column.
"Advance!" the Eagle Guards shouted, hoisting their weapons and packs as they set off together.
Rhaegar's force passed through the Bloody Gate and entered the mountain roads of the Vale.
After clearing the gate, they rested briefly before pressing on. A clash with the mountain clans was inevitable, and when it came it would be savage—every bit of strength had to be preserved.
Rhaegar looked upon the snow-capped peaks and saw just how steep and perilous they were, like endless rolling breakers frozen in stone. The mountain paths were the worst—sometimes wide, sometimes so narrow that only a few men could walk abreast. The trails looked as if they had been sliced open by a blade, winding and treacherous like the tongue of a hidden viper.
The Pale Mountains shielded House Arryn, yet they also strangled every road leading out of the Vale.
"My prince, do not be overconfident," Ser Brynden Tully warned. "The clans are scattered, but from time to time they unite. Many of our men have never seen blood."
His red hair burned like fire—crimson the mark of House Tully, just as the Lannisters bore gold, the Baratheons black, and the Targaryens silver. Bloodlines ran strong in Westeros.
Ser Brynden feared not small skirmishes, but the possibility of all the mountain clans joining together.
"Ser Brynden, there's no need for alarm," Ser Joffrey Arryn said. "In the past dozen years, the clans have never fully united. Each tribe fights on its own." As a man of the Vale, he knew the Pale Mountains better than most.
Rhaegar gazed at the endless mountain sea and adhered to the original plan.
The scent of grass and dust drifted on the wind; the young warriors' faces were green as spring wheat.
Looking at them, Rhaegar knew the best protection for his soldiers was victory itself. These were his men—his iron fist.
The tactic had already been laid out, simple and effective, like fishing.
Two or three small squads would first enter the mountains. If they encountered clansmen, they would abandon their goods and flee. Once the wild men took the bait, the main force would encircle and crush them.
The mountain clans lived in desperate poverty. Their weapons were crude, their lives sustained by plunder. They avoided straight fights, preferring ambush and retreat—but the promise of easy loot would draw them out.
"Master Sersa, Ser Brynden, Ser Joffrey—thank you for your trouble," Rhaegar said.
Each would take a handful of inexperienced soldiers and act as bait in turn. Bolts of Gulltown cloth and small trinkets were luxuries the mountain clans rarely ever saw.
Sersa and Ser Brynden were spirited and confident, even pleased to be entrusted with the role. Only Ser Joffrey Arryn appeared tense, stammering slightly—but Vale blood ran strong in him, and he did not falter.
Rhaegar, Ser Barristan Selmy, and roughly four hundred men concealed themselves among the poplars along a low ridge, watching Sersa's party disappear into the depths of the mountains.
Rhaegar's mood surged and ebbed like the tide. This was his first true command, and mountain warfare was no simple affair. Though the young dragon burned fiercely, his heart still thundered as if the water were slowly coming to a boil.
Hope is always warm. Reality is bone-cold.
Sersa's and Ser Brynden's groups returned empty-handed—nothing.
At last, Ser Joffrey Arryn came racing back down the mountain path, pale as parchment.
"Men—real mountain clansmen. Looked like the Burned Men," Joffrey gasped. His companion was equally shaken.
The mountain clans were infamous for cruelty. Aside from women of childbearing age, they rarely left survivors.
"Ser Joffrey, steady yourself," Ser Brynden said. "How many were there?"
"I couldn't tell—maybe two or three, maybe five or six. I only caught glimpses, shapes moving through the trees. They spotted the dropped bundles and didn't pursue us." Joffrey flushed with embarrassment.
The men exchanged looks. Only Ser Joffrey could be called a fool blessed by fortune.
"Do you remember the exact location?" Rhaegar asked. Joffrey nodded, forcing his breathing to slow.
"Should we send word to Lord Jon Arryn? Have him dispatch Vale knights to sweep the hills with us?" Ser Barristan suggested.
"If we flood the mountains with men, the clans will scatter," Rhaegar replied calmly. "A hundred or so of us is enough to tempt them."
He noticed Joffrey's unease but said nothing more. Rhaegar knew Lord Jon Arryn would already have eyes upon them—and aid would come if truly needed.
Rhaegar felt it clearly now.
The hour of blood and fire had arrived.
Yet the Eagle Guards stood firm as iron. Even those who felt fear showed none.
The sky was a clear jade, the wind howling through stone and pine.
The road is hard. The road is hard.
The column advanced through the mountain pass. Rhaegar saw wind-scoured ridges, hawks cutting through the sky, and strange weeds and flowers whose names he did not know.
For a moment, he wondered whether the clans had received warning and already fled.
Then—a shrill, piercing whistle split the air.
Mountain clansmen erupted from the forest on both sides.
They were dark-skinned, lean, sharp as blades. Their equipment was miserable—ill-fitting armor, mismatched weapons: chipped swords, broken spears, spiked maces, hammers, even stolen pitchforks, sickles, and crude wooden lances. They rode small mountain ponies said to climb like goats.
Rhaegar's eyes locked onto their leader.
Lean and swift, the man wielded a great two-handed sword with frightening skill. He wore the pelt of a shadowcat, and one ear had been burned away entirely, leaving charred flesh mottled with black scars.
"The one who sends you to the gods is Thrimm of the Burned Men!" the one-eared warrior howled as the clans surged forward.
"Long live the Vale!" some reckless soul shouted, and others took it up in a roar.
"Long live Prince Rhaegar!"
"Long live Gulltown!"
Now we see who is true steel, Rhaegar thought.
He seized a lance. Ser Barristan moved to his side, and together they charged.
Rhaegar spurred forward, lance sweeping down.
Blood sprayed hot and red. His lance punched through a clansman's chest and belly, and he tore it free as the man collapsed.
There was no turning back now.
The flame of civilization must be guarded by the sword.
Rhaegar drove his horse deep into the fray.
Only arrows posed a true threat, hissing thick through the air.
But his men wore heavy mail and were well-fed and strong—they endured.
It was as though a falcon's blessing spread around him like a shield. Within that arc, blades and shafts slipped past him like an unfelt autumn breeze.
Axes missed. Arrows flew wide.
The fire of life blazed in him.
He was a dragon on the battlefield—a living nightmare.
"Brothers—charge with me!"
Rhaegar lost himself in the fight: lift, stab, thrust. The lance felt perfect in his hands. He took the van and knew no equal that day.
Blood soaked the ground—fingers, throats, faces, arms, bellies, torn cloth, spilled entrails.
The mountain clansmen fell like rotted timber.
Men, too, are only wood that bleeds.
The Eagle Guards went wild—it was their first taste of blood.
Once they had tasted it, many found the rhythm of battle.
Rhaegar, Sersa, Ser Barristan, and Ser Brynden—four masters of war, teaching without words.
The clans' momentum faltered. Howling, they were forced back—but they did not yet break.
Rhaegar looked around.
There were more mountain clansmen than he had ever expected.
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