Edric Arryn sat tall on his pure black destrier, its hooves grinding the blood-soaked gravel of the gully, the summer air heavy with the reek of death and sweat. Below, 125 surviving Burned Men knelt, ragged and broken, their scarred faces contorted with pain and defiance. Blood streaked their burns—red, puckered scars slashing cheeks, arms, and chests—some wounds fresh: gashes from gladii, arrow punctures, or crushed limbs from trampling hooves. Their matted hair, knotted with bone beads, clung to sweat-slick brows, and their scavenged armor—rusted chainmail, cracked leather, iron-studded furs—lay in heaps, stained with gore. The gully was a slaughter pen, 175 of their kin dead, skewered by pikes or felled by arrows, their skeletal horses twitching in the dust.
Edric's voice sliced through, cold as steel. "Strip. Everything off. Now." The Burned Men froze, eyes flaring with hate, some clenching fists as if to rise. A sharp twang rang out—100 bowmen on the ridge above nocked arrows, their longbows creaking, tips glinting in the sunlight. The clansmen's defiance crumbled, their gazes dropping as they shed tunics, breeches, and boots, revealing emaciated frames, burns stark against pale skin, wounds weeping. Edric's Steel Falcons snickered, low laughs rippling through the ranks. The Burned Men's pride was ground into the dirt, their manhood trampled under the gaze of a boy-lord.
"Move away from your gear," Edric commanded, his destrier snorting, hooves shifting. The clansmen shuffled back, naked and shivering, their eyes burning with loathing but powerless against the pikes leveled at their backs. Edric signaled, and his men moved swiftly, binding the prisoners' wrists with coarse rope, linking them in a chain gang, each man tethered to the next, burns chafing under knots. The line stretched, 125 men stumbling in the gravel, heads bowed, the clink of rope and muttered curses the only sounds.
Edric turned to Ser Albar, his white-cloaked captain, blood flecking his beard from the fight. "Take 50 pikemen, 50 bowmen, and 50 cavalry. Pursue the Burned Men's tribe—women, children, elders—fleeing north. Capture as many as you can. No slaughter unless they resist." Albar nodded, his grizzled face set, and barked orders, half the ambush force—50 pikemen with gladii gleaming, 50 bowmen slinging longbows, 50 cavalry in patchwork plate—forming up to ride. The rest, 50 pikemen, 50 bowmen, and the 20 cavalry from Edric's scouting party, remained, guarding the prisoners and tending the wounded: a dozen Steel Falcons with gashed arms or broken ribs, their groans soft under the cliffs.
Edric led the column toward Brynden Tully's main host, the prisoners stumbling in their chain gang, flanked by pikemen, their bucklers raised. The wounded rode in creaking carts, bandaged with torn cloaks, while Edric's 20 cavalry, Davos, Tom, Wyl, and Waymar among them, rode rear guard, eyes scanning the pines. The valley's terrain softened—granite cliffs yielding to rolling hills, streams glinting less like steel, the summer air warm but easing as clouds gathered.
A rider galloped ahead to alert Brynden, and soon hoofbeats thundered from the south. Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, rode to meet them, his black armor dulled by dust, a red-and-blue Tully cloak flapping, his weathered face cracking into a grin as he reined in beside Edric. A dozen knights trailed, their mail clinking, banners limp. The chain gang halted, the Steel Falcons snapping to attention, pikes and bows steady.
"Gods, lad," Brynden said, voice gravelly but warm, "you've bloodied the clans proper. A fine trap." His gray eyes flicked to the prisoners, naked and chained, then back to Edric. "Where's the rest of your men?"
Edric's destrier shifted, his voice calm but firm. "Sent 50 pikemen, 50 bowmen, and 50 cavalry to chase the Burned Men's tribe—fleeing north. Orders are to take prisoners, not blood, unless they fight."
Brynden nodded, stroking his beard. "Good. Scouts report Stone Crows massing east and Black Ears raiding south, smaller but slippery."
Edric's eyes narrowed, the city's mines flashing in his mind. "Send these prisoners to the mines—125 men, labor for steel and stone. Take 50 pikemen and 20 cavalry to escort them, let them fetch supplies on the return—arrows, boots, bandages. The wounded stay with the host till fit. Albar's group will bring more captives, and we'll press east to hit the Stone Crows."
Brynden's grin widened, a glint in his eyes. "Mines'll eat 'em, and supplies are thin—smart. I'll send Ser Donnel with the escort, keep the host ready." He clapped Edric's shoulder, the gesture heavy with respect. The column moved, chains clinking, hooves steady, the next fight already forming.
A day later, dust rose on the northern horizon, and Edric rode out from the main host's camp, his destrier's black coat gleaming under the summer sun. The Steel Falcons—1,300 strong, minus the wounded and escort—stood in ranks behind him, pikes angled, bows slung, cavalry reins tight. Ser Albar's pursuit group returned, herding a ragged throng of Burned Men non-combatants: women with hollow eyes, children clutching tattered furs, elders limping on gnarled sticks. Perhaps 200, their faces haggard from the forced march, clothes patched and filthy, feet bloodied from shale. They shuffled into the camp, ringed by Albar's 150 men, their gladii and longbows a silent threat. The air was thick with dust and the scent of unwashed bodies, the camp's canvas tents fluttering in a warm breeze.
Edric's voice rang out, cold and unyielding. "Your warriors were annihilated—brutally, easily. Those who threw down arms face 15 years of hard labor to atone for their sins and their ancestors'. These mountains belong to House Arryn, and by extension, to me. You bear the same guilt, but since you did not raise arms against your rightful lord, I offer mercy." Grumbles rippled through the crowd, low and bitter, women clutching children, elders muttering curses. "Boys aged 8 to 15, unbloodied, can serve 12 years in the Vale's defense under my command, cleansing your sins. Those who cannot bear to serve the man who broke your people may take the black in the frozen north—or face death. Women, children, and elders will be scattered across the Vale, your clan dissolved, never to rise again. You have until sunset to decide."
Sobs broke out, mothers wailing, children whimpering, their voices a jagged chorus. A woman, her face burned and lined, shoved forward, screaming, "This is no mercy! You butcher our kin, chain us, tear us apart!" The crowd surged, shouts of agreement rising, fists shaking, eyes blazing with defiance. Edric raised a hand, his destrier stamping, and roared, "Silence!" The word cracked like a whip, the Steel Falcons shifting, pikes glinting, bows half-drawn. The crowd stilled instantly, the woman's voice choking off, her eyes wide with fear, the others shrinking back, their protests dying in their throats.
Edric wheeled his destrier, hooves kicking dust, and rode to his pavilion, its sky-blue canvas emblazoned with a silver falcon. Inside, he dismounted, his mind already turning—mines to feed, Stone Crows to crush, supplies to secure. The Burned Men's fate was sealed, their clan shattered, their labor and service a brick in his Vale reborn.