"Brothers, move out. Our target is the Mountains of the Moon." Rhaegar raised his longsword and spurred his horse to the front of the column.
"Forward!" The Eagle Guard shouldered their weapons and equipment, setting off together.
Rhaegar's party passed through the Bloody Gate and onto the high road leading into the mountains.
After clearing the gate, they rested briefly before continuing; conflict with the mountain clans was bound to be brutal, so every ounce of strength had to be conserved.
Rhaegar saw the snow-capped peaks, steep and precipitous, rising like endless giant waves. The hardest parts were the gravel paths—sometimes wide, sometimes narrow, some places barely allowing a few men to walk abreast. These paths seemed cut by a razor, or like the forked tongue of an invisible viper.
The Mountains of the Moon protected House Arryn but also blocked all roads.
"Your Grace, do not be overconfident," Ser Brynden Tully said. "Though the clans are scattered, they occasionally join forces. Many of us have never seen blood." His fiery red hair shone like flame—the auburn hair of House Tully was as iconic as the gold of Lannister, the black of Baratheon, or the silver of Targaryen; bloodlines ran deep.
Brynden feared not skirmishes, but the union of all the savage tribes.
"Ser Brynden, no need to panic," Ser Joffrey Arryn said. "For the past twelve years, the clans have never united; they fight each other and yield to no one." As a Valeman, he knew the Mountains of the Moon far better than most.
Rhaegar gazed at the boundless mountains, insisting on the original plan.
The wind carried the scent of grass and dust; the faces of the young warriors were as green as fresh wheat.
Looking at those tender faces, Rhaegar knew the best way to protect soldiers was to lead them to victory. These men were his subordinates, his iron fist.
The strategy was already designed—like fishing.
Send two or three small squads into the mountains; if they spot wildlings, drop the goods and run. Once the wildlings take the bait, the rest of the force would surround and annihilate them.
The mountain clans were extremely poor, armed with crude weapons, living by plunder. However, they were cunning and treacherous, never willing to fight head-on unless attracted by easy profit.
"Master Sessa, Ser Brynden, Ser Joffrey, thank you for your help!" Rhaegar said to Sessa and Brynden. Each took a few green boys to take turns as bait; the fine clothes and trinkets from Gulltown were luxuries the wildlings desperately lacked.
Sessa and Brynden were superb warriors, confident even as bait. Only Ser Joffrey Arryn stammered and struggled, but with the blood of the Vale in his veins, he maintained a firm resolve.
Rhaegar, Barristan, and about four hundred soldiers hid in a grove of aspens on a low ridge, watching Sessa's figure disappear into the deep mountains. (Wait, previous chapter said 100 guards. Now "about four hundred soldiers"? Maybe he brought extra men from Jon Arryn's garrison or the 100 Eagle Guard + support staff/Jon's men? Or maybe the 100 expanded? The text says "Eagle Guard... young warriors... faces green as wheat," implying the core 100. "Four hundred" might be a raw text error or includes Jon's support troops. Given Rhaegar's speech about "my small guard," 100 is the core elite. I'll stick to the text but note the discrepancy. Let's assume one hundred Eagle Guards plus support from the Gates of the Moon, totaling a larger force, or maybe just "one hundred" earlier was the selected elite and others joined.)
Rhaegar's emotions surged like the tide; this was his first time commanding an army, and in difficult mountain warfare no less. Though the young dragon roared louder than the old, his heart still pounded, as if water were slowly boiling.
But hope is always beautiful, while reality is often cruel.
Sessa and Brynden returned fully laden, empty-handed in terms of enemies—nothing gained.
Finally, they saw Ser Joffrey Arryn, face pale as parchment, flying down the mountain path like the wind.
"Those people... real wildlings... looked like the Burned Men clan," Joffrey Arryn babbled. His companions were equally speechless.
The mountain clans were notorious for brutality; they left no one alive save for grown maidens.
"Ser Joffrey, calm down. How many?" Ser Brynden asked.
"I couldn't see clearly... maybe two or three, maybe five or six. I didn't get a good look, but I definitely saw figures moving through the trees. Luckily, those wildlings found the bundles we dropped and didn't chase us." Joffrey looked a bit embarrassed.
The two exchanged glances; only Ser Joffrey could be called a fool favored by fate.
"Do you remember the exact location?" Rhaegar asked. Joffrey nodded, catching his breath.
"Should we report to the Lord? Let Lord Jon send Vale knights to sweep the hills with us," Ser Barristan asked.
"If we add more men, they will vanish. Our hundred or so are just enough to provoke the clans," Rhaegar said calmly. He sensed Joffrey's unease. He didn't mention that Lord Jon surely had eyes and ears here and would send support.
Rhaegar knew the time for blood and fire had come. Yet, the Eagle Guard stood like steel; even those who wanted to shrink back showed no sign of retreating.
The sky was jade blue, with only the wind howling. The road was hard, the road was hard.
The column trudged along the mountain path. Rhaegar saw wind-eroded ridges, eagles soaring in the sky, and weeds and flowers he couldn't name.
After a while, he began to doubt if the clans had foreseen this and fled.
Suddenly, the path widened, flanked by forest, dark and deep, obscuring the sky.
Just then, Rhaegar heard a sharp, piercing whistle.
He saw the mountain clans rushing out of the woods.
The natives were dark-skinned, lean, and quick-witted as knives. Their equipment was unsightly: ill-fitting armor, mismatched weapons—blunt swords, broken spears, spiked maces, hammers, even captured pitchforks, scythes, and wooden spears. They rode small horses said to climb like goats.
Rhaegar spotted their leader: lean and agile, skillfully wielding a two-handed greatsword. He wore shadowskin fur; one ear was burned away, leaving charred skin, cracks, and black spots—hideous.
"It is Tholim of the Burned Men who sends you to the heavens!" One-Eared Tholim howled, and the wildlings swarmed.
"Long live the Vale!" a reckless fool shouted, and others joined in, voice after voice rising in waves.
"Long life to Prince Rhaegar!"
"Long live Gulltown!"
Time to see who is true steel, Rhaegar thought.
He grabbed a lance; Ser Barristan followed behind him, and the two rode together to meet the enemy.
Rhaegar spurred his horse forward, his lance describing an arc.
Bright red blood splattered. His lance pierced a savage's chest and belly, then he yanked it out violently. A clansman's rage and passion came to an abrupt end.
Rhaegar seemed to hear the footsteps of Death, but slaughter was unavoidable.
The fire of civilization must be guarded by the sword.
He pulled out the lance and charged into them.
Only arrows posed a real danger, flying dense and fast.
But Rhaegar's soldiers wore heavy mail and were well-fed; they held on.
The Eagle God's Blessing unfolded around him like a shield; within that arc, close-range threats brushed past him like autumn wind, unfelt.
He dodged axes and arrows with ease, the fire of life burning within him—he was a dragon on the battlefield, the enemy's nightmare.
"Brothers, charge with me!"
Rhaegar melted into the battle: lift, thrust, charge! The lance felt flawless; he was unstoppable, invincible that day.
Blood flowed everywhere—fingers, throats, cheeks, arms, entrails, even scraps of clothes and guts were soaked in blood.
The savages fell like rotting wood. Men were the same, just bleeding wood.
The guards themselves went berserk; this was their first taste of blood.
Once they saw the rhythm of battle, many began to learn it.
Rhaegar, Sessa, Barristan, and Brynden—the four best tutors war could offer.
The clan's rhythm was broken; they howled and fell back, but did not rout.
Rhaegar looked around—there were far more savages than he had anticipated.