'Strength is tested where the path is narrow.'
-Taken from 'The Later Musings of Rhaenar I Targaryen' by Brien et al.
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As they pressed farther north, the air grew colder, and the chill made the men grateful for the prototype armor sets crafted by those Rhaenar had brought from the Narrow Sea.
By the time they crossed into the Neck proper, the cold settled into their bones. To the west stretched a vast expanse of swamp and bog. To the east lay the Bite, and beyond that horizon, the shores of the Three Sisters.
Routine took hold on the Kingsroad: wake, break camp, march, make camp, sleep, repeat.
Everything went smoothly until they reached Moat Cailin.
The ancient fortress of the First Men, once crowned with twenty towers and now reduced to three, still held its reputation as the most formidable choke point in Westeros.
It was here the Andals had been turned back again and again, leaving the North almost untouched by their blood.
Legend held that the Children of the Forest had worked dark magic during their war with the First Men, calling down the hammer of the waters to shatter the Neck and nearly tear the North from the rest of Westeros.
Given that history, Rhaenar's dismay was understandable when, much like at the Twins, there was no welcome at all.
"Be at ease," Rhaenar called up to the battlements. "All we ask is safe passage. We mean to see the Wall and take stock of your roads and repairs along the way."
"I'm afraid that is not possible," the representative of Moat Cailin replied.
"And your Lord? I thought we might have crossed paths by now."
"Lord Stark has opted to sail his way to the capital. And by order of the King, we are charged to bar your entry."
"This again? Must every man I meet stand in my way?"
"We apologise, Prince Rhaenar, but orders are orders."
After this exchange, Rhaenar summoned captains to the war tent.
Zane suggested marching around Moat Cailin through the western swamp.
Everyone knew what a fool's journey that would be. Perhaps House Reed could guide them safely through the bog, but as bannermen of House Stark their help was not an option.
Sari Sicai, true to form, proposed reducing Moat Cailin to rubble. Rhaenar dismissed a siege immediately; the battlements were thick with archers. The garrison had clearly been reinforced. Northerners were determined to hold the line.
It was said two hundred dedicated bowmen could defend Moat Cailin against an entire host. Rhaenar counted at least thrice that number.
Once again it fell to him to find a way forward. The Northern lords had once urged their King to make a stand against Aegon during the Conquest at this very location. If only Torhen Stark lived still —this crossing might have been far simpler.
Putting aside how wasteful it would be to destroy such a strategic stronghold, Rhaenar also considered the consequences of simply burning the moat. No matter how they forced their way through, not a single keep in the North would open its gates.
That alone was manageable — an excuse to get creative with supply lines. The men could handle roughing it out for a bit.
Yet every hour spent idle was an hour lost. After half a day of deliberation, Rhaenar made his decision.
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Another day, another meeting about Rhaenar.
He was all the council could talk about.
As the Lords gathered and reacted to news of what had been dubbed the Third Estrangement, new details surfaced.
It turned out that during Rhaenar's first tour across half the continent, the Prince had taken out loans from nearly every House that hosted him.
The terms were so generous, almost absurdly so — that the Lords had little choice but to accept.
Until now, Rhaenar had paid only the interest, never touching the principal.
Many Houses came to enjoy those annual payments. Depend on them, even.
And because the arrangement was structured to suggest he would never touch the principal, the Lords had no reason to complain.
It gave the impression that Rhaenar would never repay the original sum and that the interest payments would continue indefinitely — like a perpetual stream of income.
If the payments ever stopped, the resulting snowball effect would give each House undeniable leverage to demand or extract a favor so significant it could tilt the balance of power, where only then would they consider forgiving the debt entirely.
These loans were agreed to under the assumption that the House of the Dragon was unified — King and Prince of one mind and one voice. With the gold flowing, no one pressed the matter.
But now, with uncertainty in the air, Viserys was besieged with concerns.
"I assure you," the King told each petitioner, "these loans were taken without my consent or authority. So long as my son continues to pay, the Crown will not interfere, as they were finalised without my seal."
Dragonstone continued to pay on time. Greed — and a lack of due diligence — had pushed many Lords into accepting the young Prince's dazzling terms.
Yet that didn't stop them from framing the situation as a problem that might soon fall on the Crown's lap.
Viserys began to grasp the reality. Finance had forced a split, the Dragon now as two entities.
Princess Rhaenyra forced herself to remain calm at every new revelation about her brother. Had he always intended to sow this kind of division? Was it a contingency plan, or simply impulsive excess without thought for the future?
The presence of Theodore Reyne at his side suggested a weaponization of the economy.
That man would replace every written greeting with arithmetic if allowed. Instead of "hello" and "goodbye," it would be "One," "Five," "Nine-and-Sixty!"
These kinds of issues, and more, would continue to come to light as time went on. For now, all Viserys wished was to be a host so generous and grand that his kingship would be remembered, just as he had always managed to operate.
The rift between him and Rhaenar had caused many unforeseen problems, and with every lord demanding answers, the pressure only mounted.
Thankfully, Princess Rhaenyra was by his side.
The realm's delight shone in those days. None could resist that glowing smile, that perfect skin, the inner fire that promised everything would be all right. How she set their hearts ablaze.
No matter what happened with Rhaenar, she would handle it, and that certainty sparked hope — or at least patience — in those who watched, allowing to believe that, in the end, it would be a win-win, be it the Brother or Sister who handled it.
So the King and Princess held it all together. To uphold stability was to listen to all concerns as much as possible and act within means and reason.
But in hindsight you could excuse how the pair were, as much as they did not show it, feeling the exhaustion.
It was at the height of this tension that the council finally caught a break. The Prince's party had reached the crucial junction.
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Ser Otto laid out the report.
"Your Grace, upon reaching Moat Cailin, Stark bannermen carried out your order and barred his advance. As you predicted — and thank the gods — Rhaenar did not raise arms. From all accounts, no trickery was used to slip past the stronghold."
"That sounds like good news, Otto. So why the glum face?"
"…Ser Harrold was unable to intercept him."
"What?!"
Ser Otto sighed. He was always the bearer of ill tidings.
"They were seen turning south, back along the road. Yet despite that road leading straight toward Ser Harrold's company, the Prince somehow went around him."
"How is this possible?"
"That we now know," Ser Otto replied. "At first, we thought they may have braved the swamp — either attempting to press north or to hide until Ser Harrold withdrew, granting Rhaenar more time to devise a solution."
"The sea?" Ser Corlys asked. He knew the Bite was treacherous, but he did not put it past Rhaenar to attempt it.
"No," Otto said. "His fleet has not moved since returning to Dragonstone. Though you are partially correct — it appears Rhaenar made for the coast. There he sent riders ahead and bribed small fishing villages to delay or misreport his movements. By the time they marched around Ser Harrold, their lead was regained."
"So the Prince now finds himself in a similar situation as in the Riverlands," Ser Lyonel surmised. "Boxed in once again."
"Not so," Ser Otto said grimly.
"What do you mean, Otto?" the King asked.
Ser Otto lowered his head. "My apologies, Your Grace. It seems Prince Rhaenar and his force have vanished. We are still confirming the details. By our accounts, the Prince marched south along the King's Road until, suddenly, they were seen no more."
"That's impossible. You're telling me two thousand men simply vanished, and you have no notion how?"
"I'm afraid so, Your Grace."
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So how had Rhaenar managed this? Magic, now part of his arsenal?
Once he shook off the disappointment of breaking his promise to travel the continent with his men, he knew what had to be done.
Their escape — and the confusion it caused — was not the result of conventional wisdom failing, but of creativity and a bond unlike any the Seven Kingdoms had seen.
"They're here."
As the Mountains of the Vale came into view, the Rhaenari halted and waited.
Then they arrived: riders on nimble steeds.
At the head of the column rode a man larger than most. Rhaenar dismounted to greet him.
"Mountain King."
"Dragon Prince," Ulfgar Nutbreaker replied.
Tension thickened the air. The memory of last year's bloody campaign still lingered. For a moment, both sides braced for a clash.
But then the leaders laughed.
"Good to see you again," Rhaenar said. "I trust the trip was… eventful?"
"You will see soon enough," Ulfgar said. "Come. We must make ground by nightfall."
Rhaenar motioned to a porter.
"But first, please accept this."
Ulfgar's eyes lit up when he saw it: a massive femur of a long-dead giant, the very tool he had once used to smash nuts and skulls alike.
"You brought it!"
"Of course. I promised, didn't I?"
"I thought Dragon King kept it for his chair."
Rhaenar shrugged, "Dragon King is a Dragon Cunt. He won't miss it. Now then, shall we?"
So it was that Ulfgar Nutbreaker led the Rhaenari through the mountains, along paths known only to the Clans.
This continued until they reached Redhollow, the vale where the gorge had been the site of the Clans' final stand.
Rhaenar closed his eyes and was transported back to that day: the narrow pass where hailstones were thrown from both sides; the blood that soaked the ground; the clearing on the mountainside where Ulfgar had been dragged before him; and the cave that opened into an expansive hollow within the mountain, where a great weirwood ruled, its roots holding the stone together, and silver gleamed.
Since their defeat, the Mountain Clans had consolidated at this location.
Now under the banner of Dragonstone, a center of power was needed. Given the fertility of the hard-to-reach valley and the spiritual significance of the weirwood mountain, it was a natural choice.
Indeed, the village that had begun here was starting to grow.
"Why have the children painted their eyes?" Rhaenar asked as they climbed the mountain.
Ulfgar scoffed. "To be like you. They make own clan. Redeye Clan."
Rhaenar flushed. He remembered the gorge: the furious charge up the narrow pass, blades flashing, screams and blood. When the last foe fell and he roared to the sky, he was drenched in red from head to toe.
The sheer, wild intensity in his eyes left a mark no observer could forget. That the children had watched, inspired by the raw fury of the day, was both macabre and inevitable.
"They don't resent me for killing their loved ones?"
"Strength is our way," Ulfgar said matter-of-factly, as if that answered everything.
From the heights, the valley was fascinating to behold. The mountain people no longer worried about looting or survival.
Many now had jobs, and they were content.
The surviving men, when not honing their battle skills, earned their wages mining the veins of silver uncovered during the campaign.
It was this rich discovery of resources that made Rhaenar stage a display before the court, feigning that these proud people should keep their dignity after thousands of years of resisting Andal rule; to never answer to the Lords of the Vale, but only to Dragons across the Blackwater.
Only such a foe deserved their allegiance, or so the narrative went.
This was made easier by Rhaenar's relationship with Lady Arryn, who was content to let a third party mediate the peace that followed.
Dragon Prince and Mountain King beheld the valley as they spoke.
"Is what your messengers say true?" Ulfgar asked. "We Seven Kingdoms no more?"
"No need to worry. Things will continue as they were."
"We want to raid."
"Absolutely not," Rhaenar said. "A low profile is vital. We cannot afford to have the Vale rekindle their hatred for the clans."
Ulfgar smirked. "Not Vale. We raid lowlander kingdom. The River one."
Rhaenar winced. "I understand you are all eager to spill blood again. The time will come. For now, it is important no one is reminded you exist. If any of your warriors wish to fight, I can bring them back with me. They can train with the army."
"No. If Dragon Prince promise fight, that is good for now."
And so the mountain clans remained, tempered by their defeat yet unbroken.
Loyalty pledged not to fear, but to the promise of Fire and Blood.