Edric Arryn dismounted in the muddy Vale clearing, rain pattering on his white riding wear, now streaked with grime. His black cloak hung damp, silver falcon clasp glinting faintly under the spring clouds. His sandy blond hair clung to his brow, blue eyes scanning the aftermath of the Moon Brothers' ambush. At 9 and a half, he stood steady, steel sword sheathed, the bay stallion snorting beside him. The air stank of blood and wet leather, the gully quiet save for the groans of wounded clansmen and the shuffle of his men.
His crew—Tom, Wyl, Davos, Waymar—gathered nearby, blue leathers spattered, Waymar's chainmail dull under his falcon-clasped cloak. Fourteen Arryn guards in sky-blue cloaks and ten Grafton men with burning-tower sigils stood among the fallen, checking gear and catching breath. Brynden Tully, in dark chainmail, black trout bold on his surcoat, wiped his longsword clean, his graying beard wet with rain. The Blackfish's cavalry charge had shattered the clansmen, leaving Edric's shield wall barely tested. No one on their side lay dead—a testament to armor, training, and Storm's warning.
Edric moved among his men, voice calm but firm. "Any hurts?" He stopped by a Grafton guard, who grimaced, clutching his side. "Cracked ribs, my lord," the man muttered. Another Arryn guard flexed a swollen hand, wincing—broken, but he'd mend. Two more reported bruised bones, one a sprained wrist. Edric nodded, relieved. "Rest when we camp. You held well." His men stood taller, their mail and shields unbreached, the ambush turned in their favor.
He turned to the fallen Moon Brothers, scattered across the mud—ten dead, the rest fled. "Check them," Edric ordered, gesturing to his crew. Tom knelt by a body, rifling through furs, pulling out a rusty axe, its edge pitted. "Junk," he grunted, tossing it aside. Wyl poked at another, finding a spear with a cracked haft, wrapped in leather. Davos lifted a dagger, blade flecked with corrosion. "No smith'd claim this," he said, shaking his head. Waymar examined a clansman's gear, frowning. "Leather, no armor worth the name. Skinny as alley dogs."
Edric crouched by the scarred leader, his bone necklace snapped in the mud. The man's ribs jutted under thin skin, his rusty axe more weight than weapon. Starving, Edric thought, his stomach twisting. The clans fought for scraps, not glory. He stood, wiping rain from his face. "Take what's useful—flints, cord, anything sound. Leave the rest."
His men salvaged what they could—a few knives, some rope, a battered shield—then remounted, horses restless in the drizzle. Brynden rode up, sheathing his sword. "Clans hit hard but break easy," he said, voice gruff. "You called it right, lad.""We're not done," Edric replied, swinging into his saddle. "Eyrie's waiting." His crew nodded, Tom cracking his knuckles, Wyl grinning, Davos wiping mud from his curls, Waymar stone-faced but ready. The guards formed up, Arryn and Grafton men side by side, their victory a quiet bond.
The column moved out, rain falling harder, the road to the Eyrie winding through mist and stone. Edric glanced skyward, where Storm banked, her storm-gray wings a flicker in the clouds. The Vale's heart lay ahead, and with it, his father's reckoning.