The wind screamed louder than ever across the high passes. Clouds hung heavy, thick with snow and dust. Something had changed. The mountain had gone quiet, not in surrender — but in anticipation.
Rodrik sat hunched over the war map inside the Skyreach command tent when the first report arrived.
> "Redfort's scouts haven't returned. Belmore's outpost at Crow's Neck hasn't responded to the last two horn calls. And a merchant caravan was ambushed near the Black Cradle. No survivors."
Just before dawn, a line of black smoke columns rose along the eastern ridges — five in total. It was the old warning sign. One every soldier in the Vale knew from whispered tales.
The clans had united.
The Moonbrothers, the Burned Men, the Stone Crows, the Painted Dogs, and the Black Ears.
An alliance not seen in generations.
Rodrik had split his forces to hold multiple strongpoints, expecting only scattered resistance. But at Hollow Peak, the enemy struck.
2,000 clan warriors poured through the forest and onto the rocky slopes, using secret paths and natural tunnels to outflank the defenders.
Lord Hunter's men — 300 strong — were surrounded on three sides.
Rodrik received the distress horn at midday. He was two valleys away.
Against all advice, Rodrik rode himself to Hollow Peak, leaving the command to Ser Gwayne. The ride took six hours through winding, near-frozen paths.
By the time he arrived, Lord Hunter's camp was burning.
Rodrik stood on a cliff edge, the stench of smoke and blood thick in the air, and watched as survivors fled down the pass. But he saw something more — the clans weren't chasing.
"They're letting them run," he muttered, stunned.
Yobert, bloodied beside him, whispered, "They're not savages anymore. They're... learning."
That night, with the fires of Hollow Peak still glowing in the distance, Rodrik gathered his lords once more.
They looked tired, some bloodied, some frightened.
Rodrik stood before them, no longer the smiling, clever lord they had underestimated. His voice was iron.
Certainly. Here's a detailed and dramatic chapter that captures Rodrik's final plan to end the Mountain Clans' resistance in one bold, strategic stroke—balancing ruthless strategy with a long vision for peace:
The war with the Mountain Clans had dragged longer than Rodrik had intended. Though the Vale's armies had the numbers, the mountain terrain was merciless, and the clans fought like ghosts—striking in the night, burning supply lines, vanishing before retaliation. The noble banners had grown tattered, soldiers weary, and worse—morale was beginning to crumble.
Rodrik stood alone on a rocky outcrop one evening, looking at the stars above the jagged peaks. He clenched his jaw.
"This cannot go on. Not like this."
They needed one blow, one decisive move to end the war—and end it completely.
He couldn't chase the clans into the mountains. They knew every pass, every hidden cave, every sudden drop. But he could make them come to him.
And what better bait than the one thing they would never resist—the enemy commander himself.
---
The Council of Lords
In the war tent erected near the base of the Falcon's Climb, Rodrik summoned his closest lords—Yobert Belmore, Lord Redfort, Lord Coldwater, and a few others. The air inside was thick with doubt.
"You want to use yourself as bait?" Lord Royce's voice was thunderous. "They'll gut you before we lift a blade!"
"They won't kill me," Rodrik said with steely calm. "Not right away. They'll want to make an example of me. That gives us time. And if I'm exposed just enough... they'll come."
"We'll need terrain they think they can win in," said Yobert, thoughtful. "A narrow valley. Make it look like an ambush gone wrong, like you've been cornered. That'll lure them in."
Rodrik nodded. "Then we strike. Every able knight, archer, pikeman. No retreat. No mercy."
---
A narrow basin near Stonepine Ridge was chosen for the ambush. It looked ideal for a quick strike and retreat—the kind the Clans favored. A false convoy was dispatched, with Rodrik at its head, lightly guarded, carrying mock supplies and the Arryn banner flying.
Hidden in the cliffs and surrounding trees were over two thousand men—archers stationed high, pikes concealed under brush, and heavy cavalry in the rear, waiting to seal the mouth of the basin.
It was a bait so tempting, so rich with pride and vengeance, that the Clans couldn't resist.
---
They came screaming from the cliffs in the early morning light—Black Ears, Burned Men, Stone Crows, and more. Over three thousand strong, they charged the seemingly exposed convoy like a black tide.
Just as they closed in, the signal was given.
Trumpets rang. Barriers snapped up behind them. Fire arrows fell like rain. The ground turned red.
The trap closed like a fist.
In less than an hour, it became a massacre. The Vale forces fought with grim precision. Rodrik, in the midst of it all, never wavered—his calm fury visible to every banner-man who looked at him.
At one point, he called for a ceasefire and rode forward on a white destrier, armor scratched, face set.
He shouted into the carnage, his voice echoing in the valley.
"Enough! Surrender now, and I will spare your women and children. I know where they are hidden. I will not harm them, but this is your only chance."
Silence.
Then a war chief with blood-streaked hair screamed back, "We fight! We fight till the last! We do not kneel to Eyrie scum!"
Rodrik's face showed no hate. Just cold purpose.
"Then die with the mountain you claim to love."
The battle resumed. By day's end, the remaining clans—less than five hundred—threw down their arms.
---
Judgment at the Eyrie
Back in the high halls of the Eyrie, the lords were gathered. The captured clansmen were shackled below in the dungeons. The war was over—but peace was far from won.
"They should be hanged," one lord spat. "They killed your father. Your brother. Your blood cries for vengeance!"
Another slammed his fist. "We'll never sleep easy with them alive!"
Rodrik stood before them—not dressed in finery, but in the same dented armor he had worn in battle.
"I know what they've done. I feel it every day. But what will more blood buy us? Another generation of fear? Of raids?"
The room murmured with discontent.
Rodrik raised his voice.
"They will not go free. They will do labor. All of you know about the construction project I am planning for Vale Good cemented roads connecting every Castle with every city to every village not those muddy roads that washes away with rain. For fifteen years, they will build roads, repair bridges, dig canals—for the barest of meals. What good they are to us dead. If we use labour for such massive projects it will cost us dearly in Labour cost alone. I will keep their families in a vacant plot in my territory. We will give them hope & in fifteen years we can decide what to do with them."
The lords fell into silence & thought about it.
None rejected the idea as it saved them money.
In the weeks that followed, the clansmen were marched to work sites across the Vale. They labored in silence, under guard, but with dignity. Their families were moved to settlements near the southern foothills—simple homes, good soil, and a schoolhouse being built stone by stone.
Rodrik visited them in secret, overseeing their welfare. He gave no speeches, no proclamations. He simply ensured that the next generation would never see the world through the eyes of vengeance.
The war was over.
But the future—Rodrik had just begun to shape it.