The road snaked much higher than the Stonehaven plateau, just enough to give them a clear view of the treeline below. It wasn't a proper forest—small, airy, lacking a proper name other than "The woods bellow Stonehaven." Hunting was pointless there as game would find a hard time having cover and therefore not be present. However as the name "The woods below Stonehaven" suggested, the small concentration of trees was below the level of the small town and had a small slope along with a stream of fast flowing water. Hundreds. Climbing out of the woods like ants from a split log.
Mountain folk.
Tomm's face went pale. "Seven save us... there's too many."
Edric didn't hesitate. "Ride back to the Eyrie. Now."
"What about—"
"I'll stall until you come with reinforcements. Go!"
Tomm spurred his horse without another word. He'd make it in time. Three hours, maybe four unless there was a truly important delay. A decently high numbered retinue of mounted warriors would be more than sufficient
Edric however, sprinted.
Down the slope. Across the grassy fields. Into Stonehaven.
Entering the town, some gasped in surprise. Seeing a tall figure clad in especially well made plate armor and holding a massive warhammer, running at high speed into their village would have been enough to frighten anyone.
The mountain men were already too close. Edric's eyes scanned the horizon, his mind racing. He needed to get the villagers out.
He jumped onto a something ressembling a wooden crate, and with his voice deep, but pushed to its limits as he called out to them, he yelled. "Listen to me!" His tone cut through the surprise like a blade through cloth. "Get your children, your wives and your husbands! Grab anything sharp—axes, pitchforks, anything! Leave everything else behind. We must march at once!"
The villagers hesitated. Confusion, and panic gripped them. The sudden order having been given so suddenely that many were frozen, remaining rooted to the ground on which they stood, unwilling to leave the homes they'd built.
Edric, with haste, stepped down, his gaze hard before removing his helm. "The mountain clans—at least hundreds of them—are heading up here, I saw them! The only thing stalling them is the small stream between our town and the woods. I sent word to the Eyrie, the Knights of the Vale are coming. All we need is to leave and wait long enough for them to arrive and take care of the mountain folk. So gather weapons if we ever need to fight and follow me!"
The weight of those words hit the crowd. They understood. They knew Edric wouldn't lie to them.
"Move, now!" he shouted, pulling a pack from a nearby cart and slinging it over his shoulder. "I lead! You follow."
___
Edric burst through the smithy doors, breathless. The orange glow of the flames a sharp contrast to the blue sky and the heat hitting him like a wall, the forge roaring behind Torman, who turned with a hammer still clutched in his hand.
"Seven have mercy, who are yo- Edric!"
"No time. Torman—we need blades!"
"What blades?"
"The mountain clans. hundreds are coming. Coming through the treeline. We've got less than hours. We need steel. Anything sharp."
Torman blinked, then got to action. He tossed the hammer into Edric's hands before, wiping his hands, and moving to the back wall where a locked chest sat half-buried under scrap.
"Never thought I'd see the day we'd need these," he muttered, unlocking it.
Inside: five or six swords, rough but serviceable—intended for commercial uses. But with the last somewhat wealthy fighter comming through the town, Ser Vardis, only wanting his longsword reforged, he lacked the opportunity to sell them.
He immedietly picked the chest up before putting it in the middle of the room. Edric hadn't remained idle during this time. He grabbed a pair of heavy forge-hammers, not meant for war but close enough. before throwing them in. A dozen axes, mostly for woodcutting, some still flecked with sap— tossed in with the rest. Torman pulled out other tools not intended for taking lives, one by one, setting them in the chest like offerings to a god of desperate men.
"Take what you can carry," he said. "We'll set the rest out in the square."
Edric grabbed another hammer, before throwing it in the chest. "We'll hold, Torm. If the mother is mercifull we might even not need fighting."
Torman snorted. "I do hope yer right."
___
Edric moved through the square, rallying men, women, and pointing them toward the opposite side of the woods and stream. The air buzzed with panic and the barking of animals.
Then he saw him—his father—leaning against the doorframe of their old cottage. Older, greyer, but still built like a damn tree trunk. He hadn't moved. Just stared.
"Pops," Edric said, slowing. "You heard?"
His father didn't speak. Just gave a small nod, eyes narrowing.
"We need to leave."
Still no reply. Then—quietly—he stepped back into the house.
For a moment, Edric thought he'd turned his back. But the door creaked open again, and his father stepped out holding a long-handled axe. Old steel. Notched along the edge. Wrapped in leather worn smooth with age. The haft had been blackened by fire and blood—Edric remembered touching it once as a boy, thinking it felt heavier than any sword.
His father looked at him, bare arms catching the morning light, shoulders flexed like a man decades younger.
"Used this in the Ninepenny Kings' mess," he said. Then he grinned, and it was all teeth. "You think I'll have to use it again?"
Edric didn't answer. He knew in his heart that a new battle was coming. And fighting it here was out of the question.
Through these efforts, the new squire of Robert Baratheon successfully led his former neighbours steady retreat, leaving their homes and lives behind to venture into the hills and mountains ahead.
___
The mountain clansmen—raging and hungry for blood—stormed the empty village.
Their screams brutally emptying the newly found silence. But alas, it was only their screams that were heard. They found nothing. No weapons, no prey. Maybe some unprepared flour, the occasional crust of bread but nothing.
However the smithy had continued to burn. As Torman in his haste could not spare any time to put out the fire.
For the clansmen, this mean't only one thing, they had been discovered in advance and the locals had fled.
Fortunately for them, the fleeing smallfolk left a trail. Footprints in the dirt, the crushed leaves from the occasional tree, the signs of a hasty departure. Following the trail with which came a grueling half hour march
As they neared the rocky terrain, they saw what they hadn't expected: a stand.
Stonehaven's villagers had taken refuge on the hills, men infront, their weapons ready. Women, children and elderly behind. And behind them:
Cold. harsh. Stone.
The villagers had lead themselves into a dead end.
"BAHAHAHAHA!!!!" They all laughed, mocking the villagers for their futile attempts at retreating.
THEY ARE RIPE FOR THE TAKIN' LADS!!! GET 'EM, HAHAHAHAHA!"
___
A dead end...You must be shitting me. Edric thought to himself. His gut had sank to the deepest pits of the seven hells when seeing the tall cliff of the rock ahead.
We can't even turn back. He cursed inwardly.
Everyone was panicking. Some were throwing up, while others prayed the gods for mercy.
I can't even think! He thought.
Tomm, hurry.