297 AC
The Mountains of the Moon were old and cruel. Their peaks pierced the sky, jagged and gray, veiled in mist and broken light. For centuries, the hill tribes had roamed them—warring, raiding, killing—beyond the laws of the Vale.
No longer.
Artys was going to finish the job his namesake had started four thousand years ago.
With him rode over a hundred armed men—knights of the Vale, rangers from the high passes, and the Burned Men, now armored and remade in his service. Red-cloaked and grim-eyed, they followed their new warlord with zeal. At their head, Timett son of Timett, whose eye-patched face bore fresh scars and a permanent sneer.
"Steel Storm," the clansman called him. It had begun as a whisper. After the ambush near Lake Stonedew, where Artys had slain dozens of men with his Valyrian steel sword—Talon—in the time it took to light a torch, the name had taken hold. Artys had stopped holding back completely. The clans were a warlike people who respected nothing but strength and had some kind of democracy where warriors had a right to voice their opinions. This kept the clans quarreling with each other and with themselves rather than becoming a cohesive unit that could threaten the Vale. Artys was going to stomp them into the ground. Submit or die; they would either join the Burned Men under Timett or be killed to the last man and burned for the Red God.
The next clan to fall was the Painted Dogs.
When the scouts returned with word of their camp nestled in the cliffs south of Hollow Hall, Artys had no need to give a speech. The Burned Men had become ever more zealous since his display of strength and seemed eager to crush their fellow savages.
"Submit or die," Artys said.
His messengers brought the terms: bend the knee, swear loyalty to the Burned Men, adopt the Red God, give sons for war, and grain for peace.
The reply came in the form of two heads tossed into a ravine—one messenger and one of the Burned Men who had delivered the terms.
That night, Melisandre of Asshai came to him beneath the stars. She wore no armor, no cloak, only her red silk robes, and the ruby glowed at her throat.
"You must burn them," she said, her voice soft and certain. "All of them. Not only the warriors. The old gods must be put to the flame."
Artys did not answer right away. He stared at the fire, hands folded around Talon's hilt.
"Even the women?"
"The Lord of Light accepts no compromise," Melisandre replied.
Timett son of Timett agreed. "We made our choice. They make theirs. Burn them or let them cut our throats later."
So they marched at dawn. "Spare the children and women. Your men can take them as wives, and the children will be raised as part of the Burned Men. The warriors will be taken and burned for your god."
The Painted Dogs had dug in on a ridge—high, defensible, with a narrow path the only way up. Traps littered the approach: spiked pits, deadfalls, sharpened stakes hidden under brush.
Artys did not slow.
He led from the front, dismounting on the climb and advancing with the Burned Men in a loose wedge. Stones flung from slings flew from the trees. A Burned Man took a stone to the face, killing him instantly. Another struck a knight's breastplate, denting the steel.
Then Artys reached the top.
The first Painted Dog rushed him, a short curved blade in hand. Artys didn't parry—he sidestepped, fast as a snake, and slammed the hilt of Talon into the man's throat. A second came at his flank. Artys twisted and cut clean through the attacker's shoulder and ribcage with a single strike.
The blood sprayed black in the early light.
Timett and the Burned Men poured over the ridge behind him, screaming war cries. The Dogs broke formation almost immediately. Some tried to run. Others fought like wild animals. It didn't matter.
Talon was everywhere. A flash of black and silver. The edge of death.
One man tried to grapple Artys. He was flung aside with bone-breaking strength. Another came in with a spear. Artys caught it with one hand and twisted, snapping it in two, then brought the broken shaft down across the man's face.
In the chaos, the chieftain of the Painted Dogs emerged. Broad, scarred, wielding a two-handed axe. He charged.
Artys sidestepped the swing and cut the man's hands clean at the wrists. Valyrian steel cut through bone and muscle like cheese. The clansman stared dazed at the stumps where his hands used to be. Artys thrust his sword through the massive clansman's confused face.
Artys swatted the stones from the slings with his sword and ran towards the slingers, thinking they could prove useful, especially if they were given lead balls instead of stones. He sprinted towards them at superhuman speed, two hundred and seventy pounds of muscle, mail, and armor, and began knocking them out with the pommel of his sword and his fists.
With that, the Painted Dogs broke.
By nightfall, the survivors—those who hadn't been cut down—were rounded up: seventy women, forty-four children, and fifty remaining fighters, mostly slingers and wounded. Pyres were built. Ser Shaddrich and the rangers looked uncomfortable with the foreign god who demanded sacrifices be burned alive. But their success was undeniable and would have been impossible without the Red witch and the Burned Men. Artys commanded that anyone who joined the Burned Men would be spared, and those who refused would be fed to the flames.
"They would have butchered you in your sleep," Timett growled. "They mocked our god. They spat on your gifts." They have learned their lesson, Timett. Now they will have a chance to serve," Artys replied. Artys wanted the slingers especially. Through threats and promises, Timett was able to recruit them. Most of the men walked to the fire and burned a part of their body as a sign of joining the clan. The women would be distributed as prizes of war, as was the way of the mountain clans. The children could be indoctrinated and turned into loyal soldiers in due time. The wounded warriors were of no use to Artys; they were consigned to the flames.
Melisandre stood before them. Timett at her side. The Burned Men gathered around, torches raised.
Melisandre lifted her arms.
"The fire cleanses. The fire purifies. The Lord of Light is mercy and wrath. Bring them forth."
The prisoners were dragged to the pyres.
Some screamed. Others sobbed. A few cursed them until the flames silenced them.
Artys watched in silence. His face was a mask.
In the dimly lit tent, the air thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and the lingering smoke of battle, outside the sounds of rape and revelry could still be heard. Artys stood tall. His armor, dented and scarred, bore testament to the fierce fighting he had endured. Melisandre, her long copper hair cascading down her back, approached him with a predatory grace, her red eyes gleaming with a mix of admiration and desire.
"Azhor Ahai," she murmured, her deep, melodic voice sending shivers down Artys's spine. "Let me tend to your wounds and soothe your weary body."
Artys, his breath ragged and watching men being burnt alive, had affected him more than he would admit. He allowed Melisandre to undress him, her slender fingers deftly removing his armor and clothing. Her touch was electric, igniting a fire within him. Melisandre knelt before him, her full breasts pressing against his thighs as she took his manhood into her mouth. Her lips were soft and warm, her tongue skilled and insistent. Artys groaned, his hands tangling in her copper hair, guiding her movements as she sucked and licked, her mouth hot and wet around him.
He could feel the power radiating from her, the magic that coursed through her veins, heightening every sensation, making him feel alive in a way he had never experienced before. He pulled her head back, his cock glistening with her saliva, and spat into her mouth, a thick, viscous stream that she swallowed eagerly, her eyes never leaving his.
"Turn around," he commanded, his voice rough with desire and a hint of cruelty. "I want to see that beautiful arse of yours."
Melisandre complied, her slender body arching gracefully as she presented herself to him. Artys ran his hands over her pale, unblemished skin, tracing the curve of her spine, the flare of her hips. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the power that pulsed beneath her surface.
He positioned himself behind her, his cock hard and ready, and pushed into her ass, harder and faster than he ever had with Myrcella or Marei. Melisandre cried out, a sound of pleasure and pain, her body tensing and then relaxing as she took him in, her faith in her chosen one unwavering.
Artys grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he pounded into her, his body slapping against hers with each thrust. Melisandre moaned, her voice a low, guttural sound that spurred him on, making him fuck her harder, deeper.
He could feel his orgasm building, a tightening in his balls, a tingling at the base of his spine. He pulled out of her ass, his cock glistening with her juices, and turned her around, forcing her to her knees.
"Open your mouth," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Suck me witch"
Melisandre obeyed, her red eyes locked on his as she took him into her mouth once more. Artys fucked her face, his hips moving in a steady, relentless rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of her wet, warm mouth, devoted whore did not gag her eyes still full of fanatic glee.
He could feel his orgasm approaching, a wave of pleasure that threatened to consume him. He grabbed her head, his fingers tangled in her hair, holding her in place as he came, his seed spurting into her mouth, filling her.
Melisandre swallowed every last drop, her throat working as she took him deep, her eyes never leaving his. She licked her lips, a slow, sensual gesture. Melisandre, her body glowing with a soft, inner light, began to clean him, her hands and mouth gentle and reverent as she tended to his every need, seeing it as her sacred duty to care for her chosen one, no matter how he tested her.
She washed him with warm water, her touch soothing and caring, her eyes filled with a mix of adoration, devotion, and a hint of masochistic pleasure at the knowledge that she had pleased him, that she had endured his rough handling and taken everything he had given her.
She dried him with soft towels, her movements slow and sensual, her body pressing against his as Artys closed his eyes to take a nap.
By dawn, nothing remained but ash and bones. The next day, they rode on.
They took three more clans in the weeks that followed.
The Howlers yielded after a single skirmish. The Moonborn resisted and were wiped out. The Stone Crows bent the knee when Artys threw their war-leader from a cliff with his bare hands.
Each time, the legend of Steel Storm grew.
The Burned Men swelled with new converts. Even some of the Vale knights, once skeptical, began to murmur of prophecy and fate. The tribes who once raided and squabbled now rode under one banner of the Red Hand.
In the firelight, they whispered stories.
Of how his eyes glowed when he fought. Of how his sword drank the souls of men. Of how even the shadow cats avoided his camp.
"Steel Storm. The Fire Lord's wrath made flesh."
And Artys said nothing to deny them.
He had not yet spoken of what came next—of the knights he would train from the Burned Men's sons, of the longboats being built in secret at Wickenden, of the food stores being set aside in Arrynton for a winter that might never end. Entire Hill clans had been erased. Artys knew there were still those who lingered in the Eastern parts of the Vale. But the Hill Clans would never more be a threat to anyone. Artys went on his way back to the Gates of the Moon victorious.