60 Paint
The Mountain King proved as cunning a commander as he was a breaker of skulls.
Suddenly, the prince found himself entangled in the adept guerrilla warfare tactics of mountain warriors. They expertly exploited the terrain, utilizing secret paths to launch attacks seemingly from thin air and then disappearing just as swiftly.
The mountain clans executed artificial rockslides and avalanches, blocking pathways or redirecting us toward ambush sites.
While this hindered progress at the front, the baggage trains at the rear became vulnerable. The clansmen would plunder valuable supplies and, on occasion, seize superior equipment to arm themselves.
These warriors were adept at fighting on their home turf, whether rugged hills or dense forests, effectively utilizing foliage and camouflage.
Hit-and-run attacks became increasingly common, with the clans striking swiftly to inflict damage before retreating to unseen hideouts.
As Prince Rhaenar appeared to overextend himself, stranded in unfamiliar and perilous territory, supplies dwindled, and discontent spread through the camp.
Even with Sari Sicai patrolling and enforcing discipline, grumbling persisted among the troops.
The prince initiated a counteroffensive in the early days of the third moon, marking the halfway point of Rhaenar's six-moon campaign.
Determined to locate the united clans' conclave and end the conflict decisively, Rhaenar turned the mountain clans' advantage against them.
"If they wish to steal our supplies and impede our progress, by all means," declared Rhaenar.
This marked the beginning of a series of clandestine operations. The prince dispatched his mountain clan agents to spread rumors among the locals, portraying the prince as on the brink of defeat and demoralized.
Seizing the opportunity, Rhaenar ordered the delivery of the finest wines to 'raise the spirits' of his troops. The allure of stealing such a valuable commodity proved irresistible to the clansmen.
However, the wine would be poisoned.
"If they love our rations so much," Rhaenar mused during a war council, "then let them choke on Arbor Gold."
As the days passed, skirmishes yielded more captives, gradually unveiling the location of the clan conclave. The prince was elated when his confessors finally brought news of their whereabouts.
In the waning days of his time limit, on the eve of the fourth moon, the Rhaenari came upon their target.
At the pinnacle of a towering peak, a river flowed gracefully from its apex, forming a mesmerizing waterfall that tumbled off a sheer precipice.
A community had taken root on this elevated plateau, crafting makeshift dwellings to form their settlement.
Initially, the terrain suggested two potential routes to the summit, but evidence of deliberate rockfalls and avalanches on the western side indicated intentional obstruction, limiting access.
The lone, serpentine path leading to their enclave proved steep and hazardous, bordered by cliffs on both sides, offering strategic positions for archers to unleash deadly volleys.
Compounding the difficulty for would-be invaders, the river streaming off the cliff provided the community with a consistent supply of pure drinking water.
The prospect of starving them out appeared grim depending on how much food the clans had stored up there. With their water situation abundant.
As such, Prince Rhaenar did the only viable option at the time: parlay. Messengers were sent to the clans with aims for peace talks.
The agreed upon spot was mutual ground within the forest in a clearing, far enough from their natural battlements that Rhaenar felt confident the clansmen could not just march out in force and take him unawares.
And likewise, the clansmen, wary of the fast deployment and teamwork the legion, wanted to meet well away from the siege camp.
We rode the noblest steeds available. Accompanying Rhaenar were myself, Eldric, and Theodore in our scholarly rags. Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon with their white cloaks. Sari Sicai in his black leathers. Dirty Douglas sported the gold cloak of the Rhaenari captains, while Lady Rhea and Ser Gerold wore their rune bronze.
Rhaenar was the very visage of a prince that day. His silver hair washed and plated, flowing in the wind like a dragons tail. His light-weight scale armor was black as night yet almost seemed to shine in the sun, only it didn't now.
We found that the clansmen could spot the troops easier by the gleam from the armor in the sun, so modifications were made so as they would not reflect the light.
The only thing that looked oddly out of place was Rhaenar's cape. Once a color of royal purple, it had been stained red after a foolish squire boy accidentally tried to wash it while downriver to bodies streaming blood.
Be that as it may, I suppose it did imply a deadly connotation to the prince's character.
We were the first side to arrive, or so we thought, for when we began making our way to the middle of the clearing, the clansmen emerged from the distant foliage on the other side, and the two sides strode their way to the meeting place in unison.
Rhaenar did his best to hide the excitement, he stirred in his saddle as he observed the mounts of our opponents, "So these are the steppe horses I've heard so much about."
Indeed, it was right for Rhaenar to be excited. The riders before us were none other than the distinguished leaders of the remaining clans. If any rider was going to represent the prestige and fortitude of the mountainous stallions, it would be these people.
And what a sight they made. They were smaller than usual horses, but more stout, with broad backs and nimble legs.
Their strength was unmistakable, especially considering they could carry the man at the center of the barbarian procession, a colossal figure who would tower at an imposing 7 feet tall if unhorsed.
His formidable presence was accentuated by muscular forearms and massive shoulders, clearly outlined despite thick fur clothing.
Grizzled features included light-brown hair, a wide and long beard resembling the bottom of a keyhole, and a wild mane. A topknot secured his fringe, ensuring unobstructed vision during combat.
His rugged brow framed deep-set eyes, black like chips of dragon glass, but with a brown glow as if obsidian pupils had absorbed oak sap into the ore. His glaring gaze suggested a life lived on the edge, focused on some distant danger.
If those features weren't enough to convey his ferocity, the enormous weapon strapped to his back certainly did.
A mighty bone, seemingly from a giant, dragon, or perhaps a long-extinct mammoth, curved like the waning moon and adorned with two knobs at either end, spoke of brutal power — a formidable tool for clobbering foes.
And then there were the companions. Among the remnants of the defeated clans — Black Ears, Howlers, and Milk Snakes — now led by aging matriarchs, witches, or, in the case of the Black Ears, a shaman.
Among the major clans yet to be vanquished, sturdy warriors emerged from those who had fled when the call for a united meeting echoed through the mountains. Darl, son of Karl, a formidable shield and one-handed axe wielder, represented the Moon Brothers.
Erek, son of Zork, from the Painted Dogs, was renowned for decapitating enemies with a single swing of his mighty axe and indulging in the grim tradition of drinking from their skulls.
The most imposing figure, perhaps lending the most credibility to Ulfgar Nutcracker's rule, was Rolf, son of Dolf, from the Stone Crows — a fearsome horseman whose raids spread terror among the clansfolk and Vale lords alike.
Despite their mismatched attire, a stark contrast to the Rhaenari, they formed a noble and even impressive school of riders.
The prince wasted no time getting down to business, well aware of the potential volatility. He must have regretted bringing Sari Sicai to the parley, anticipating the gladiator's impulsive reactions.
While he would have preferred a show of power and to let the clan leaders speak first, Rhaenar adapted to the circumstances at hand.
"Welcome, Highlanders," Rhaenar spoke, "It's good to finally meet the ones who've been causing me such trouble. I assume you've come to surrender?"
Ulfgar, sensing the inevitable battle, hoiked up mucus and spat with disdain before saying, "When you meet your Gods, tell them Ulfgar, son of Horik, sent you."
Remembering the customs from defected clansmen, Rhaenar addressed in their manner, "I am Rhaenar, son of Viserys, of Clan Targaryen."
Ulfgar glared menacingly, "And how would you like to die, Rhaenar, son of Viserys?"
But Rhaenar wasn't playing along, "Choking on laughter as I piss on your grave?"
Tension rose, and weapons were drawn, except for Rhaenar and Ulfgar, who continued to stare until they both raised a hand, dismissing volatile notions.
"When the time comes, kill the rest," Ulfgar said, "Take the boy. He can sing and dance for the wives and children."
"Then nothing will have changed," said Rhaenar, "We have hundreds of your women and children, all treated with respect, you have my word. While I haven't danced, I have sung to them. If you want, you can ask them for yourself. I have not come for bloodshed."
"Blood is all you Lowlanders come for," said Ulfgar Nutbreaker, "And blood is all we know."
Rhaenar chuckled, "As you say. Let's change that. What I offer is not blood, but peace. Lay down your arms, promise to cease violence against the innocent, and I promise wine, food, and prosperity for all."
All the clan leaders stirred, even the brute of the Storm Crows. Yet Ulfgar Nutbreaker didn't flinch. It seemed he saw through Rhaenar's veneer. Perhaps the Prince offered peace hoping for rejection, desiring more battle.
"You think you understand," spat the Nutbreaker, "With your spies and your turncloaks. You forget one thing: We will kneel to no King."
"Good," Rhaenar quipped, "I am no King."
In hindsight, I am unsure what Rhaenar sought from this parley. He doubted peace, familiar with the continent's entrenched cultures. Why would these savages be any different?
Could he sway the mountain clans, fervent defenders against Andal invaders and feudal civilization?
Perhaps the prince intended to obliterate them. Yet cultures were art to Rhaenar, not to be extinguished.
I suspect he taunted them to clash against strong wills and revel in the thrill of defying fate. The Rhaenari, trained killers, now relished the deployment of deadly undertakings since their first taste of combat. They followed the prince with crazed loyalty.
The Mountain King sensed this. He knew Rhaenar played with house money. The clans' guerilla tactics caused damage, but Rhaenar had the resources to keep coming, relentless and unforgiving.
He had no idea whether or not the prince would continue to throw away countless lives and resources. Faced against the beast of economy~
The 7-foot behemoth, with a body hardened from a lifetime of nut-shell breaking, looked at thirteen-year-old Prince Rhaenar, clean braided silver hair and fine features.
Perhaps he thought, while he couldn't beat the man-child in tactics, he could win the old-fashioned way.
"Enough women talk," said Ulfgar, King of the Mountains, "We settle this, you and me."
"While our combat may save many lives," replied the prince, "I have no reason to believe you won't play foul."
"Like that wine you left us?" spat Ulfgar, "Poison is the coward's weapon."
"Poison?" yawned the prince, "I have no idea what you're talking about. But if you want to bandy about cowardice, why not our armies meet on the field?"
"A real man would fight for his people," replied Ulfgar.
"Boy, man, what am I? Pick a lane and stick with it. And I suppose a real man would do as you have done, hiding in the shadows and harassing my baggage trains? If you were as brave as you propose, you would have met us on the field and be done with it. You are correct; a real man does fight for his people. I tried fighting with words, but it seems steel is all you will listen to."
Peace talks ended. Both sides returned to their encampments, and preparations for battle commenced.
Debate raged on the most effective way to siege the natural hill battlement, with its steep pathways, narrow routes, and ravines on either side allowing archers to rain down. And not the mention the pain the climb would inflict on the legs.
"These savages ain't shit," declared Captain Zane. "Let's charge head-on!"
The legion's engineers — Dick Mason, Hayden Cuckright, and Pete the Carpenter — suggested building a siege tower. This structure, in theory taller than any in history, aimed to reach the plateau, and they believed it feasible.
"We ought send word to King's Landing," suggested Ser Gerold, "To Lady Jeyne and our allies. Together, we could storm their position with ease."
Lady Rhea, silent, inclined to agree with her cousin Ser Gerold, for prudence and to protect her family, Prince Rhaenar, from harm.
Bickering ensued. Sari Sicai proposed an ambitious plan: constructing ballistas to shoot bolts with ropes attached at night. Under the cover of darkness, troops would scale those ropes over the enemy settlement and begin the assault from within.
It even reached a point where everyone wondered why Rhaenar didn't climb Sundance and burn them all, to which the Prince laughed emphatically.
"These are proud people," Rhaenar declared. "When the Andals came, they preferred running to the foothills than surrender to foreign invaders.
"If I conquered with dragons, they would always resent, snicker, and believe they are a strong people who didn't succumb to man. Rather, dragon flames were needed to quell them. That's why we must do this with the sweat of our brow, as men, to end this dispute once and for all."
The impassioned speech resonated with the men, yet it failed to resolve the dilemma of assaulting the clan conclave's position within the limited time remaining.
With less than a moon's time, the situation looked dire for the prince, and anticipation filled the air as everyone awaited his strategy. Would it involve a siege tower, trickery, or artillery to bring death to the opponents?
However, King Ulfgar Nutbreaker of the Mountains took the initiative that very night, sending raids to ambush Rhaenari foraging groups.
Prince Rhaenar despaired as valuable members, including Gorgeous George and Chit Chattington, were captured.
Remaining calm and collected, Rhaenar proposed a prisoner exchange. Ulfgar agreed, and the exchange occurred at the bottom of the hill ravine.
Everything appeared normal until the released Rhaenari prisoners stumbled back, their skin battered and blue, with a walk that resembled a reanimated corpse.
Gorgeous George, severely beaten, collapsed in Rhaenar's arms, whispering something before passing out. Rhaenar's face turned pale.
His attention shifted to the back of the group, where Chit Chattington struggled to walk, beaten beyond recognition.
Rhaenar's distress intensified as Chit Chattington, too, collapsed dramatically in his arms.
Whatever transpired next changed the course of the campaign. Later inquiries with George and Chit yielded cryptic responses. Whatever was said altered Rhaenar, evident in his venomous demeanor.
Thousands watched in suspense after Rhaenar laid Chit Chattington on the grass.
As Rhaenar donned his helmet and raised his spear, a wave of aggression swept through the ranks.
"The enemy have decided to fuck around," Rhaenar shouted, "Now, they shall find out!"
All spears rose in unison, "A'oo!"
And the Rhaenari formed into a rectangular column, driven by a mirrored emotion toward their prince. The fierce charge seemed inevitable.
What followed was a spectacle of utmost mechanics, discipline, and performance.
From our position on a neighboring hill, myself, Theodore, Eldric, and our boy apprentices, as well as other dignitaries, had perfect position to watch the ensuing battle.
And Prince Rhaenar, with his helmet lined with purple horse hair, lavish cape. As well as two knights of the Kingsguard with their bright white cloaks. We could easily track his whereabouts on the battlefield.
It was the Prince who spurred his men to motion. There was no resemblance to that bookish, long-winded strategy he'd shown during the campaign thus far. He had been consumed by fire, fueled by spite and rage.
We observed with mild concern, our scholarly eyes providing us with an armchair perspective, that Rhaenar's tendency to give way to emotion might one day be exploited by a talented commander, causing his fire to extinguish before he could accomplish all he hoped to achieve.
If the candle burns twice as bright lives half as long, then I shuddered to think how that may apply to the prince…
Musings aside, he marched with simple plan. To obliterate one spear thrust and one step at a time.
As such, Rhaenar marched with hasty pace, the kind that everyone who marched alongside him interpreted as foolishness.
Yet they did not question his command. These were men who would die for him, as he would for them. They knew him as well as any other, they who bled and sweat with him, who shared countless meal at the campfire.
This is what they felt. This is why in the minds of the legion, Rhaenar's hasty advance was concerning. They would not allow their prince to die, even if they considered this advance ill conceived.
So it was that they marched up that narrow ravine. In tight formation, shields together.
Rocks and stone and arrow rained down from both sides. The sheer mass of projectiles, from my position watching from a distance, appeared terrible at first.
But as the Rhaenari marched forth, keeping formation and composure, I came to realize that no, their equipment was too much for these bronze aged peoples, regardless of their superior tactical position.
For the Rhaenari had rhythm in their step and discipline in their muscle memory. They knew how to advance as a single entity.
As they marched in formation, Rhaenari archers skillfully popped out, taking precise shots at targets before retracting to safety. All were content to take no unnecessary risk and focus on keeping themselves and the man beside them safe.
The Nutbreaker's knee-jerk reaction followed after the Rhaenari archers' success, prompting pockets of ambushing men to clash with the sides of the Rhaenari formation.
The situation turned into chaotic tight quarters, offering little room for maneuver.
Despite the turmoil, the legion pressed on, resembling a heavily armored caterpillar crawling up the hill.
Their advance persisted until they arrived at the breach, marking the entry to the plateau mountain clan settlement.
It took the form of a V-shaped opening in what appeared to be a stone wall. A narrow entrance it proved to be, reminiscent of a noblewoman's small sliver of cake consumed in public.
(No doubt Rhaenar wished it were as expansive as the slice of cake that the same noblewoman would discreetly instruct her servants to acquire, allowing her to savor it privately.)
Undeterred, they persisted. The Knights of the Kingsguard valiantly slaying all who came before the prince.
However, it wasn't the prince, Captain Zane, the combat god Sari Sicai, or the disciplined unsullied Pheonix 'Black Leech' who first breached the mountain clan walls.
That honor fell upon a Stormlander who had yet to take his vows by the name of Fletch.
Fletch was the youngest of four brothers and an uncle that left their home in a small village on the coast just north of Griffin's Roost.
All five of these men decided to leave their home and follow the prince on tour, wherever it may go. Each had the potential to become promising legionaries, perhaps some with officer potential after further education.
Young Fletch most of all, a pup of but seventeen years of age, with his dirty blond hair and sun-kissed complexion, wanted to make a name for himself.
In the midst of Rhaenar's passionate advance, Fletch was right there in the thick of it, thus bypassing any formation that would have had him fark back in the reserves along with the other recruits.
At the breach was a stalemate of sorts, with the leader of the Painted Dogs holding the line with a shield wall of his own.
Sari Sicai licked the blood from his lips in an ecstasy of battle, prompting Captain Zane and his admirers to fight with extra vigor in the hopes of impressing their idol.
Even then, it was Fletch who made it through first.
Wrapped in the red cloak of a fallen Rhaenari and donning that same Rhaenari's dragon glass dagger in one hand, a sharpened yet crude farmer's sickle in the other, Fletch leaped through the breach with great vigor and miraculous luck.
He somehow jumped past the clansmen front line, hacking and slashing enough to cause significant damage in a brief moment.
That slight disturbance to the front line was all the troops needed, for Prince Rhaenar and his elite unit pounced on the opening.
(It is for Fletch's act of heroism that he would be dubbed the name of 'Breacher,' and for years, veterans and youngsters of the Rhaenari would be in competition with one another as to who would be the first to scale a castle wall or breach through castle gates. Each story getting more ridiculous than the last.)
Once the troops were inside with just a smidge of a foothold, everything slowly collapsed for the clansmen.
The more time they were unable to deter Rhaenar's party and cover the breach, the more troops trickled in support, until there were too many for the clansmen to handle.
A calm and ever-present demeanor took hold of the men as they could smell victory. And a blood bath ensued as the Rhaenari thrust and twisted their spears, thrust and twist, each an effortless puncture through soft flesh.
In the symphony of battle, none were more immersed than Prince Rhaenar. Those wide eyes, a constant glare that challened any opponent daring to cross his path. Accompanied by ruthless killers and butchers, they advanced as a devastating whirlwind of violence.
When the clansmen finally routed, Rhaenar stood drenched in blood, his face resembling the color of mashed strawberries, a gruesome sight that compelled everyone to pause.
Rhaenar flicked the blood from his spear and released a mighty roar.
In that moment, the clansmen witnessed the menacing glare — bloodshot pools of violet that surrounded a terrifyingly dark pupil.
This image forever branded the prince as Rhaenar 'Red Eye', and an offshoot of passionate barbarian youths would subsequently break away from their villages, forming the Red Eye clan.
The clansmen remained steadfast until the end. With the settlement deserted, the remaining warriors stood guard at the entrance to a cave, where it was presumed the women and children sought refuge or an escape route if one existed.
Undoubtedly, these warriors yearned for a heroic demise, a last stand immortalized in song.
Rhaenar had other plans.
"The battle is over," he declared, "And the Vale shall begin an age of domestic tranquility. Bring the clan remnants to me. Alive, if you can. But take heed and prioritize your safety. Any man who dies foolishly after hearing this order, I shall see to it the dogs rape their fucking corpse!"
Instead of their customary battle cries, the Rhaenari responded with wolf-like howls, echoing through the landscape with such intensity that even the birds took flight.
Apprehending the last holdouts without resorting to violence proved more challenging than anticipated. The warriors, charged with the peculiar energy of defiance, resisted capture fiercely.
The Rhaenari employed various tactics to subdue them, but Ulfgar Nutbreaker, the Mountain King, held out the longest. His giant's bone flailed dangerously, striking down any who ventured too close.
It took Sari Sicai, unmatched in weapon proficiency of all kinds, to finally subdue the Mountain King.
"Bring me a net!" he commanded.
The ancient art of Rhoynish combat, that watery people, with sects that derive from their proficiency with fishing nets, came to fruition as Ulfgar was ensnared and brought before Prince Rhaenar.
Faced with a choice — surrender and live with his people or defy Rhaenar and risk annihilation — Ulfgar chose wisely. Little did he know that Rhaenar's subtle theatrics were a bluff.
Perhaps it was Rhaenar's shrewd musings that he might divert the river into the cave which convinced Ulfgar to surrender. With even harsher methods suggested by the likes Dirty Douglas, Ulfgar chose not to provoke further retaliation.
Thus concluded Rhaenar's campaign against the Mountain Clans. It took roughly 3000 men and half a year to complete, characterized by tedious warfare: gathering intelligence, guerrilla tactics, maintaining supply lines, and navigating perilous, unmapped territories.
Ironically, Rhaenar suffered few battle casualties; most losses occurred due to camp hygiene, rockslides, and dysentery.
Overall, our estimates indicate that Rhaenari forces engaged around 4000 warriors in total, though these numbers didn't reach their peak until the final battle. Typically, skirmishes with individual clans involved no more than 300 barbarian warriors at once.
Ulfgar Nutbreaker's tactics posed significant threat. Had the clans united under his leadership earlier, Rhaenar might have faced defeat. (Hindsight suggests Rhaenar would have been lured into an emotional, premature charge, leading to his demise.)
When the dust settled and word of our victory reached the Eyrie via raven, Rhaenar convened with all the elders, shamans, witches, and clan leaders, considering them custodians of their mountain culture, to document their ways on parchment.
Once again, Prince Rhaenar impressed us all. His swift transition from war and destruction to peace and restoration was astounding. He attentively listened to the clans, taking stock of their aspirations and woes.
Rhaenar's genuine interest and concern for these people, whom he now considered as much a part of his realm as the folk of the Crownlands and Dragonstone, ultimately won over the hearts of the clansmen.
Soon, they all clamored to show Rhaenar around the foothills, a privilege he gladly accepted.
Guided by our shamans, we visited numerous sacred sites, from majestic mountains steeped in legend to ancient groves of weirwoods.
However, the most awe-inspiring sight awaited us in the cave on the plateau where they made their final stand.
As we entered, the cavern opened up before us, vast as if the mountain itself were hollow. Moonlight filtered in through holes in the distant roof, casting an ethereal shimmer.
At its heart stood a colossal weirwood, larger than any ever seen, perhaps the largest on the continent. It's roots sprawling on the walls as if it were the mountain itself.
This sacred site, guarded by generations of clansmen shamans, had been the subject of petty warfare for millennia. Its beauty made it clear why the clans chose this location for their last stand.
Even more 'sacred' was the walls of that cavern. They seemed to gleam in the moonlight.
"Do you know what this is?" said Theodore, his mouth practically salivating as he ran his hand along the wall. "Silver This whole place is teemed with it!"
"What are you trying to say, Theodore?" asked Rhaenar.
"I'm saying that if this is any indication, you just became one of the wealthiest in all Westeros!"
All of us in the inner circle, Prince Rhaenar included, exchanged dumbfounded looks for a moment before erupting into maniacal laughter.
But amidst the laughter, I couldn't shake off the implications.
"Hold on," I uttered, "... If here in the east there is the blue falcon, moon and silver.., and in the West they have the bright lion, sun and gold.., then it begs the question... What lies to the North and South?"
Such a thought delighted Rhaenar.
"Well," he said, "Only one way to find out!"
-Brien Flowers
