A week had passed in a whirlwind, Edric Arryn cloistered in the Eyrie's solar, his desk buried under trade ledgers, construction logs, and raven scrolls from the city's foremen. The city—its lone furnace spitting steel, textile looms creaking toward life, concrete plant a heap of bricks—demanded his every thought. He'd bartered with Gulltown traders for wool, allocated stone for bathhouses, and settled weavers' squabbles, his quill a tireless foe. Managing thousands of smallfolk, their tents carpeting the valley, and the city's nascent industries overwhelmed him, each decision a weight on his chest. War, though, was a strange reprieve—a chance to trade ink for steel, to face the Vale's clans head-on. Ravens would carry his commands, answering tradesmen's queries, keeping furnaces fed and looms spinning. Logistics would dog him, a chain he couldn't snap.
Edric stood on a wooden platform at the training grounds, the summer sun baking the muddy plain, the air sharp with dust and leather. His 1,400 Steel Falcons—500 pikemen, 500 bowmen, 400 cavalry—stood in tight ranks, their squads moving as a honed team, loyalty forged through shared drills. The pikemen, once ragged, now carried bucklers on their left arms and gladii at their hips for close combat, steel eked from the city's forge, though cuirasses were few. Bowmen gripped longbows, leather tunics worn, while cavalry shifted in patched plate. Behind Edric, his captains—Ser Albar, Tormund, Beron, veterans of Royce and Waynwood—stood resolute, white cloaks snapping, their scarred presence a steady keel.
Edric raised a hand, the plain falling silent. His voice cut through, fierce and clear, weaving echoes of orations from worlds unspoken. "Men of the Vale! The clans—thieves, rapers, cowards—have bled our lands too long, torching homes, stealing lives. They make the Seven Kingdoms scorn us, call us weak for enduring these vermin. No more! Your steel is unbloodied, your hands untested, but you are Vale men—my men. These clansmen, who flee open battle, will crumble before your blades, your will. We march to purge this scourge, to forge a Vale unbowed. Rise, Steel Falcons, and crush them!"
He ended with a raw scream, leaping onto his destrier, its black coat rippling. Hooves thundered as he rode a tight arc around his men, shouting, "For the Vale! For the Falcon!" The Steel Falcons roared, pikes flashing, bows raised, horses stamping, their voices a storm. Edric's blood surged, their fire his own, the burden of lordship lifting for a breath.
A week later, Edric led 20 mounted Steel Falcons through a rugged valley 30 miles from the city, the terrain a tangle of granite cliffs, twisted pines, and gravel-choked streams. Small scouting parties, each a handful of riders, fanned out across the region, mapping ridges and passes, their sketches tracing choke points and ambush sites in Edric's mind. His men rode in silence, armor clinking, horses stepping over shale. The summer air was warm, heavy with pine resin and dust, but shadows clung to the cliff bases, cool and sharp. Edric's thoughts traced the land's contours—defensible slopes, hidden gullies—when he whistled for Storm, his falcon. The bird's mind stirred, a secret warging bond, and Edric slipped into Storm's eyes, the world snapping into vivid clarity.
Storm's POV:Storm soared above the valley, wings slicing thermals, his eyes piercing the pine canopy. Below, a clearing stank of smoke and filth, campfires smoldering amid hide tents and lean-tos. Women, children, and elders—gaunt, draped in patched furs—packed bundles, herding goats and dousing fires, poised to flee. Three hundred Burned Men stood apart, a grim warband, their faces a tapestry of ruin: red, puckered burns slashed across cheeks and jaws, some with lips charred to stubs, others with ritual scars carved in jagged spirals. Their hair was matted, knotted with bone beads or scorched sinew, and their armor was scavenged chaos—rusted chainmail pilfered from corpses, cracked leather breastplates, furs studded with iron scraps. Weapons glinted: notched axes, flint-tipped spears, curved swords nicked from raids, a few wielding stolen Vale longswords, edges dulled. Fifty were mounted, their horses skeletal, ribs stark under matted coats, hides scarred from whips, saddles mere blankets lashed with rope, hooves cracked and bleeding. The rest, lean and wiry, gripped weapons on foot, burn-scarred hands steady, eyes blazing defiance. They barked orders, struck tents, and honed blades, clearly aware a large force neared, their camp braced for war.
Leaving Storm's body was a wrench, as always, the pull of freedom nearly overwhelming. In the falcon's mind, the Vale's burdens—city, army, lords—dissolved, replaced by the boundless sky, the rush of wind, the world a speck below. The urge to soar forever, to never return to the weight of command, gnawed at Edric, a siren's call to abandon all. Yet years of discipline, forged through countless wargings, held him fast. He clawed back to his own mind, the Vale's needs a chain stronger than temptation, his duty to the Steel Falcons and the city an anchor he couldn't shed.
Edric snapped back to his own eyes, Storm's screech fading as the falcon perched on his gauntlet. The valley's terrain crystallized—a defensible ridge a mile back, its granite lip jutting over a narrow gully, ideal for an ambush. He pulled a small parchment from his saddlebag, scrawled a brief note, and strapped it to Storm's leg, the falcon's talons gripping tight. With a whistle, Storm launched skyward, wings cutting toward Brynden Tully's main host, the note set to reach him in minutes. Edric turned to a rider, voice low. "Ride back to the narrow gully a mile behind us. Meet Ser Brynden Tully's reinforcements and guide them swiftly to the ridge above. Move now."
The letter read: Brynden, 300 Burned Men, armed, camp three miles ahead. Send one company of pikemen, one of bowmen, west from your camp. A guide will lead to the ridge above the gully for ambush. Have 50 cavalry ready to circle their rear after pikemen hold the charge. Move now. —Edric.