"Brothers, move out—our target is The Pale Mountains." Rhaegar raised his longsword and spurred ahead of the column.
"Advance!" The Eagle Guards hefted weapons and gear and set off together.
Rhaegar's party rode through the Bloody Gate and onto the Valley road.
After clearing the gate they rested before pushing on; a clash with the Mountain Clans was sure to be brutal, so every ounce of strength had to be hoarded.
Rhaegar saw snow-capped peaks, saw how steep and treacherous they were—like endless rolling breakers. The worst were the stony trails, suddenly wide then narrow, in places barely room for a few men abreast. The paths looked as though a razor had sliced them open, like the flickering tongue of an unseen viper.
The Pale Mountains protected House Arryn, yet they also choked every road.
"Your Grace, do not be over-confident," Brynden Tully said. "The clans are scattered, but now and then they join forces. Many of our men have never seen blood." His red hair blazed like fire—crimson locks were the hallmark of House Tully, just as the Lannisters had their gold, the Baratheons their black, and the Targaryens their silver; the bloodline ran strong.
Brynden feared not small skirmishes, but all the wild men uniting.
"Ser Brynden, no need for alarm," Ser Joffrey Arryn said. "In the past dozen years the clans have never banded together; they fight alone, each band for itself." As a Vale man, he knew The Pale Mountains better than most.
Rhaegar gazed upon the endless sea of mountains and stuck to the original plan.
The smell of grass and dust drifted on the wind; the young warriors' faces were as green as fresh wheat.
Looking at those callow faces, Rhaegar knew the best protection for his soldiers was to lead them to victory. These were his men, his iron fist.
The tactic had already been designed—just like fishing.
Send two or three small squads into the hills first; if they spot wild men they drop their goods and run. Once the savages take the bait, the rest of our force can encircle and crush them.
The Mountain Clans are desperately poor, their weapons poor quality, living by plunder. Yet they are cunning and never like a straight fight—only the scent of easy gain will draw them out.
"Master Sersa, Ser Brynden, Ser Joffrey—my thanks for your trouble!" Rhaegar told Sersa and Brynden. Each would take a couple of green boys and in turn act as bait; bolts of Seagull Town finery and little trinkets were luxuries the wildlings sorely lacked.
Sersa and Brynden were dashing fighters, still brimming with confidence at being used as bait. Only Joffrey Arryn stammered and looked strained, but Vale blood ran in his veins and he held firm.
Rhaegar, Barristan and some four hundred men lay hidden among the poplars on a low ridge, watching Sersa's figure disappear into the deep mountains.
Rhaegar's mood rose and fell like a tide; this was his first time commanding troops, and it was the difficult business of mountain warfare. Though the young dragon might roar louder than the old, his heart still pounded as if water were slowly coming to a boil.
But hope is rosy while reality is bony.
Sersa's and Brynden's parties went in loaded and came back empty-handed—nothing.
At last they saw Ser Joffrey Arryn, pale as parchment, streak down the mountain track like a gust of wind.
"Men—real wildlings, looked like the Burned Men tribe." Joffrey Arryn chattered. His companion was likewise speechless.
The Mountain Clans are famed for cruelty; save girls of age they leave no one alive.
"Ser Joffrey, calm yourself. How many were there?" Ser Brynden asked.
"I couldn't tell—maybe two or three, maybe five or six. I didn't get a clear look, but I truly saw shapes rush through the trees. Luckily the savages spotted our dropped bundles and didn't chase us." Joffrey looked embarrassed.
The men exchanged glances; only Ser Joffrey could be called the fool whom fortune favours.
"Do you remember the exact spot?" Rhaegar asked. Joffrey nodded, steadying his breath.
"Shall we send word to the Lord? Let Lord Jon dispatch Vale Knights to sweep the hills with us," Ser Barristan asked.
"If we pour in more men they'll vanish. A hundred-odd of us should tempt the clans," Rhaegar said quietly. He noticed Joffrey's unease. He did not add that Lord Jon surely had eyes here and would send support.
Rhaegar knew the hour of blood and fire had come. Yet the Eagle Guards stood like iron; even those who wanted to flinch gave no sign.
The sky was clear jade, only the wind howled. The road is hard, the road is hard.
The column toiled along the mountain track. Rhaegar saw ridges scoured by wind, hawks striking the sky, weeds and flowers whose names he did not know.
After a while he wondered whether the clans had foreknowledge and already fled.
Suddenly the trail widened, forest on both sides, dark and deep enough to blot out the sky.
At that moment Rhaegar heard a shrill, piercing whistle.
He saw Mountain Clansmen burst from the trees.
The natives were swarthy, lean and keen as razor blades. Their gear was a sorry sight: ill-fitting armour, mismatched weapons—blunt swords, broken spears, spiked maces, hammers, even captured pitchforks, sickles and wooden lances. They rode small ponies said to climb like goats.
Rhaegar spotted their leader: wiry and quick, wielding a two-handed longsword with mastery. He wore the pelt of a shadow-cat; one ear had been burned away, leaving charred skin, cracks and black spots—hideous.
"The one who'll send you to the gods is Thrimm of the Burned Men!" One-ear Thrimm howled, and the wild men surged in.
"Long live the Vale!" some reckless fool shouted, and others took up the cry, voices rising in waves.
"Prince Rhaegar, long life!"
"Long live Seagull Town!"
Time to learn who is true steel, Rhaegar thought.
He snatched up a lance; Ser Barristan moved at his back, and together they rode to meet the foe.
Rhaegar spurred forward, lance sweeping in an arc.
Hot scarlet blood spattered. His lance skewered a savage through chest and belly, then he ripped it free. One clansman's fire and fury guttered out.
Rhaegar seemed to hear Death arrive, yet slaughter could no longer be avoided.
The flame of civilisation must be guarded by the sword.
He wrenched the lance clear and spurred his horse among them.
Only arrows posed real danger, flying thick and fast.
But Rhaegar's men wore heavy mail and were well-fed; they endured.
The eagle god's blessing opened around him like a shield; within that arc short-range threats passed him like an autumn breeze unfelt.
He sidestepped axes and arrows with ease, the fire of life blazing in him—he was a dragon on the field, a nightmare to his foes.
"Brothers—charge with me!"
Rhaegar melted into the fight: lift, stab, thrust! The lance felt perfect; he took the van and knew no equal that day.
Blood poured everywhere—fingers, throats, cheeks, arms, guts, even scraps of clothing and entrails.
The wild men fell like rotted logs. Men, too, are only bleeding timber.
The guards themselves went berserk; it was their first taste of blood.
Once they had seen it, many began to learn the rhythm of battle.
Rhaegar, Sersa, Barristan and Brynden—four of the finest tutors war could offer.
The clans' rhythm faltered; howling, they edged backward yet did not flee.
Rhaegar glanced around—more wild men than he had ever expected.