Edric Arryn rode through the Vale's rain-soaked hills, his white riding wear mud-streaked, black cloak whipping in the spring drizzle, a silver falcon clasp glinting at his shoulder. His sandy blond hair clung damp to his forehead, blue eyes sharp under the cloudy sky. At 9 and a half, he led his retinue with a steady hand, steel sword at his hip, a bay stallion snorting beneath him. His crew—Tom, Wyl, Davos, Waymar—rode close, blue leathers slick, Waymar's chainmail rattling under his falcon-clasped cloak. Fourteen Arryn guards in sky-blue cloaks and ten Grafton men with burning-tower sigils flanked them, horses slogging through the mire.
Gulltown lay behind, its docks entrusted to Merton Grafton, who'd sell Edric's Braavosi goods—silk, lace, ivory—while two captains and a warehouse kept trade humming. Three days of rain had made the road to the Eyrie a slog. "This mud'll swallow us," Tom growled, shaking his wet black hair.
"Better than Gulltown's crowds," Wyl said, grinning, his hood half-off.
Davos muttered, golden curls plastered, "Crowds don't drown your boots."
Waymar scanned the hills, hand near his sword, silent. Edric's gaze flicked upward, where Storm soared, her storm-gray wings slicing the mist. He slipped into her eyes—the world snapped clear: rain-slick rocks, gnarled pines, and in a gully ahead, twenty Moon Brothers crouched, furs sodden, axes and spears ready for an ambush.
He blinked back, pulse spiking. "Brynden," he called softly, reining in. The Blackfish, in dark chainmail, black trout stark on his surcoat, rode up, graying beard dripping. "Clansmen ahead, twenty, waiting to strike."
Brynden's eyes narrowed, glancing at Storm, then Edric. "Your bird's got sharp eyes, lad. Or you do." He didn't press, but his tone held a question.
Edric shrugged, face calm. "Storm's restless. I trust her." The warging stayed his secret, even from the Blackfish.
Brynden nodded, jaw tight. "I'll take six riders, hit their rear when they spring. You hold the front."
Edric met his gaze. "We'll draw them out." He didn't need to say more—Brynden was already picking men, three Arryn guards and three Grafton riders, hooves fading into the trees.
Edric raised a hand, voice sharp. "Halt!" The column stopped, horses snorting, mud sucking at hooves. His crew tensed, hands on weapons. The remaining guards—eleven Arryn, seven Grafton—closed ranks. Edric stood in his stirrups, rain dripping from his cloak. "Moon Brothers!" he shouted, voice carrying over the gully. "Show yourselves, or we'll ride you down!"
Silence, then a rustle. Twenty clansmen emerged, shaggy in furs, faces smeared with ash, axes and spears raised. Their leader, a scarred man with a bone necklace, snarled, "Little lord wants to die early."
Edric's crew dismounted, forming a rough shield wall with the guards, their wooden shields locking, swords drawn. Tom hefted his blade, hulking; Wyl crouched, quick; Davos gripped his sword, eyes fierce; Waymar stood firm, chainmail glinting. Edric stayed mounted, sword out, heart steady. "Last chance," he called. "Walk away."
The clansmen charged, howling, spears thrusting. Edric's wall held, shields splintering but firm, blades flashing in the rain. He parried a spear, his horse sidestepping, as Tom bashed a man back and Wyl ducked a wild swing. The clansmen pressed, outnumbering them, their axes biting wood.
Then—a thunder of hooves, a scream from the gully's rear. Brynden Tully burst from the trees, chainmail gleaming, longsword raised, leading the six riders in a wedge. They slammed into the clansmen's back, horses trampling, blades cutting. The Moon Brothers faltered, their line crumbling as Brynden carved through, blood mixing with rain. Clansmen screamed, some dropping weapons, others sprinting for the hills. Grafton archers, dismounted now, loosed arrows, felling runners with sharp thwacks.
Edric shouted, "Push!" His wall surged, shields shoving, swords striking. The clansmen broke fully, fleeing into the mist, leaving half their number in the mud. Edric lowered his blade, breathing hard, his crew panting but whole. Tom grinned, Wyl whooped, Davos wiped blood from a shallow cut, and Waymar sheathed his sword, nodding.
Brynden rode up, rain streaking his face, a grim smile breaking through. "Clean work, lad. Your bird's a fine scout."
Edric returned the smile, wiping his sword on his cloak. "She's got her uses." The road to the Eyrie lay open, but the Vale's wild heart still beat.