Edric Arryn drew his pure black destrier to a halt on the rim of a muddy plain, the Vale's summer air thick with the stench of trampled earth, sweat, and oiled steel. The training grounds sprawled before him, a roiling mass of men under a blazing sun, their grunts and clashing weapons a pulse that echoed the city's clamor a mile away. His escort—Tom, Wyl, Davos, Waymar, and 15 Arryn guards—reined in behind, horses snorting, hooves sinking into the mire. The Steel Falcons, 1,400 strong, filled the plain, their pikes, bows, and hooves a living testament to Edric's will. His chest tightened, the mantle of lordship a crushing weight. The Vale's future rested on his shoulders, and darker storms loomed—clans, rival lords, shadows only he glimpsed. Yet he was the Vale's blade, forged for this, and these men were his edge.
The Steel Falcons were structured with ruthless precision, Edric's design for discipline in the Vale's rugged terrain. One hundred forty squads of 10 men, each led by a Squad Sergeant, formed 14 companies of 100, commanded by Company Captains, all under a host of near 1,000, led by Edric or a Host Commander. He had forged a unified force from 500 smallfolk and 800 former lord-sent troops—300 cavalry, 500 infantry—blending raw recruits with seasoned men from Royce, Waynwood, Grafton, and others. Each squad mixed village lads with veterans, each company a fusion of smallfolk and lordly spears, training, eating, and bleeding together to forge loyalty to Edric alone, old allegiances to distant keeps dissolving like mist. The 500 pikemen, 500 bowmen, and 400 cavalry were his, a force to crush clans and bind the Vale's fractious lords.[1]
Edric's eyes swept the field. The 500 bowmen stood in loose ranks, longbows gripped, clad in rough leather tunics, some with tattered cloaks, their armor scant—a few dented kettle helms, no steel to spare. The city's lone furnace, its tower half-built, couldn't forge enough, and coin was stretched thin. The 500 pikemen formed tighter lines, pikes angled, but only a fifth wore steel cuirasses, the rest in boiled leather or bare, their sallet helmets and bucklers scavenged from early steel. The 400 cavalry, blending Edric's 100 horses with 300 others, wheeled in formation, riders in patchwork plate and mail—some with breastplates, others with chainmail patched with leather, helms mismatched or missing. The integration was taking hold—smallfolk mirroring veterans' stances, former lord-sent men shouting orders to recruits, a shared purpose hardening under the sun.
As Edric watched the pikemen lock pikes in a mock wall, three captains approached on horseback, hooves splashing mud, their armor clinking. Ser Albar, a grizzled former Royce spearman, commanded a mixed company, his blue cloak mud-flecked, face carved with decades of war. Tormund, a bull-necked ex-Waynwood soldier, led the pikemen, his leather jerkin scarred from drills. Beron, a lean former Royce archer, led the bowmen, his weathered face taut, bow slung across his back. They were still yards off, their horses picking through the mire, when Edric's mind slipped, a memory flaring like a torch.
Ten months ago, when the Eyrie's ravens first summoned men, this plain was a stage for chaos, a comedy veined with despair. The 1,900 men from lords—Royce's ironclad spears, Waynwood's disciplined knights, Grafton's sullen archers—arrived two months after his call, 300 mounted, the rest on foot. Edric kept 300 cavalry and 500 infantry, sending 1,100 back, their loyalties too knotted to other keeps. Those 800 were the only men worth a damn, their drills crisp, blades steady, honed by lords' masters-at-arms. But the 500 smallfolk, scraped from villages by Brynden Tully over four brutal months, were a shambles—tanners, stableboys, lads with more guts than skill. They shambled into camp, some in threadbare tunics, others clutching rusted knives or warped staves, their "marches" a drunken lurch of tripped feet and oaths.
One morning burned bright, a scene both absurd and grim. A smallfolk squad, barely a week in, "drilled" under Tormund's hoarse bellows. A scrawny lad, Wat, all knees and freckles, held his pike backward, its blade gouging the dirt. When Tormund roared to advance, Wat lurched, tripped on a root, and sprawled face-first, pike skittering into another man's shins. The squad unraveled—two men doubled over laughing, one dropping his buckler to wipe tears, another, reeking of sour ale, swinging a stick like a sword, only to clip his neighbor's ear. The ear-struck man yelped, tackled the drunk, and they rolled in the mud, fists flailing, while Wat scrambled up, pike abandoned, stammering apologies. Edric, watching from a rise with Brynden, had bitten his lip to choke a laugh, but his gut twisted. These were his men, chaff for clansmen's axes. A lord-sent knight had sneered, "Fit for pigpens, my lord, not battles." Edric's glare could've cut steel, but the truth stung. Only the lords' men—Royce's spearmen, marching like a machine—stood firm, their ranks shaming the smallfolk's farce. Brynden, helm in hand, had gripped Edric's shoulder, voice low: "They'll harden, lad, or they'll burn." Edric swore they'd harden.
The memory dissolved as the captains reached him, their horses halting, mud splattering their boots. Ser Albar bowed from his saddle, beard twitching. "My lord, the men drill as ordered," he said, voice rough as gravel. "Pikemen form ranks, bowmen hit targets, cavalry ride sharp. The mix is working—smallfolk and veterans blend, but steel's scarce—cuirasses for few, arrows thinner."
Edric leaned forward, armor clinking, eyes piercing Albar's. "More steel's coming, Albar—the city's furnace grows. We'll make do for now. How are the men working together?"
Albar's face tightened, cloak flapping. "They're knitting, my lord. Smallfolk copy veteran drills, stand shoulder to shoulder in squads. Royce's old hands push 'em, and they listen. But some—once Grafton's, Waxley's—grumble, say your city's a power grab. Most call your name, though."
Edric's jaw clenched, gauntlet creaking on the reins. "They'll fight, or I'll break them. Tormund, your pikemen—squads holding?"
Tormund shifted, jerkin creaking, neck scarred. "Decimals are tight, my lord—tens move as one, fifties shift clean. Smallfolk and veterans drill as brothers, loyal to you. Armor's the hitch—bare chests won't stop a clan's blade."
Edric's gaze hardened, probing each man. Blending smallfolk with veterans was his masterstroke, squads of mixed men training, eating, and bleeding together, old ties to Royce or Grafton fraying, loyalty to Edric strengthening. The captains—Albar and Beron, ex-Royce; Tormund, ex-Waynwood—had risen for their battle-honed skill, their voices carrying weight. But the Steel Falcons craved steel, and the city's half-built furnace mocked his haste. "You've got my trust," he said, voice like iron. "Pikemen hold the pass, bowmen thin the line, cavalry shatter 'em. We mobilize in a week—the Vale's clans end now. Their time is over. Spread the word."
Albar's eyes widened, then narrowed, nodding. "A week, my lord. The men'll be ready—clans'll bleed."
Tormund grinned, fist thumping his jerkin. "Pikemen'll carve 'em, my lord. Squads are hungry."
Edric pressed them, voice relentless—squad cohesion, horse stamina, arrow stocks, men's morale. Tormund spoke of pikemen's drills, mixed squads shifting like water, but boots wearing thin. Beron detailed bowmen's aim, smallfolk matching veteran precision, but arrow-starved, fletchers lagging. Albar described cavalry drills, smallfolk riders learning from knights, but plate patchy. He admitted tensions—some men, once Grafton's or Waxley's, whispering of lost gold or keeps, while Royce's stood firm, wary of Edric's city. The plain roared, pikemen locking pikes, bowmen loosing volleys, cavalry charging straw dummies, dust rising. Edric's destrier snorted, sensing his fire. The Steel Falcons were his, 1,400 raw but rising, their mixed squads forging loyalty to him.
[1] Decimal System
Squad (10 men): The smallest unit, led by a Squad Sergeant. Each squad is homogeneous—pikemen, bowmen, or cavalry—for cohesive tactics. Squads drill as tight-knit teams, executing orders swiftly. (140 squads: 50 pikemen, 50 bowmen, 40 cavalry)
Company (100 men): Comprises 10 squads, led by a Company Captain. Companies focus on one troop type (pikemen, bowmen, or cavalry), enabling specialized roles like holding passes or charging flanks. (14 companies: 5 pikemen, 5 bowmen, 4 cavalry)
Host (1,400 men): The full army, led by the Host Commander (Edric or a trusted Vale lord). The host coordinates all 14 companies, blending pikemen’s steel walls, bowmen’s deadly volleys, and cavalry’s thunderous charges.