Davos's POV
Davos's heart hammered, a wild drum in his chest, as Edric's sharp whistle sent Storm skyward, the falcon's wings slicing toward Brynden Tully's distant host with a note strapped to its leg. A rider spurred his horse, galloping to meet the reinforcements, and the war became real, a blade pressed to Davos's throat. The ambush at Gulltown still haunted him—screams of butchered men, blood soaking the dirt, nightmares that woke him shaking. Now, marching back into war, terror clawed his gut. He'd vowed to Edric to be his man, to become the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, but his courage faltered, a boy's fear against a man's oath. Around him, the 20 Steel Falcons rode steady, their faces hard, eyes glinting with steel—little fear in them, only purpose. Tom and Wyl, riding close, looked pale, their breaths shallow, fear mirroring his own. Edric's de facto Kingsguard, that's what Davos called them—Tom, Wyl, Waymar Royce, and himself—bound to their lordling, but only Tom and Wyl seemed to share his dread.
Edric and Waymar were different, carved from stone. Edric sat tall on his pure black destrier, his dark blue plate armor gleaming, silver falcon inlays flashing under the summer sun. A sky-blue cloak, pinned with a silver falcon, rippled behind him, and his open-faced helm framed a face fierce with confidence, eyes burning like sapphires, jaw set like iron. His sword, sheathed at his hip, was a promise of death, its black leather hilt worn from practice. Waymar, beside him, was no less imposing, his pure black plate armor etched with bronze runes that glowed faintly, a nod to House Royce's ancient pride. His chainmail undershirt clinked beneath a falcon-clasped cloak, and his bronze-trimmed helm sat firm, dark eyes steady, lips curled in a grim smile. Their calm, their strength, set them apart—not just lordlings, but something more, as if war was their birthright. Davos couldn't know if all highborn were so, or if Edric and Waymar were simply forged differently, their confidence a beacon he envied.
Edric's voice cut through, low and hard. "We hit the Burned Men fast, strike like a hammer. Fight as hard as you can. When I yell retreat, ride for the gully—don't look back." Davos's stomach churned, his hands trembling on the reins. Edric nodded to him, Tom, and Wyl. "You three go with the first charge. Hit hard, hit fast." The rest, Edric's 10 strongest riders, would hold back, a reserve to slow the clans during retreat, giving them space.
Time stretched and collapsed, an eternity or an instant, as Edric raised a hand, halting the column in the valley's shadow, granite cliffs looming, pines whispering in the warm air. Davos's heart pounded, threatening to burst, as he peered through the trees. The Burned Men emerged, a nightmare from Flea Bottom tales—300 warriors, their faces ravaged by burns, red and puckered scars twisting cheeks and jaws, some with half-melted eyes, others with ritual whorls carved into charred flesh. Their matted hair, braided with bones, swayed as they moved, clad in scavenged armor: rusted chainmail, cracked leather, furs studded with iron. They gripped notched axes, flint-tipped spears, and stolen swords, their burn-scarred hands steady. Fifty rode skeletal horses, ribs jutting, hides whip-scarred, hooves splitting. The rest advanced on foot, lean and feral, eyes glinting with hate.Davos nearly wheeled his horse to flee, his vow crumbling, but a captain's scream—"For the Vale!"—jolted him. He kicked his mount, longsword drawn, charging with Tom and Wyl into the Burned Men's ranks. A primal fury seized him, fear burning away as his blade slashed, blood spraying, screams of men and horses filling the air. The Steel Falcons cut through like a scythe, Burned Men falling, their axes no match for steel and speed. Davos speared two with his lance, the shaft snapping, lost in the chaos. His sword rose and fell, hacking through leather and flesh, his breeches wet with shame, body shaking, but he fought on, driven by the roar around him.
The tide turned fast. The Burned Men rallied, their numbers swelling, axes biting into horses' flanks, spears jabbing from shadows. Davos's arm burned, his sword heavy, gore slicking his grip. He scanned for the trumpet, the signal to retreat, and it blared, sharp and clear, cutting through the screams. He wheeled his horse, Tom and Wyl beside him, but the Burned Men closed in, a wall of scarred faces and steel. The gully's exit was lost, cliffs boxing them in. Panic surged—another wave, double their number, thundered on horseback, hooves shaking the earth. Davos's hope faltered, his sword trembling, when Edric's reserve charged.
Edric, on his black destrier, was death incarnate, his blade a silver arc, cleaving through Burned Men like chaff. His blue armor flashed, cloak streaming, as he carved a path, blood misting the air. Waymar, black and bronze, rode beside him, his sword a blur, runes glowing as he hacked down riders, their horses screaming. The 10 reserves smashed through, opening a gap. Davos stared, awestruck, screaming, "For House Arryn!" The Steel Falcons rallied, the gap widening, and Edric's voice, louder than the battlefield's din, roared, "Retreat!"
Davos spurred his horse, following Edric's lead, Tom and Wyl at his heels, the Steel Falcons streaming toward the gully. The Burned Men's taunts chased them—"Cowards! Run, dogs!"—but Davos clung to Edric's path, the trumpet's echo his lifeline.
Edric's POV
Edric's heart thrummed, not with fear but with purpose, as he led the retreat, his destrier's hooves pounding the valley's shale. The battle unfolded as he'd planned—Davos, Tom, and Wyl's charge had struck hard, thinning the Burned Men's front, their pikes and swords reaping a bloody toll. From his vantage, holding back with his 10 strongest riders, Edric had watched the clash, the Steel Falcons cutting through like a blade, only to be swamped as the Burned Men's numbers surged. The clansmen, 300 strong, were a horror—burn-scarred faces twisted in rage, their scavenged armor rattling, axes and spears flashing in the summer light. Their skeletal horses screamed, falling under gladii, while foot warriors swarmed, their stolen longswords clashing against bucklers.
Edric's reserve waited, poised, until the Burned Men closed in, surrounding his men, a second wave of mounted clansmen—near 60—charging to seal the trap. Davos's group faltered, the gully's exit lost, and Edric signaled his 10, led by himself and Waymar. He spurred his destrier, blade drawn, crashing into the Burned Men's flank. His sword sang, slicing through leather and bone, blood spraying his blue armor, silver falcons slick with gore. Waymar, at his side, was a bronze-and-black tempest, his blade carving necks and limbs, runes flaring as he unhorsed a clansman, the man's scream cut short. The reserves smashed through, horses trampling, swords flashing, opening a bloody path. Edric's voice, amplified by will, roared, "Retreat!"
The Steel Falcons surged through the gap, Davos, Tom, and Wyl among them, their horses lathered, eyes wide but following. Edric and Waymar held the rear, slashing at pursuing Burned Men, their axes glancing off plate. The clansmen's taunts echoed—"Coward dogs! Run to your nests!"—and Edric saw Waymar's jaw tighten, his bronze helm glinting as he glared back. "Steady," Edric hissed, his own helm muffling a smile. The taunts meant nothing; the plan was working.
The gully loomed, its granite cliffs narrowing, the ridge above hidden by pines. Edric kept the pace, the Steel Falcons streaming behind, the Burned Men's 50 remaining horsemen giving chase, their foot warriors lagging but yelling curses. The clansmen saw weakness, a fleeing foe, and Edric's smile widened under his helm. The ambush waited, Brynden's forces—100 pikemen and 100 bowmen—poised on the ridge, guided by his rider, Storm's note delivered in minutes. The Steel Falcons pushed past the gully's mouth, hooves thundering, and Edric glanced back, the Burned Men's horses closing, their scarred faces twisted with triumph.
He raised a fist, halting his men just beyond the ridge, turning to face the clansmen. The Burned Men's cavalry charged, axes raised, into the gully's choke point. A horn blared, and the ridge erupted—100 bowmen loosed volleys, arrows hissing like vipers, punching through rusted chainmail and furs. Horsemen fell, skewered, their skeletal mounts screaming, hooves flailing in the gravel. The pikemen, hidden behind the granite lip, surged forward, pikes leveled, bucklers raised, gladii ready. The Burned Men's charge shattered, horses impaled, riders thrown, pikes driving through chests and throats. Blood soaked the gully, the air thick with screams and the stench of death.
The foot warriors, 250 strong, stumbled into the gully, seeing their cavalry's ruin—corpses pinned to the earth, arrows protruding, pikes dripping red. Half, near 125, froze, their axes and spears wavering, then threw weapons to the ground, raising scarred hands, begging mercy. The other half roared, charging the pike wall, their eyes wild, blades flashing. The pikemen held, pikes thrusting, gladii slashing as clansmen reached close quarters, bucklers deflecting blows. Bowmen fired from the ridge, arrows thinning the attackers, each shot a precise kill through eyes or throats. The Burned Men's charge broke, bodies piling, the gully a slaughter pen.
Hooves thundered anew—50 Steel Falcons cavalry, Brynden's reserve, swept from the valley's flank, circling the gully's rear as Edric had ordered. Their lances dipped, plate and mail flashing, and they smashed into the remaining Burned Men, trampling those who fought, scattering those who fled. Screams rose, men crushed under hooves, swords hacking limbs, the clansmen's defiance snuffed out. The surrendering 125 knelt, heads bowed, their burns stark in the sunlight, while the last fighters fell, skewered or trampled, the gully a charnel house of blood and steel.
Edric lowered his sword, breath steady, his destrier snorting amid the carnage. Waymar, blood-splashed, reined in beside him, his bronze runes dull with gore, a grim nod passing between them. The Steel Falcons stood unbroken, their trap sprung, the Burned Men's 300 reduced to corpses and captives. The clans' taunts were silenced, their end sealed in the gully's red embrace. Edric's eyes flicked to the ridge, where Brynden's forces held, then to Davos, Tom, and Wyl, shaken but alive, their vows intact. The Vale was one step closer to his vision, and the city's furnaces would burn brighter for this victory.