The high road through the Mountains of the Moon was awash with blood, sweat, tears, and fire.
Rhaegar smelled the coppery tang of blood permeating the air; the world had turned into a slaughterhouse. Blood turns black when it flows too long.
Rhaegar saw the mountain clan warriors abandoning their comrades' bodies in the wilderness and retreating hastily into the forest.
They scattered throughout the woods, forming an unstable circle that surrounded Rhaegar's army.
The natives had blocked both ends of the road with large logs and rocks. The high road was strewn with debris.
If Rhaegar charged into the forest, the horses would be useless.
Rhaegar saw a great multitude; the clansmen rode small horses—scrawny and weak-looking beasts Rhaegar felt would collapse at any moment, yet they traversed the mountain paths as easily as flat ground.
Rhaegar had led his army to a victory, but it was only temporary.
"Well done, lads. This is the battlefield; don't be afraid. The more you fear, the faster you die." Ser Brynden was in high spirits, encouraging the Eagle Guard while wielding his longbow to snipe fleeing savages.
Barristan's gaze grew stern. "Damn it, this isn't one clan, but a coalition of many. How is this possible?"
Ser Joffrey Arryn's face was pale. He should have stopped the Prince. The mountain clans were notorious in the Mountains of the Moon; several Arryn lords had died here.
Only Sessa remained calm; a Braavosi feared neither wind nor rain.
"Surrender! I know there are nobles among you. Surrender, and Tholim of the Burned Men guarantees your lives!" Tholim shouted from deep within the vast forest.
"Surrender quickly, or Zeke of the Black Ears will cut off your ears!"
"Dolf of the Stone Crows will turn you into meat paste!"
"And Umar of the Moon Brothers!"
"And Mel of the Milk Snakes!"
The voices of the clan chiefs echoed through the clouds like trembling waves.
They are afraid, or perhaps stalling for time. One hundred against eight hundred; both sides have advantages. My troops are well-equipped and strong, but mostly unblooded. The clans have poor gear, but their advantage lies in numbers and ferocity. The only tricky part is I don't know how many men the clans mobilized this time; if there are reinforcements, it will be trouble, Rhaegar thought as he assessed the wildling deployment.
Rhaegar looked around; the wildlings were numerous, numbering perhaps eight hundred.
The savages had launched a coordinated attack; this didn't seem like a coincidence.
Mountain clans loved to quarrel and express their opinions. They argued over everything, big or small. Apart from raiding, they rarely gathered together, let alone posed a real threat to the Vale.
"Form ranks!" Ser Barristan and Ser Brynden ordered the soldiers.
Mounted archers and crossbowmen took the center, while shield-bearers raised long shields on the outer flanks, with spearmen standing shoulder to shoulder with them.
As they formed up, they began to retreat slowly.
The Eagle Guard formed a simple defensive circle, a formation hard for the clans to break.
Seeing Rhaegar's army regrouping, the clans sent men to provoke them.
A brutish wildling stepped forward, exposing his muscular chest and beating it. "Cowards of the Vale, come out!"
"Bring my Dragonbone Longbow!" Rhaegar shouted. Holding the Dragonbone Longbow, an arrow flew like a gale toward the challenger.
The long arrow seemed to have eyes, piercing the savage's throat viciously.
Blood sprayed out, bright red.
"Long live Rhaegar!"
"Long live the Vale!" Cheers rose one after another, greatly boosting morale.
Ser Brynden also took up his bow, shooting fiercely into the forest.
Though the distance was great, the arrows struck the ground, startling the barbarians.
Seeing the glittering ironclad formation, the savages felt a prickling in their scalps.
The Eagle Guards wore varied armor: black scale, white plate, bronze ringmail, and blue-and-white striped armor. Even wearing only upper body armor, they looked like a river of steel, hard to cross.
Rhaegar appraised the Eagle Guard. This was undoubtedly an elite force, heavily armored and mostly trained in martial arts. Plus, there were three aces: Sessa, Barristan, and Brynden, with Joffrey Arryn counting as half an ace.
The clansmen and Rhaegar's army formed two circles—one probing, the other defending aggressively.
Rhaegar and Brynden raised their longbows, firing at will.
Barristan stood beside them, spear in hand and shield raised, acting as the Prince's last line of defense. He vowed to defend his honor with his life. Even if the Prince fell, he would not live on alone.
The Dragonbone Longbow was truly extraordinary; wherever it pointed, it was unstoppable.
Rhaegar fired several arrows in succession, hitting vital spots almost every time.
Brynden was not to be outdone; though his bow lacked the power of dragonbone, his accuracy was superb.
"It is fortunate to have a marksman like you!" Rhaegar said.
"Prince, your archery is superhuman, and your stamina is truly extraordinary," Brynden said excitedly.
"Ser Barristan, Ser Brynden, the Prince's safety is in your hands." Sessa took a longsword and led the spearmen forward. He shouted loudly as he resisted.
"Kill! Kill that silver-haired boy!" Tholim roared in rage, his tone filled with malice.
"No, Lord Red Hand. There are nobles in this unit; we should capture them for ransom, not kill them outright." Dolf's body was massive as stone, but his mind was sharp.
"I can't worry about that, nor about the Eagle Chief. Every moment we stay here is extremely dangerous. As long as we kill these men and divide their weapons and armor, we will have time to fight the Valemen. But now, we must end this battle; we cannot sit and wait for reinforcements." Tholim felt a knife twist in his heart; so many good warriors had died in this siege. If they didn't get this gear, the loss would be immense.
The other clan members did not object; they too felt delay would be troublesome. The clans excelled at raiding, not prolonged battles or sieges. A swift, violent strike followed by a quick retreat suited them best.
The two circles began to collide, and the clan warriors charged out of the forest on their small horses again.
If they accepted a crushing defeat, they couldn't explain it back home. They could only grit their teeth and charge.
Rhaegar saw the natives clearly; most were scrawny and short, dressed in rags, faces gaunt. Perhaps only a fraction of the tribe—likely the noble chiefs—ate meat. Their swords and spears were rusty or chipped, all cheap goods.
The only truly lethal weapons were the short bows made by the clans themselves; though short-ranged, they could still kill.
The long shield wall, interspersed with cavalry, advanced slowly. Logs and rocks blocked their path, making a quick breakthrough difficult.
"Loose!" Tholim shouted, and countless arrows rained down, striking the long shields violently.
Relying on this arrow storm to suppress the enemy, the clan warriors charged the shield wall again.
Those behind them threw stones, clattering down.
Shouting slogans, they advanced cautiously.
"Prince Rhaegar, shouldn't you dismount?" Ser Brynden said. The Prince's silver hair was too conspicuous, and the arrow rain was breathless. Barristan said nothing, only raising his shield to signal the Prince to dismount.
"Ser Brynden, watch me break these bandits." Rhaegar raised the Dragonbone Longbow, firing left and right from horseback. Amidst the arrow rain, he seemed to grasp the essence of Bloodraven's archery: precision, stability—a longbow and a good horse were enough to dominate the world.
Arrows flew like rain; Rhaegar parried left and right, constantly shifting position to anticipate danger, consuming much of his stamina.
The Eagle Guards remained stoic. They had all heard legends of the mountain clans; these people hated Valemen most, even roasting children alive. They would rather die in battle than fall into their hands.
The fires of war tempered this unit; they would become true warriors. With proper training, he would cultivate an elite force like the Raven's Teeth.
Rhaegar looked at the battered warriors. The surprise of this battle was the unity of the mountain clans.
Now, they could only wait for Lord Jon.
The wildling tribes charged again and again, but they could not break the shield formation, leaving only corpses behind.
The smell of blood grew stronger; horses neighed in pain, and men howled in agony.
Fear, sorrow, and passion vanished from the guards' faces, leaving only numbness.
Rhaegar also felt anxious; he had the "Blood of Fire," but his guards were mortal.
The wildlings abandoned their dead; piles of men and horses accumulated, pressing against the shield wall again.
Blood stained the ground, turning it into mud; perhaps only the grass enjoyed the scent of blood.
"Ser, take the Dragonbone Longbow; I have important work." Rhaegar tossed the bow to Brynden and dismounted.
"Boom! Boom!" Rhaegar stood in the center, beating the war drum for everyone, the sound loud and shocking.
The drumbeats were sonorous and powerful; Rhaegar's drumming was like a surging tide. When the war drum sounds, one must go all out. He drummed selflessly, the sound like blood and fire.
"Soldiers, break your spears! Use maces, flails, broken spears—smash these savages' heads!" Rhaegar shouted with a flash of inspiration. His silver hair was soaked with sweat and blood, plastered to his scalp, yet he fought to the death without flinching.
Rhaegar ordered the soldiers to snap their spears (or switch to bludgeons) and smash the wildlings' heads with hammers. Rhaegar also raised his arm, swinging blow after blow.
Most wildlings had no armor, not even decent helmets; those charging on horseback were often smashed directly to death by hammers.
Blood dripped; the battlefield had turned into a sea of blood.
Even with his amazing stamina, Rhaegar felt exhausted.
The horn sounded again; blue-and-white moon-and-falcon banners fluttered in the wind. Vale knights in blue cloaks charged from the rear, ferociously ravaging the wildling army.