Fifteen days had hardened the mountains.
And the mountains had begun to bend.
Eight tribes now stood under the falcon.
Not broken.
Bound.
Their fires burned in new places.
Their warriors watched different banners.
Their oaths carried new weight.
But one remained.
The largest.
The fiercest.
The one that had never bent.
The Stone Crows.
In the command tent, the air was heavy with purpose.
Maps lay marked with fresh ink.
Paths crossed.
Encampments circled.
Lord Yohn Royce stood firm beside the table.
Beside him—
Jon Snow.
"My lord," Royce said, his voice steady but grave, "we have found them."
Michel did not look up immediately.
"The Stone Crows."
Now—
His gaze lifted.
"The largest tribe," Jon added.
"They gather in the eastern ridges."
A pause.
"They are preparing."
Michel stepped forward.
"How many?"
Royce answered.
"Fifteen thousand."
The number hung in the air.
Heavy.
Threatening.
Jon continued.
"Men, women, children…"
A pause.
"Fighters—perhaps one to two thousand."
Michel's eyes did not change.
"And us?"
"Nearly three thousand," Royce said.
"Armored."
"Disciplined."
"Better armed."
Silence followed.
Then—
Michel nodded once.
"Then we hold the advantage."
Jon frowned slightly.
"My lord…"
A hesitation.
"They are ready for war."
Michel turned to him.
"So are we."
A pause.
"They fight with rage."
His voice sharpened.
"We fight with purpose."
He stepped toward the map.
"If they submit—this ends."
His finger traced the ridge.
"If they refuse…"
He looked up.
"…this ends anyway."
The words were not loud.
But they were final.
Royce exhaled slowly.
Understanding.
"This is the last step," he said.
Michel nodded.
"The last."
Jon looked between them.
Something tight in his chest.
Because he knew—
This would not be like the others.
The Stone Crows would not kneel easily.
They would fight.
And many would die.
Michel turned away from the map.
"Prepare the men."
A pause.
"We move in two days."
Outside the tent, the wind howled across the mountains.
Carrying the scent of smoke.
Of steel.
Of something waiting.
Jon stepped beside Michel as they exited.
"My lord…"
Michel glanced at him.
Jon hesitated.
Then spoke.
"They will not surrender."
Michel looked ahead.
Toward the distant peaks.
"Then they will learn."
A pause.
"Or they will end."
Jon said nothing.
Because in Michel's voice—
There was no anger.
No hatred.
Only certainty.
That night, the camp did not sleep easily.
Men sharpened blades.
Checked armor.
Whispered prayers.
The allied tribes watched from the edges of firelight.
Their loyalty still new.
Still fragile.
And far ahead—
In the high ridges—
The Stone Crows gathered.
War drums echoed between cliffs.
Torches burned against the dark.
Voices rose in defiance.
They had never bowed.
Never yielded.
And they would not start now.
The mountains trembled.
Because two forces were about to collide.
Not in raid.
Not in ambush.
But in open war.
Michel Arryn stood at the edge of the camp.
Wind pulling at his cloak.
His hand rested lightly on the hilt of Fly.
"Two days," he said quietly.
Behind him—
Three thousand men waited.
Ahead—
An entire tribe stood ready.
And when they met—
The mountains would remember it.
Because this was not just another battle.
This was the end of an age.
Dawn came hard in the mountains.
No gentle light.
No quiet warmth.
Only a pale, cutting glow spilling over jagged peaks—as if the world itself held its breath.
The Stone Crows had chosen their ground.
A wide ridge, broken by rock and narrow paths, with steep drops on either side. Fires still smoldered from the night. War drums had fallen silent.
Now—
There was only waiting.
Across the valley—
The banners of the Vale appeared.
Falcon blue against cold sky.
Michel Arryn rode at the front.
Behind him—
Three thousand men.
Armored.
Disciplined.
Silent.
They did not shout.
They did not boast.
They advanced.
On the ridge, the Stone Crows gathered.
Men with axes.
Spears.
Shields of wood and bone.
Fury in their eyes.
They roared.
A wild, rising cry that shook the air.
Michel raised one hand.
The Vale halted.
For a moment—
Stillness.
Then—
He gave the order.
"Advance."
The first movement was not a charge.
It was control.
Archers stepped forward.
Rows forming with practiced ease.
"Loose."
Arrows darkened the sky.
They fell like rain.
The Stone Crows surged forward—
But they had to descend.
Down uneven ground.
Through loose rock.
Men stumbled.
Formations broke.
Another volley.
More fell.
Still—
They came.
Because they always came.
"Shields!"
The Vale line tightened.
A wall of steel and discipline.
The first impact hit like thunder.
Stone Crow warriors crashed into the front ranks—
Wild.
Furious.
Uncontrolled.
Axes swung.
Spears thrust.
But against them—
Order.
Michel moved through the lines.
Not behind them.
Within them.
His blade cut clean.
Precise.
One man fell.
Then another.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
The Stone Crows fought with rage.
But rage—
Could not break steel.
Jon Snow stood near the center.
His blade moved faster than it had ever moved before.
Training turned to instinct.
Instinct to survival.
He parried.
Struck.
Stepped.
A man rushed him—
Jon turned, cut low—
The man fell screaming.
No time to think.
Only to act.
Above—
Vale archers continued their work.
Shooting past their own lines.
Finding gaps.
Breaking momentum.
The Stone Crows tried to flank—
But there was nowhere to go.
Michel had chosen the field carefully.
Narrow.
Controlled.
Their numbers—
Meaningless.
Their strength—
Restricted.
Their fury—
Wasted.
"Push!"
The command rang out.
The Vale advanced.
Step by step.
Shield by shield.
The Stone Crows began to falter.
Not because they lacked courage.
But because they could not break the line.
Michel cut through the front ranks—
Moving toward the center.
Toward the leader.
Because he knew—
End the head—
End the fight.
The tribal leader roared.
Charging forward with a massive axe.
Their eyes met.
Two worlds colliding.
The leader swung.
Brutal.
Heavy.
Michel stepped aside.
The axe crashed into stone.
And in that opening—
Michel struck.
Fast.
Clean.
Final.
The leader fell.
Silence rippled through the tribe.
Just for a moment.
Then—
It broke.
Not all at once.
But enough.
The Stone Crows wavered.
Then retreated.
Then broke.
Some fled into the mountains.
Some dropped their weapons.
Some fell where they stood.
The battle ended not with a roar—
But with collapse.
The ridge belonged to the Vale.
Breathing slowed.
Steel lowered.
The wind returned.
Jon stood still.
Chest rising.
Blade trembling slightly in his hand.
He looked around.
At the fallen.
At the broken.
At what war truly was.
Michel stood at the center.
Blood on his blade.
Eyes unchanged.
Victory.
But not joy.
Because this—
Was necessary.
Not glorious.
The last resistance had fallen.
The mountains—
At last—
Were under control.
And the Vale—
No longer bled.
[Please give me power stones and ticket]