Chapter 77: The Young Dragon 8
Late 163 AC
"Hmm, the best places for harbors would be in these western bays," Daeron mused, looking over three rough maps of Bloodstone's coastline. "By all accounts these are the most protected from the major currents and most storms, all the while proving either devoid of reefs or very few to worry about. Many ships already shelter there when storms are to arrive, as did my grandfather's fleets during his attempted conquest generations ago."
"Good harbors on islands will determine how viable living on such an island is, after all," his Kingsguard Olyvar said with a nod. "Much as Dorne's southern coast is almost entirely unfit for harbors and the towns that could develop around them, many of the islands in the Stepstones bear many small harbors, hence the number of pirates infesting them so readily. Once one crew or group of pirates is killed, another will quickly take their place within the same cove, using or rebuilding a ramshackle base of their own.
"Indeed, but these regions here would be the best for larger harbors, the kind by which trade will profit most handsomely," the young king said, pointing again to the rough maps. "I shall have to look into means of creating better defenses for such harbors, to discourage groups of pirates from trying to seize our hard work for their own. Rather than granting these ports as fiefs, I believe a better choice would be naming them as positions within the Royal Navy, earned through years of loyal service. The ports and their defenses will take time, gold, and a great deal of effort to build, but I intend for these to be primarily meant for our expanding royal fleet, as well as safe havens for fishing and trading vessels originating from Westeros or those with whom we are friendly."
"What of Bloodstone itself? What does it have to offer other than these future ports?"
Daeron chuckled. "Rocky and miserable, as if you took the worst parts of the Iron Islands and molded them together with Dorne. It is indeed worthless, save for the position it holds for controlling trade between Essos, Westeros, and beyond. If it weren't for the fact that piracy is so common in the region, and the trade that passes through so prevalent, I'd never have considered it a viable place to seize. Yet with Dorne still nominally under our control, even with their civil war, roughly closing off the Sea of Dorne will do wonders for ensuring peace along the coastlines."
Olyvar chuckled, the thick inner walls of the fort thankfully muffling the noise. It was just a shame the two of them could not make… other noise, seeing as the risk of discovery was too great. They had had a few close calls, where their passions had flared bright, but duty and keeping their closeness at arm's length had… strained things. It was better left unsaid, but Daeron knew Olyvar felt it as much as he did.
"If there are to be no settlers since the island is such a barren wasteland, then what are the men stationed there supposed to do? Other than protect the forts, there will be no smallfolk to protect or oversee outside of the walls, no dangerous animals to drive off, and I doubt they'd be willing to take up pirate hunting at all hours of the day."
Daeron thought for a moment. "Indeed, such a posting would be most boring, of long stretches of little else but what we would build for them, followed by stretches out at sea patrolling for slavers and escorting whatever Westerosi ships they come across. Pirates will be attacked and seized, either to aid in growing our own fleet, free the slaves within, or to simply hang the pirates and confiscate their plunder. Trade ships will undoubtedly have coin to be gained or lost by crews engaging in dice or other betting games, so ensuring we have some goods on hand to entice some trade at the forts themselves will be difficult but necessary. Of course, establishing enough stores to then also feed these fortified outposts will take some trial and error, but I am confident a solution will present itself in time for any issues that may arise."
Planning for the campaign to seize and hold Bloodstone had begun to take up a great deal of Daeron's free time when he wasn't out in the higher hills, killing clansmen and returning stolen women and children to their homes in the Vale or even the Riverlands in several instances. Had the Vale highlands still been in the grips of summer, he would have opted instead to spend more time on a project most becoming of him. After all, his work on his Conquest of Dorne book had been well received by the maesters and learned smallfolk alike, and in his solar in the fort's inner sanctum, he could put his quill to the task of writing his latest work.
A Treatise on the Pacification of the Hill Tribes of the Vale: the Culmination of Thousands of Years of War.
… the title was a work in progress.
"Well, should there be a need for good men to captain vessels in the growing Royal Fleet, might I suggest looking to the Reachmen whose houses often have excess sons? They would need to learn it from more seasoned captains of course," Olyvar said. "With those around the Arbor and Oldtown likely showing greater proclivity for such tasks, it might not take as long to have seasoned crews and captains ready for the campaign, my king."
"Indeed," Daeron said, his smile not reflecting his inner… distaste. Not at his lover and Kingsguard, but at the constant rate men around him attempted to steer his decisions towards certain outcomes that seemed to benefit them more than himself, or even the Seven Kingdoms. These lords thought so small, rarely beyond the expanses of their borders or the kingdoms in which they dwelt, when he had to look to everyone under his rule and beyond, a habit he had begun to pick up from his younger brother. Vale lords speaking with him on 'accepting' certain subjugated clans or clan survivors into their smallfolk ranks. Crownlords seeking greater access to sales of the plows and seed drills his house had been propagating in their own personal fields. Reachmen, especially Olyvar these days, espousing the chivalric ideals and competence of fellow Reach lords and how they might best suit the king's future plans in administration, naval or even cultural achievements.
The two of them had discussed many such things since they had first grown close, though never to the point where he thought his Kingsguard was attempting to coerce or directly influence him. Was this how his uncle felt when a subordinate scribe or administrator had 'too many' good ideas? Then again, he had asked Olyvar to be one of his direct links to the Reach through his familial ties, though this too would be a great scandal if exposed. After all, Kingsguard were supposed to leave behind just about everything once they joined the order…
Yet before he could head off another talk about selecting a highborn lady for his queen to be, Lord Tyrell's sister among them, there was a knock at his door that sounded urgent. Olyvar, wary, opened said door, only to find a messenger flanked by a pair of guards, the trio huffing with exertion.
"My king, I have news!"
"Yes, what is it?" Daeron asked, annoyed at the interruption. He had just been thinking about what to name one of these future ports…
"Prince Aegon and his cohort have ambushed a clan attempting to flee the higher lands!"
Though he did not wear one when simply marching off to oversee something, the proverbial crown weighed heavily upon Daeron's head as he surveyed the scene. A field of bodies, stretching from his feet to the edge of the gorge in which many more lay, kissed by wisps of fog and already smelling of death. Ruined carts and sleds carrying supplies lay trampled and broken underfoot, scattered like so much driftwood along the Vale's coastline. Blood, already congealed and blackened like tar, splotched errant highland grasses and stones jutting from the ground.
This was a first for him. Long had he given orders to men in this war and the last, of purging enemy from lands they sought to take and ensuring the overall populace would be cowed into submission. They were better off alive and under his boot than free and dead, and his vassals had ensured that damage to Dorne had been minimal during its conquest. He was a conqueror, not a butcher, and had killed more men than he cared to remember in the heat of battle, sent to their deaths, or had deemed fit to be executed for their crimes. Yet here in the highlands of the Vale, where enmity between the clansmen and the Vale lords ran deepest, he had not expected his cousin to be capable of this level of butchery.
Not that any of the men were going to complain about it, not after all they'd been through. "Any survivors?" he asked from atop his mountain pony, nowhere near as noble a steed as his other mounts but useful for traversing these winding paths and treacherous slopes. More men than he cared to recall had found themselves woefully injured or worse when traversing these slopes with beasts meant for open plains and the grassy lowlands. It was just another of the many lessons he had learned fighting in these high hills.
One of the Vale lords, his heraldry that of House Lunderly, bowed his head. "We are still searching the surrounding area, my king, but it would seem that none have escaped from the prince's ambush."
Yes, ambush, a tactic his cousin had taken delight in putting into practice these past moons. After the initial successes in subjugating most of the Vale's errant clans far from the Mountains of the Moon, the remaining clans attacked or harassed his forces, stealing or destroying supplies, harassing forts, or creating obstacles in their march to slow them down and leave them vulnerable. Large boulders and even entire hillsides had been sent down upon roads and upland clearings, slowing or redirecting their passage and making the establishment of camps a chore. Scouts were often harried as soon as they were out of sight, and for every few clansmen they had been able to slay, at least one or two men died, and another half dozen were wounded enough to require weeks of rest and healing. What had begun as a relatively benign pacification of the Vale had quickly turned into a slogging, bloody, miserable campaign of ambushes, traps, and elusive enemies who faded away like the morning mists.
Then, only a few moons ago, his cousin had tried something that the prince vaguely remembered about the Dornish raids into the Stormlands a few years before the conquest. Something about preparing an ambush for raiders by laying traps outside of fortifications, all the while giving no indication they were doing so. Aegon's first attempt of digging holes with sharp sticks at the bottom and covered with blankets of moss had resulted in a great number of dead clansmen, and while it had worked for a short while, newer methods had been required once these were circumvented or no longer as effective. Stealing supplies? Leave exposed 'surplus' supplies such as ale that were laced with much stronger brandy and whiskey, and follow the direction the looters retreated from the next morning to find whatever drunken dregs hadn't passed out from their celebrations. Nighttime raids on small groups? Create additional campfires make apparent they had far greater numbers to scare raiders, or conversely fewer fires to lure the enemy into an ambush. Upcoming passages that narrowed enough to make ambushes possible? Circumvent them with climbing ropes further back and enough men to then secure the area before the main force arrived.
This most recent tactic of Aegon's had been to use the very same methods of ambush by the clans against them, only this time his overwhelming forces had adorned their armor with mud and grass to make them better blend in with their surroundings in the low light of the early morning. That their victims had been an entire apparent clan was just all the better to the men, despite the number women and children mixed among them. A strange clan as well, given how every member seemed to be wearing a red sash or cloth somewhere on their person.
Daeron turned away from the scene without another word, bile simmering in his throat. The sight of dead children never sat right with him, even if they were simply clansmen who had decided to try and run rather than surrender on more favorable terms. Foolish, to be hemmed onto an outcropping that bore no means of escape, and yet they still chose to fight to the end rather than surrender. He'd been in a generous mood to still offer favorable terms, what with the rest of the Vale now secured through treaty, marriages, or by the sword.
Indeed, not since the coming of the Andals had the many hills and valleys of the Vale, so sought for the richness of their farmland and the wealth of their mines, seen such a successful peace. The smaller clans had knelt, by way of realizing their way of life was coming to an end, or by the convincing of the locals who did not entirely wish to see them eradicated, usually due to marriage ties. The same could not be said for these clans living closer and closer to the Mountains of the Moon, however, as for every clan nearby that bent the knee and agreed to resettlement in more favorable areas, five more would flee, fight or both.
With the clan ambushes growing fewer and fewer, either from the lack of men to attempt them or the number they had lost in counter ambushes, their progress had risen quite considerably. Still, the need for the forts he had first commissioned was ever-present, and only more forts had been built in the areas nearer to the last stronghold of the clans. Near enough to the Mountains of the Moon that he could see them on a clear day, what had once been his primary camp was now a large, solid fort, which stood as a strong reminder to whatever distant clansmen that were watching them that the Vale was not going to give up as it had in the past. With stout walls, deep larders, the spare arms and armor to withstand any barbaric siege, it was maintained by rotating watches of men to ensure none stayed in the field too long, and was placed under the supervision of his cousin Aegon, delegating to Lord Arryn whenever he or his cousin were not within the fort.
Aegon had taken… well to his duties, all things considered, even before his advent of using ambushes and other tactics against the clans. He kept to his arms and armor at all necessary times, which proved often given how many times the clans attacked with only handfuls of men to harass them. Yes, there was the occasional issue with him drinking a bit too much, and more than once a 'subdued' clan had raised complaints of his visitations with their womenfolk, but for all the problems he had been a source of in Kings Landing, his cousin was thriving in this war. The lower men spoke well of him and his efforts to ensure their return after a sortie, and the lords had many praises for his daring and courage in the face of clansmen ambushes. Whether or not these were genuine or inflated by rumor mongering or ass-kissing, Daeron did not know, but it did bring him a great deal of pride. Perhaps the key to his cousin's excesses was merely to direct them along a more fruitful and constructive path after all. He wondered how Aegon would do if his cousin was assigned to large fleet dedicated to hunting pirates…
Reaching the outskirts of the fort once more, he surveyed the surrounding area, now a small town in its own right, due to the camp followers from across the Vale and beyond. Whether or not they or the fort would remain once the campaign was complete, he did not know, but one thing he did look forward to was a return to normalcy between himself and Olyvar. Indeed, not since he'd departed Kings Landing had he and Olyvar had… time together. Certainly, it had been easier in the capitol, what with the number of rooms in the Red Keep both hidden and known. Yet for all that he cared for his lover, the risk of exposure for fleeting pleasure upon the campaign was too great for either of them, no matter how they yearned for one another. Yet being so alone had allowed Daeron time to think, long and hard, on a great many things concerning his future, his house, and the kingdoms at large. Thoughts he would not normally have had crept in at night, bringing with them unfortunate thoughts and an ever-increasing sense that something was working against him.
Or someone.
It had been small at first, subtle as fish hiding beneath the rapids of a river. Thoughts on words from those he knew, of his uncle, cousins, sisters and brother. Rethinking what actions might mean in a different context, or words when heard from a frame of mind that was not a king's. Distrust was sown in his heart as readily as it was any others, but few others wielded power even close to his own, and thusly his decisions were that much more important. His uncle's distrust of that Lord Wytch, his brother's mistrust of their cousin Aegon, and now his own mistrust, of those closest to him…
The gulf between Olyvar and himself had… grown while they had warred in the Vale. He, as king, insisted that he would be married when and how he wished, but for all that he professed to follow his king, Oly favored Lord Tyrell's sister, a betrothal that was still dependent on the lord's ability to unfuck the situation in western Dorne he had had a hand in causing. On the dreariest of days, when he was left to himself, more dark thoughts came to the young king, wondering about Oly's loyalties, and if others like him had drawn themselves close for selfish reasons. Was his lover somehow related to the current Tyrells, or was Oly's family pushing for this for some reason? Was there a connection between Dorne's revolt-turned-civil war and his planned seizing of Bloodstone? Was his cousin truly lusting for more than he currently had? Was his brother…?
Daeron shook his head to clear his mind of such thoughts, for today was not to be a day to write his latest work or ponder the loyalties of those under him. Autumn had come last year and with it worsening conditions this high into the Vale. Grasses grew slower for their horses and herds of highland cattle, sheep and goats that fed the men, the weather was cooler and wetter than before, and some mornings there was a light frost upon the rockier ground. There was no telling when late autumn or even winter would be upon them, and for all the comparative ease that the winter campaign had been in Dorne, a winter campaign in the Vale highlands was strictly out of the question. All their gains thus far would be rendered pointless, for they would need to relinquish the territory so many had fought and bled for by retreating into the lower lands, lest they freeze or starve to death within sight of their final goal.
So it was that Daeron summoned the lords to the fort's great hall. With his cousin and Kingsguard by his side, the young king looked out over the assembled men; lords and their heirs, second sons and lordly cousins, men from the Vale, Riverlands, and elsewhere, all here to enact his will upon the mountain clans.
"My lords, we have come far in this campaign," he boldly declared. "From the Eyrie to the Narrow Sea, from the Three Sisters to the Bay of Crabs, the clans have been brought to heel before our might and righteousness as never before. No more shall they raid for women, and no more shall they take as they please, being subject to the same laws that govern all men beneath the gaze of the Seven. In time, they shall be as proper Valemen themselves, and with it the last vestiges of their ancient and barbaric ways will be left to the annals of history. Yet we are not yet done!"
The excited murmurs swept through the hall like wind across tall grasses, sensing a change in his tone as he continued. "Before us lays the last of their strongholds, the daunting Mountains of the Moon. From here, clans have persisted and raided into the Vale for thousands of years, stealing away crops, women, and the lives of any who suffer the misfortune of crossing their path. Even those of the mighty House Arryn have suffered in ages past, of them my own ancestors, lost along the High Road to such ilk, as have countless other houses. Yet on this day, we shall at last avenge all those lost to such barbarism, for with our own eyes we have seen their will erode, as pillars of salt and sand before the might of the sea. Their attacks upon our forces have grown less and less with every passing moon, and each attack has been with less men and ferocity than the one before! Are these a people whose willingness to defy us shall never falter, no matter their losses?"
"No!" the voices cried out from the great hall.
"We have seen how their frail bodies are covered in sores and lesions wrought by hunger and disease, of matted hair and scabrous skin. Does this sound like a people still strong enough to withstand our might?"
"No!" cried the hall again, men thrusting fists into the air.
"This latest attempt of theirs to breach our lines was not to attack us, but an attempt to escape our encirclement of their final stronghold! Yet not far from here they lay slaughtered, ambushed by my cousin and many fine men who have grown wise to their tricks. If they seek to escape what is meant to be a supposedly unassailable fortress of mountains, then what does that say for their supplies, their confidence in their ability, and the strength of their arms? Does this sound like a force that will be able to fight us to a bitter end?"
"No!"
"Then I say, as your king," Daeron shouted, his voice rising above the din of excitement and shackled bloodlust, "today begins the last days of our campaign to rid the Vale of the clans and their scourge upon society! The Riverlands block any escape to the west, to the north lays inhospitable mountains, rocky shorelines and cold marshes, and we hold the south and east in a grip of forts and steel they cannot hope to dislodge. Today, we shall begin preparations to march upon their final stronghold within the Mountains of the Moon, so rest well and eat hearty, for tomorrow we shall march for the Vale, and for Westeros!"
"For the Vale!"
"For Westeros!"
"For the king!"
The Seven must have surely smiled upon his declarations, for when they ventured out in force, leaving behind the wounded, ill and the men needed to keep the fort defended, the weather had taken a turn for the better. Warm winds from the lowlands swept up into their midst, strengthening them as did the rays of the warm sun above for days on end. Cloudless skies offered no concealment for their enemies in the trek up the winding slopes, their many groups of outriders scattering whatever ambushes may have lain in wait with their mere presence. No fog concealed their approach anymore than it did their enemy, whom they could occasionally see in the distance retreating higher and higher through their Myrish far-eyes.
Every trap before them failed or was triggered too early by fleeing clansmen, the rockfalls and tumbling boulders harmlessly breaking well before they had reached the swaths of destruction. Mountain ponies and the few pacified clansmen they had hired as scouts ensured swift movement through these sudden fields of debris, with teams of men with picks and hammers clearing the larger boulders with great speed and dexterity. That which had devastated the men in the times after Jeyne Arryn's death had become a mere afterthought to Daeron's campaign, and soon, with the last of the paths into the last pass cleared of debris, the army marched on, days filled with cheer and a growing excitement that this war would soon be over.
Through a large mountain pass, in what was likely the remains of an old glacial river long since dried up, Daeron's army fanned out into a surprisingly large alpine meadow. Surrounded by snowcapped mountain peaks, the air was chillier than when they had started days before, and yet the still air still carried with it the light warmth of autumn. Delicate flowers and grasses were crushed underfoot by armed men, spreading themselves wide to avoid any potential encirclement. Ahead of them lay a wide expanse of gently rolling hills and errant outcroppings of mossy rock, the far end of which stood what appeared to be structures made not by nature's hand, but by the hands of men.
They had found their quarry, and with an almost leisurely pace, Daeron's army moved forward. The slopes in the distance were too tall, too steep, too coated with snow and ice to be traversed by man, turning this entire valley into a wide bowl, with only one safe way in or out. Daeron's army had secured this entrance, the clansmen having turned tail rather than try to hold them at the pass. As to why, he could only guess, but through his Myrish far-eye, he could see the structures were encircling the mouth of what could only be a large cave.
If that cave led out of this valley, he was going to be mightily upset. Still, he kept his kingly spirits high as the army continued forward, reaching the outskirts of the settlement by midday. Signaling the engineers and sappers, the entirety of the army began to set up the siege camp, well out of range of any bows the clansmen could possibly have. Defenses for potential counter attacks were put into place, and flanking camps reaching either side of the valley were established to ensure they could not simply slip around them under the cover of darkness. With the pass secured to their rear, their enemy penned into some scraps of civilization at the mouth of a cave, and their initial supplies liable to feed them for at least two weeks, with even more coming in the next few days, Daeron was confident the clans would further starve before his men would even begin to go hungry.
So good was his mood and so good were his odds that Daeron felt generous enough to lead a group of men under a banner of peace to treat with the clansmen. Let none say he was without mercy, for if they bent the knee here, he would allow them to resettle lower into the Vale, perhaps along the coasts nearer the Three Sisters or on the islands along the Fingers. Hells, perhaps he'd send all these people across the Narrow Sea to somewhere they'd never bother him or his people ever again. Andalos was rather empty these days…
With flags of truce and parlay displayed, he settled in between his forces at his back, and a set distance from the enemy's encampment. Yet when all was said and done, and the clansmen arrived, such thoughts of sending them to Andalos fled his mind at the situation before him. The brazen anger simmering between the two parties was as palpable as smoke and nearly as thick. Around him his guards rested their hands on their swords and daggers, undrawn yet ready if the need arose. The clansmen did much the same, though just like their culture the weapons they bore were lesser, things scavenged and stolen from better men. Daeron's army stood many yards behind him on the rise of the last hill before the open stretch before them, with only jutting rocks and minor depressions between their gathering and the great cave.
"I am King Daeron, First of my name, of House Targaryen, and king of the now Seven Kingdoms," Daeron said simply, after the silence had grown for far too long. "On behalf of the welfare of my vassals, and the smallfolk under them, I came to the Vale a year prior to put an end to the raiding of the clans. Many clans away from these mountains have bent the knee, peacefully, and have been rewarded with the same protections that all smallfolk enjoy, as well as spaces where they shall face no harassment by lords or other clans as they integrate with the greater body of men of these lands. For those that have resisted this final chance at peace amongst our peoples, out of some vain hope that they might one day somehow reclaim the entirety of the Vale for a culture and cause lost thousands of years ago, we have brought fire and blood."
"Aye, much blood," one of the clansmen roughly replied, looking ready to spit in anger. Understandable, given that a good third of the tribes in the area that had fought him were now dead, with their women and children scattered to the tribes brought into the fold, or if smallfolk taken in raids, sent back to their villages of birth.
"Yet I do not wish for such bloodshed to continue. The days grow shorter, and soon enough deep autumn will be upon us all. Afterwards winter, whenever it comes, will render these lands impassable and unfit for those without the shelter and supplies to outlast the deep snows. I am willing to offer you all, as the last remnants of the Vale clans, the chance to lay down your arms and depart these mountains for the lowlands, for a chance at peace for the first time in thousands of years."
"We bow to no invader," another clansman said. "Never have, never will."
"We are no more invaders than your distant ancestors were when they slaughtered the Children of the Forest that called Westeros their home," Daeron countered. Whether or not such beings existed wasn't important, likely the memory of an original people the 'First' Men had either conquered or wiped out completely. Perhaps they practiced magic, or perhaps that too was merely over exaggeration throughout the centuries. "I am willing to offer you a number of choices that would see peace finally come to the Vale's hinterlands since the Andals conquered your ancestral lineages."
"With an army behind ya," the first man sneered.
"Yes, as the Vale is still a dangerous place," the young king replied, unable to bite back a cheeky grin. "I could, for instance, offer to have you sailed to somewhere in Essos, isolated from the likes of which that would try to enslave you, so that you may live in better lands in peace."
"Not leavin' the highlands, the lands o' the Vale ours by right," one of the older men grumbled, his visage ugly even before the great deal of scarring.
"I could offer you a chance to dwell in the lowlands, with access to good clothing and tools to make a living for yourselves that doesn't revolve around theft and murder."
"Only the weak live below the tree line."
"What of leaving you to live in these highlands, where you may live in all the isolation you wish, so long as you obey the laws of the land and raid no more?" He was being very, very generous with these terms, almost to the point of risking disgruntlement in the Vale lords. "I would even offer a truce between the faiths of your peoples, so that none may try to convert you to the Seven Who Are One if you do not wish."
The eldest among them, perhaps his uncle's age but much rougher, slowly stood after glancing between himself and the other clansmen. "We's take what we's want, when we want, and we's believe what we's believe. Soft lowlanders, just like them midlander clans that bent tha knee or took to a new faith, thinkin' you can stop what we've been doing for thousands o' years with just some honeyed words and words on a bit o' parchment. Them invaders couldn't stop us after them Andals first came, couldn't stop us with dragons breathin' fire down on us, ain't gonna stop us now with just swords n' spears. We's hard men, harder than the lot of ya combined."
"Think of your people, of the lineages of your clans," Daeron said, refusing to allow pleading into his voice. "They stand to lose everything if we engage in battle here today." Entire lines of people tracing back thousands of years, of faiths and cultures at risk; all for the sake of some old raiders and their pride.
"There ain't gonna be a battle if we's just hold out," was the reply. "We's got the food n' defenses ta outlast ya until the snows come, and then we'll just take what you's drop as yer dyin' ta the deep snow."
Daeron rose to his feet, anger welling in his stomach. "I am offering you the chance to leave this high valley alive, clansmen. A king does not repeatedly offer such light terms to an enemy so readily, especially when the men under his command are more than happy to march upon your little cave and turn the lot of you into nothing but memory."
One of the ruffians chuckled. "They's always wanted ta do that. The Redsmiths snuck past ya, we's know these hills best. They'lls block the pass behind ya any day now. With this many lowlanders, you'll starve 'fore we do."
"No clans bypassed our lines, I can assure you of that," Daeron replied coolly. "The most recent attempt days before saw an entire clan slaughtered in an ambush, regrettably right down to the last woman and child as far as I know. By chance, do the Redsmiths tend to wear red sashes of cloth? This clan wore them in great quantity." The looks of confusion and shock told him enough. Maybe now they would consider-
The bone dagger came from nowhere, only to then spin in air, still gripped by the severed hand of a screaming clansman thanks to Olyvar's even quicker reaction. Other weapons were drawn as another rushed him, pulling a rusted blade from his person and making for his stomach. Ungainly stepping to the side, narrowly averting a stab to the gut, Daeron made to draw his sword as the man swung for his neck. Catching on the finery of his armor, the blade halted in time for a Kingsguard, Daeron knew not which, to slide his sword through the back of the attacker, a fountain of gore erupting from the man's chest.
The other rushed them as well, slashing and stabbing with wild abandon as Daeron, with Blackfyre in hand, disarmed one of the older men with a quick flourish, before burying his sword in the man's belly. Steaming guts erupted with a splash of gore when he withdrew, the man's hands helplessly pawing at the pale sausages of his intestines as he fell to his knees. "To the king!" one of the guards cried, right as a pair of clansmen rushed him, one chopping into his side with a stone axe while the other crushed his helmet and skull with a heavy wooden club. From behind the clansmen emerged more, grassy coverings and grey-painted faces mimicking the landscape around them. This was no unexpected attack, no sudden decision to try and kill or capture a king when negotiations failed.
This had been planned.
Daeron managed to deflect an old, rusted axe before severing the offending clansmen's arm, just for another to slash at him with slivers of stone wedged into a long heft of wood. Crying out as the rock bit into his cheek, but thankfully not his neck, he fell back as Olyvar beheaded the man with a single swing before he could try again. "My king!" he cried, fighting off another pair of camouflaged clansmen. "We must retreat to the camp!"
"To the king!" another of his Kingsguard cried, rattling the skull of a clansmen with a blow from his pommel, before slicing open the stumbling barbarian's throat.
Daeron rose to his feet as hot blood poured from his face, a horn sounding in the distance behind him. Roars of fury and the sudden thunder of hooves rose above the din of the ambush. Soon, his men would be upon him, and these clansmen would be brought low. Yes, yes, this could still be salvaged, this could be-,
Olyvar fell with a strangled gasp, a jagged dagger sticking out of his lower back from where a clansmen, the one missing a hand, had plunged it in, apparently not quite dead. With a roar of shock and rage, Daeron was upon the man, aiming to change his status as 'yet living', and swung his sword into the man's face, the Valyrian steel of Blackfyre cutting deep into eye sockets. The man fell amidst spurts of blood and eye gore, the upper portion of his skull wobbling when he hit the ground.
"Olyvar!" cried Daeron as more men arrived, among them his cousin. He rushed to his Kingsguard's side, suddenly unsure of what to do.
"My king!" Aegon cried, armored and riding atop one of the mountain ponies. "What has happened?"
"They… they tried to kill me," Daeron replied, a lump in his throat of equal anger and shock. "Under a banner of truce, with men lying in wait, they… they…" He was at a loss for words, numbness spreading across his face and body. What was he supposed to do when something like this occured? What could he do in such a situation? He had thought this would be an easy final push, an overwhelming show of force to cow them into compliance once and for all…
"They tried to kill the king!" Aegon cried as a horde of men appeared around them, atop horseback or on foot, bearing arms and armor and cutting apart what few clansmen had not been able to flee. "Men of the Vale, of Westeros, it is time we end this once and for all! To the cave, my lords, and let none who would kill a king under truce live to see tomorrow! With Fire and Blood!"
Daeron's cries to stop died in his throat as he held Oly, his guard gasping for air as blood pooled around them. With a roar that shook the valley, the army surged forward even as medics and more guards arrived, tending to Daeron and the fallen men around him. Daeron struggled to let go of Oly's hand as the medics quickly took him to a triage tent, their skills working in conjunction with the few maesters they had. One of these maesters quickly brought him to his own tent, the sting of the harsh alcohol from Lord Wytch burning as his wound was cleaned. Everything seemed to go quiet, the world around him falling away as all Daeron could do was focus on the blood on his hands, that of his own face and his Kingsguard mixing before it dripped onto the ground.
The stitching itched horribly, but Daeron willed himself to not poke at it, as the maester had warned him what would happen if he did so. From atop his mountain pony he surveyed the scene, the last of the debris being torn down and burnt even as the wounded were tended to, and the dead prepared for transport home. What he had seen days before, of an entire clan massacred in his cousin's ambush… it was paltry compared to the sight before him.
The remaining clans had fought hard, once they realized their gambit to abduct or kill him had failed. Every foot taken in their squalid collection of huts and ramshackle barricades had been hard fought, bitter, and left the ground littered with congealed puddles of blood and ichor. Yet for all their ferocity, they were not trained to defend as men at war, of covering one another's flanks and funneling an enemy into an area where their numbers would matter little. Corpses of clansmen appeared as porcupines, arrows and javelins riddling their hides like quills. Others lay with opened bellies and chests, entrails spilling out like macabre displays of a maester's book on anatomy and bringing with them a horrid stench. Blood lay across most surfaces, be they the sides of fallen huts, exposed rocks, or the bodies that so littered the ground that in places, Daeron could not even seethe ground.
Gently nudging his pony forward, his mount took care to avoid stumbling upon the dead beneath them, much as it did upon the winding trails of its highland home. Blank eyes stared up at him, lifeless and cold from the battle yesterday, and were it just another ambush of Aegon's, the young king might have felt some pity. Yet these very same clansmen had been behind an attempt on his life, under a banner of truce, and had maimed men under his command, men he cared for. His own visage now was forever scarred by their attempt.
He resisted the urge to spit upon one as he rode by.
The entrance to the cave was the worst of it. Bodies lay in jumbled piles, trampled by their panicking fellows as the final rout brought what little cohesion the clansmen had had to a sudden end. Arrows and javelins littered the area in even greater numbers, with their makeshift shields and shoddy weaponry lying where they had fallen in a sea of blackened blood. The makeshift barricades of wood and large stones lay littered with bodies, piled high upon one another in areas where the defenders had attempted to fall back, only to be cut down from behind by the Valemen with unrelenting ferocity.
The entrance of the cave was interesting, in that for being a cave, there was a surprising amount of… stonework around the entrance. Pictograms of griffons flying above clouds, of a large griffin bestowing a crown upon a man upon a mountain carved into a throne, of great armies of men marching towards what appeared to be the north, and many more. He would have to send maesters with links in history to this place, once the dead had been dealt with.
"Cousin!" a voice cried, and Daeron turned away from the carved rocks and old, weathered stones to see his cousin appear, armor caked in blood but appearing otherwise unhurt.
"Cousin, you are far redder than I last remembered," he replied. Aegon the Red had a nice ring to it. "How fare you? Are you injured?"
"I remain whole and hearty, otherwise I am a bit sore from swinging my sword around," the man replied, earning a round of laughs from the gathered men.
Daeron could not refrain from chuckling as well. Leave it to his cousin to work an innuendo into this butchery. "What of the clansmen? Are there any survivors?"
"Sadly yes," his cousin replied. "The infirm, women and children in the back of the cave, around some old weathered throne carved into the wall. Looks a bit like the throne in some of these carvings," he added, gesturing to the pictographs. "What do you want with them? Paraded in chains in Kings Landing? Finished off alongside the clansmen that aren't dead yet from their wounds?"
"Had this been a routine battle, then I would have opted to treat their wounds, but after what they have done… see to it that the surviving men are finished off," the young king replied. "As for the noncombatants… we will distribute them as we have the other clansmen we defeated. I will not suffer our reputation or this cause stained by the unjust slaughter of defenseless women and children."
His cousin seemed to grimace at that, but gave a short bow of acknowledgement, as did the men around them. Daeron noticed looks of disappointment, but it must have just been their bloodlust still running high. The honor of the Vale would be forever tainted if they slaughtered women and children after a battle had been won. Turning away he rode back to the main camp, dismounting and making his way to the triage tents.
"The king!" a round of voices cried out, and he turned to see a number of Vale lords surround him, congratulating him on the end of this long campaign.
"Peace for the Vale at last!"
"The end of the clans has come!"
"For King Daeron, Clanbreaker!"
"Clanbreaker! Clanbreaker! Clanbreaker!"
A new moniker, one he had not thought of himself, and one he was unsure would sit well with the clans of wildlings beyond the Wall. Whatever the case may be, Daeron forced a smile amongst the congratulations as a deep exhaustion setting into his bones. Eventually, after enduring more than his fair share of congratulations for ridding the Vale of such an ancient enemy, he managed to extricate himself from the throngs of vassals well on their way to celebrating, the casks of ale, hard cider and the rare barrel of Wytch brandy liable to be drained come morning. Ducking into one of the tents, he found his Kingsguard lying on a cot, tended to by a pair of medics. Bloodied bandages and the sting of the strong alcohol muddled together with just how… quiet it now seemed in the tent.
"How is he?" he asked, watching as the younger medic ensured the security of their patient's bandages, lest they slide or fall off.
"My king," the lead medic replied, bowing quickly. "We are lucky none of his organs were punctured from the blade, nor was the blade rusted enough to risk quick infection. The garlic and onion soup we fed him has not leaked from within yet, so while we clean and tend to his wound, he will need plenty of bed rest to ensure that any small cuts within are not ruptured before they heal. However…"
A sinking feeling was not one Daeron was used to, but he felt it regardless. "Yes? What is it?"
"I am afraid before he fell unconscious, my king, Kingsguard Olyvar spoke of being unable to feel his legs. We have since tried prodding them to see if he would react in his slumber, but thus far he has not. We will continue to try after he has awoken, my king but it is possible that this injury has… paralyzed him."
Daeron refrained from stumbling in shock, if only due to an icy numbness filling his heart. His Kingsguard, one who had been by his side for years, was closer than anyone in his heart and mind, one who had defended him from all manner of threats… had been crippled. It was not supposed to be this way, he was supposed to be by his side for years to come, a close confidant in all manners, and yet… no man could serve the Kingsguard from a wheeled chair. Olyvar would have to be expelled from the Kingsguard by inability to fulfill his duties, a stain upon his history and reputation despite all he had done. He would have to be sent back to his family, to be supported and tended to by them for the remainder of his life.
Simple death in the line of duty would have been a better outcome for his Oly, for his honor and memory would not have been stained by this… maiming.
"I… I see," Daeron finally said, nodding to the medics. "Thank you for what you have done, and I will leave you to your work. Please… let me know as soon as he awakens."
Leaving even as they nodded, Daeron returned to his personal tent, the space around feeling colder and emptier than it had been even just hours before. The war was over, the clans subjugated or eradicated, and yet for how little this campaign had cost him, far less than Dorne had… it had cost him more than he'd ever thought it would. Simple clansmen, in such a surprise attack, had taken from him someone so dear to his heart. For all he had thought lesser of Oly these past moons, for all the suspicions he had had for his closest Kingsguard due to their inability to express their love, his lover had been there for him when it mattered the most without a second thought. Truly, Oly was loyal, and even as his heart ached, the realization was a small balm upon his pain.
His mind was set in that moment, for a man as loyal as his Kingsguard would not have steered him wrong with extolling the virtues of a woman he had never met before. If that flower managed to salvage western Dorne, then true to his word as king, the next queen of the Seven Kingdoms would be the Lady Tyrell.