The afternoon sun slanted through the war room windows, cutting bright, dusty trapezoids across the oak table.
Ser Hyle Hunt sat across from Aldric, his thick brows arched in disbelief. His bronze-colored face, usually a mask of cynical humor, was uncharacteristically stunned. "You want to... take me into your service?"
Aldric leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. A warm, steady smile played on his lips. "If you are willing, Ser Hyle. Any man who trails the Maid of Tarth on a fool's errand—no matter his private greed—proves he is at least more man than the rats currently running the Riverlands."
Hyle stood, his armor clinking as he offered a stiff, formal bow. "To serve the master of the Gods Eye is a fortune I didn't expect to find in the mud. My steel is yours."
Aldric turned his gaze to the silent youth in the corner. Podrick Payne looked as though he wanted to melt into the shadows. Aldric questioned him gently about the Imp, then signaled a page to lead the two to their quarters.
As the heavy oak door groaned shut, Sandor Clegane, who had been slumping in his chair, sat bolt upright. He bared yellowed teeth in a sneer. "Hyle Hunt is a fool. He thinks he's going to get rich off you."
Aldric leaned back, crossing his arms. "Then he'll be disappointed. But if he finds the Light and sheds that greed, he might find something more valuable than gold."
Sandor leaned in, his chair creaking under his massive weight. His eyes were like unsheathed daggers. "Stop playing the monk. You're bracing for Lord Randyll Tarly, aren't you? Why else would you recruit a third-rate knight who knows Tarly's camps?"
Aldric's finger traced an invisible map on the table. "Lord Tarly is a dagger at our throat. Maidenpool is a few days' ride for heavy horse." He paused, shifting the topic with deliberate intent. "Saltpans is clear?"
"Cleaner than a laundress's rag," Sandor grunted, slamming his calloused hands on the table. "The day after you left, I caught the last of the Mummers at the Crossroads. They're swinging from the old oaks now."
He traced a radiating path in the spilled tea on the table. "I cleared the outposts north and west. I even intercepted three grain wagons bound for Harrenhal. But there's word from the mountain passes you won't like."
"Tell me," Aldric said.
"I caught a dozen Burned Men at the High Road. They were armed with Lannister steel—fine mail and good blades. Before I hanged them, I spoke with their captives. Lysa Arryn is dead. Pushed from the Moon Door by a singer, they say. Now her husband, Petyr Baelish, is Lord Protector of the Vale."
Sandor's expression turned grim. "The Vale Lords are screaming for his head, but Littlefinger is a snake. If he stabilizes the Eyrie, he'll come out of the mountains with ten thousand fresh knights to reclaim his 'seat' at Harrenhal. And we're sitting in his front yard."
Aldric's fingers drummed on the wood. The Vale was the only kingdom left untouched by the war. Fresh men, full granaries, and a mountain fortress that had never fallen. "This is grave news, Sandor. My thanks."
By noon, Aldric visited the forges. The air was thick with the smell of coal and hot iron. He inspected the new War-Wagons—sturdy timber frames reinforced with iron plates, designed to be mobile fortresses for his crossbowmen.
Returning to his solar, he found Roger Hughes waiting for him, pacing with frantic energy.
"Lightbringer!" Roger's face was flushed. "The plan worked! Lady Goodbrook flogged our brothers in the square. Thirty lashes for Gal, twenty for the others. The smallfolk saw it all. They saw the 'Holy Men' bleed for trying to bring them trade."
"And they are whole?" Aldric asked, a shadow crossing his face.
"Kevin mended their infections, but Brother Gal refused the full healing. He wants the scars to remain as proof of the Lord's cruelty. He says they are his 'Harvest of Faith'."
Aldric looked away, guilt gnawing at him. He had sent them to be martyrs, and they had succeeded too well. "I will honor them personally. Assemble the officers. We march in three days."
The mobilization was a testament to the Dawn's discipline. Within seventy-two hours, fifteen hundred spears were ready. Aldric would lead the main host toward House Goodbrook's lands, leaving only three companies and the new recruits to hold the Monastery.
The host was joined by two unexpected figures: Bishop Clare and his observers from the capital, and Brienne of Tarth.
Brienne had approached Aldric after her meeting with Lady Stoneheart. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her massive hands twisting her tunic. "Lightbringer... I failed Lady Catelyn. I cannot find her daughters, and my lady is... changed. I have no home left. Let me join the Dawn. I will fight as a common foot-soldier if I must."
Aldric studied her. Brienne was a masterpiece of martial skill, but her soul was bound by highborn chains.
"You are a good woman, Brienne," Aldric said gently. "But the Dawn is here to break the very system that gave your father his lands. If word reaches the Reach that the heir to Tarth is fighting for a 'peasant army,' Selwyn Tarth will be stripped of everything. In my home, we say: 'One cannot serve both duty and kin' when the world is on fire."
"I can hide my name!" she cried.
"You are a six-foot woman with a Reach accent and Valyrian steel," Aldric countered. "You are about as hidden as a lighthouse in a storm. However... I have a unit of Silver Stars—former Spearwives from the North and women who lost everything to the Lions. They handle the security of highborn captives and civilian women. If you can drop the 'Ser' and the 'Lady,' you can lead them."
Brienne bit her lip. "I want the front lines. I want justice for Catelyn."
"Justice has no rank," Aldric said. "If you truly want to serve, you follow orders. If people see you on the front, they will think the Starks are here. That invites a war we aren't ready for. Join the Stars."
Brienne was led to a secluded corner of the barracks. Two girls were currently locked in a brutal sparring match with seven-foot spears, while others watched, cheering.
"Sister Beth!" the page called out. "The Master sent a recruit!"
A girl with short-cropped red hair turned, a predatory grin on her face. She was Beth, a veteran of the Spearwives. "The Master personally? You look like a heavy hitter, big girl. Have you ever killed a man?"
"Too many," Brienne replied, her hand on Oathkeeper. "Mummers and brigands."
Beth tossed her a practice spear. "I hear you like the sword. But here, we use the long-reach. Come. Let's see if that size is just for show."
Brienne stepped into the circle, finding a stance. For the first time in years, she wasn't being looked at as a freak, but as a weapon.
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