Edric Arryn rode through a haze of ash, his throat raw, a racking cough tearing from his chest as he guided his pure black destrier over scorched shale in the Mountains of the Moon. For days, he and Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, had tracked the Black Ears, their 300 Steel Falcons—100 mounted men, 100 archers, 100 pikemen—dogging the clan's trail through valleys choked with smoke and ruin. The Black Ears' scorched-earth tactics—giant fires set to block paths, blackening pines and meadows—forced detours and backtracking, the air thick with soot that clung to armor and stung eyes. The pikemen and archers, on foot, straggled miles behind, their boots dragging under the weight of bucklers, gladii, and longbows, unable to keep pace with the cavalry's relentless hunt. Another force, equal in size, had been sent to round up the Black Ears' civilians—women, children, elders—fleeing deeper into the mountains, splitting Edric's strength but tightening his net.
The Burned Men's crushing defeat had sent ripples through the clans, the word spreading like wildfire: the Steel Falcons were a blade too sharp for open battle. The tribes, once bold, now skulked in shadows, avoiding fields for hit-and-run raids. Edric had adapted, dispersing his 1,400 men across the Mountains of the Moon, building encampments—crude palisades of felled pines, ringed by watchfires—to track movements and resupply his forces. Ravens flew between camps, carrying reports of Black Ears raids south and Stone Crows massing east, each scrap of parchment a piece of Edric's tightening noose.
The ash taste wore on Edric, coating his tongue, his coughs echoing in the smoky air. His men fared no better, their faces smudged with soot, eyes red, armor dulled by dust. Brynden, riding beside him, seemed carved from iron, his black armor unmarred, red-and-blue Tully cloak flapping, his weathered face unfazed. "This is war's way," he'd grunted when Edric coughed, his voice a low rasp, as if ash and blood were mere inconveniences. Edric envied the Blackfish's grit, his own lungs burning, but he pressed on, the Black Ears' trail—charred footprints, broken spears, and crow feathers—leading deeper into a valley of jagged cliffs and blackened pines.
Edric whistled softly, calling Storm, his falcon, and slipped into the bird's mind, the world sharpening as wings cut through the haze.
Storm's POV: Storm soared above the valley, eyes piercing the smoke, the stench of charred wood and decay rising. A ravine sprawled ahead, its slopes thick with singed pines, a thin stream glinting through ash-dusted rocks. A large band of Black Ear warriors huddled there, their camp a mess of hide lean-tos and stolen crates. They were ragged, faces smeared with soot, feather-cloaked shoulders slumped, eyes hollow with hunger. Their armor was cobbled—leather vests, scraps of stolen chainmail, furs strung with crow skulls and obsidian beads. Weapons gleamed dully: stone-tipped spears, rusted daggers, a few Iron-forged axes nicked from raids. No horses, only gaunt men, lean and weary, gripping spears. At their center stood a woman— her dark hair braided with sinew, a necklace of shriveled ears dangling, fewer than expected, her frame wiry but commanding. She barked orders, rallying the band, likely to shield their kin, their misery stark yet defiant.
Brynden's gray eyes narrowed, stroking his beard. "No waiting, then. The foot and archers are too far back—won't make it. We split the company—half with me to hit their front, half with you to take their rear. Hammer and anvil, crush 'em before they slip." He grinned, a wolf's teeth bared. "Let's gut 'em."
Edric nodded, his cough easing, mind racing. The ravine's terrain—narrow, pine-choked, slopes steep—suited their trap. He signaled his company of cavalry, their plate clinking, horses snorting in the ash-heavy air. Davos, Tom, Wyl, and Waymar rode close, faces smudged but jaws set, Davos's eyes flickering with the Burned Men's blood still raw. The foot companies, pikemen and archers, were a loss Edric accepted—this blow had to land now.
Edric led half the cavalry in a wide arc, hooves muffled by ash, circling to the ravine's rear through a smoke-veiled gully. Brynden's half charged straight, hooves a rolling thunder to drive the Black Ears toward Edric's anvil. The clash erupted, screams piercing the haze as Brynden's men smashed the clan's front, lances skewering, gladii slashing, horses trampling lean-tos. The women's voice rang out, sharp and fierce, rallying her warriors, axes clanging against plate, spears jabbing, but their line buckled, men fleeing toward the ravine's rear.
Edric signaled, his half surging from the gully, hooves shaking the earth. He drew his sword, blade flashing, and carved through a Black Ear, the man's ear necklace snapping as he fell. Waymar, bronze runes glowing on his black armor, hacked a warrior's shoulder, blood spraying ash. The Black Ears , caught in the pincer, broke—many fell, spears shattered, bodies crumpling in the stream, water churning red. Some fled, only to be cut down by Brynden's riders, while a handful, led by Chella, threw down weapons, kneeling in soot.
Chella stepped forward, her ear necklace swaying—only a few shriveled ears, less fearsome than the tales Edric knew from another life's books. Her dark eyes burned, but her shoulders slumped, defeat etched in her soot-streaked face. "We're bested," she said, voice low but steady. "I know when the fight's done." Edric's mind flickered—she looked less fierce than those pages painted, or perhaps that's just what broken enemies became, stripped of myth. He nodded, accepting the surrender, his voice cold. "Bind them. They march to the mines."
The ravine was a graveyard—corpses, broken spears, crow skulls scattered, the air thick with blood and smoke. Edric's men bound the prisoners, perhaps a score, their wrists roped, destined for the city's mines. Edric's cough returned, but he swallowed it, eyes on Chella, her defiance snuffed out.