Chapter 61: Battle of the Valley Road
The High Road in the Pale Mountains was covered in blood, sweat, tears, and fire.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen smelled blood thick in the air; the world itself had become a battlefield. Blood that flowed for too long darkened, turning black.
Rhaegar saw the mountain clansmen retreating into the wild forest, abandoning the bodies of their fallen.
They scattered through the woods, forming a loose and unstable circle around Rhaegar's force.
The natives blocked both ends of the road with heavy logs and boulders. The High Road itself was narrow, choked with scattered stone and wood.
If Rhaegar charged into the forest, his horses would be useless.
The mountain clansmen rode ponies—thin, scrawny creatures that looked as though they might collapse at any moment, yet they moved through the mountain paths as easily as if on level ground.
Rhaegar's advance had won ground, but only temporarily.
"Well done, children. This is what a battlefield looks like—do not fear it. The more you fear, the faster you die," Ser Brynden Tully said, in high spirits. He brandished his longbow while urging the Eagle Guards forward, harrying the retreating clansmen.
Ser Barristan Selmy's expression hardened. "This isn't one tribe—it's many acting together. That should be impossible."
Ser Joffrey Arryn was pale. He should have stopped the prince. The mountain clans had long terrorized these heights; more than one Lord of the Vale had died here in past generations.
Only Cesar remained calm. The Braavosi feared neither wind nor rain.
"Surrender! I know there are nobles among you! As long as you lay down your arms, Thrimm of the Burned Men guarantees your lives!" Thrimm shouted from deep within the forest.
"Surrender now, or Zick of the Black Ears will cut off your ears!"
"And Dof of the Stone Crows will smash you into meat paste!"
"And Umar of the Moon Men!"
"And Mael of the Milk Snakes!"
The voices of the mountain clan chiefs rang out one after another, rolling like waves.
They are afraid—or buying time, Rhaegar judged.
One hundred against eight hundred. We have armor and discipline, but little experience. They have numbers and savagery. The real danger is reinforcements.
Rhaegar estimated nearly eight hundred clansmen.
That alone told him this was no accident.
The mountain clans were notoriously fractious, arguing endlessly over even the smallest matters. Outside of raids, they almost never gathered in force—certainly never enough to threaten the Vale outright.
"Form ranks!" Ser Barristan and Ser Brynden ordered.
Mounted archers and crossbowmen took the center. Shieldmen locked their long shields on the flanks, spearmen braced behind them.
The formation tightened as they slowly withdrew.
The Eagle Guards formed a compact defensive array—hard for the mountain clans to break.
Seeing the formation stabilize, clansmen stepped forward to provoke them.
A wildling bared his chest and beat it with both fists. "Cowards of the Vale! Come out and die!"
"Bring me my dragonglass longbow!" Rhaegar called.
The bow sang.
The arrow pierced the wildling's throat cleanly.
Blood burst forth in a brilliant spray.
"Long live Prince Rhaegar!"
"Long live the Vale!"
The cheers surged, lifting morale.
Ser Brynden raised his own bow and loosed arrows into the treeline. Though the distance robbed them of killing power, they struck close enough to unnerve the clansmen.
The Eagle Guards gleamed like a river of steel—black scale armor, white plate, bronze mail, blue-and-white striped surcoats. Even partially armored, they were a force difficult to cross.
Rhaegar studied them. This was a true elite: high armor ratios, solid training, and three pillars—Cesar, Barristan, and Brynden. Ser Joffrey Arryn counted for half, at best.
The mountain clans and Rhaegar's force formed two circles—one probing, the other holding firm.
Rhaegar and Brynden fired at will.
Ser Barristan stood beside them with spear and shield raised, the prince's final bulwark. His oath was clear: if the prince fell, he would follow.
The dragonglass longbow proved terrifying.
Rhaegar's arrows rarely missed.
Brynden matched him as best he could, his accuracy superb even if his bow lacked the same force.
"It's a blessing to fight beside an archer like you," Rhaegar said.
"Prince, your archery borders on legend—and your endurance is beyond reason," Brynden replied.
"Ser Barristan, Ser Brynden—the prince is in your care," Cesar said, drawing his longsword as he led the spearmen forward.
"Kill him! Kill the silver-haired boy!" Thrimm roared.
"No—capture them!" Dof of the Stone Crows argued. "There are nobles here. Ransoms—"
"We cannot linger," Thrimm snapped. "Every moment risks Vale reinforcements. Kill them, take their arms, and flee!"
No chief objected. Prolonged fighting was not their way.
The circles collided again as the clans charged.
Rhaegar saw them clearly now—gaunt men in rags, rusted blades, chipped spears. Only their shortbows were truly dangerous at this range.
The shield wall advanced slowly, hampered by rocks and logs.
"Loose arrows!" Thrimm shouted.
Arrows battered the shields as clansmen surged again.
Rocks followed.
"Prince Rhaegar, you should dismount," Ser Brynden urged. The silver hair drew every eye. Barristan said nothing, shielding him.
"Watch me break them," Rhaegar replied.
He fired from horseback, moving constantly, drawing on the principles of Brynden Rivers' legendary archery—precision, calm, domination.
Arrows flew thick. Rhaegar evaded instinctively, strength draining with every moment.
None of the Eagle Guards broke. They all knew what awaited captives of the mountain clans.
The fires of war hardened them.
Rhaegar thought of the Raven's Teeth—and knew these men could become the same.
Still, the clans' unity troubled him.
We must endure until Lord Jon arrives.
Wave after wave broke against the shields, leaving only corpses.
Blood thickened the air. Horses screamed. Men screamed.
Fear burned away, leaving numb resolve.
Even Rhaegar felt fatigue creeping in. His strength was not limitless.
Bodies piled high.
"Ser Brynden—take the bow," Rhaegar said, passing him the dragonglass longbow as he dismounted.
He seized the war drum.
Boom. Boom.
The sound rolled across the battlefield.
Each strike was blood and fire.
"Break your spears! Use flails, morning stars—smash their heads!" Rhaegar shouted, sweat and blood matting his silver hair as he fought on foot.
Unarmored clansmen fell in droves.
The battlefield became a slaughterhouse.
Then—
Horns sounded.
Blue-and-white banners bearing crescent moon and falcon burst from the rear.
Vale knights charged.
The mountain clans broke.
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