The winter sun bled through the clouds, casting a harsh, unyielding light onto the training grounds of the Silver Stars. Dust kicked up by the wind danced in chaotic spirals across the dirt.
Brienne stood taller than any woman on the field, her shoulders broad as a man-at-arms, her shadow a massive, jagged stone against the earth. Her face—rough, freckled, and marked by a nose broken too many times—held no feminine softness. Her hair was a shock of straw, dry and brittle. Yet her eyes, deep and clear as a mountain lake, burned with the pride of a warrior who had bested knights from the Stormlands to the Reach.
That pride was met by Beth.
Beth was a vision of lean, predatory grace. In her hands, the short spear was a living thing. The girls of the Stars stood in a silent circle, their breaths hitching as the two faced off.
Beth moved with the speed of a desert cat, the spear tip flickering toward Brienne's throat. Brienne parried, the wood of her practice spear vibrating with the force of the strike. Beth spun, her movements a blur of dust and wool, striking for Brienne's midsection.
Clang.
Sparks flew where the iron-capped points collided. Brienne was forced back, her boots digging deep furrows into the sun-baked earth. She was sweating, her tunic clinging to her skin. She knew that with Oathkeeper, she could end this in a heartbeat—but in the mud of the Riverlands, the Light did not care for Valyrian steel.
In a blink, Beth found the opening. The spear tip rested firmly against the hollow of Brienne's throat. A single bead of blood, bright as a ruby, trickled down to her collar.
"You yield," Beth said, her voice steady.
"I yield," Brienne rasped, dropping her weapon. She turned to leave, her heart heavy with the weight of another failure.
"Where are you going?" Beth barked.
"I failed your test. I am not fit for the Stars."
Beth laughed, a sharp, genuine sound. "You think you have to beat me to join? If that were the rule, I'd be sleeping in this barracks alone. You're stronger than any girl here save for Martha, and she's in the capital. Welcome home, Brienne of Tarth. Or should I say... Ennie?"
Brienne felt a surge of unexpected warmth. "Thank you."
When Aldric gave the order to march, Brienne—now Ennie—discarded her shield and donned the blackened brigandine of the Dawn. She took her place among the fifteen hundred spears of the Golden Dawn.
To the Great Lords, fifteen hundred was a pittance. Lord Walder Frey had brought five thousand as a "dowry" for the Young Wolf. But Aldric's men were different. They didn't march for a Lord's coin; they marched for the Sun. The red banners bearing the golden Seven-Pointed Sun snapped in the wind, a beacon for the smallfolk who lined the roads.
"Let them sing!" Aldiba shouted from his saddle.
The army erupted into the chords of Karina. The melody reached Old Carlyle as he drove one of the supply wagons. He wiped a tear from his eye, humming along to the name of his lost wife.
On the fifth day, the host arrived at Blue-Wave Keep.
The ancestral seat of House Goodbrook was a sturdy fortress, its walls thick with moss and the memories of a dozen minor wars. Aldric's engineers immediately began assembling pre-fabricated components from the wagons. Within hours, catapults and ladders began to take shape.
Then came the psychological blow. Aldric had used captured silks to sew a massive, crude sphere—a "Floating Head of the Father." When the hot-air balloon rose above the battlements, the Goodbrook garrison fell to their knees in terror.
But Aldric did not give the order to storm the walls. Instead, he maintained a tight blockade and sent his other companies into the surrounding villages. They didn't raid; they bought. They paid in Silver Moons for grain and cattle, preaching the Path of Light to every farmer who would listen. To the peasants, selling to the Dawn was a blessing; paying taxes to House Goodbrook was a curse.
Inside the keep, Lady Gwyneth Goodbrook was a prisoner of her own stone.
"Maester, has my husband replied?" she asked, her voice tight with panic.
Maester Casimir shook his head. "None. Whether the ravens are being shot down or Lord Lymond is being held by the Freys, I cannot say. We should try messengers by night, lowered in baskets."
"No!" Ser Henry, the Master-at-Arms, barked. "The enemy has that... flying skull in the sky. They see everything. We only have a hundred and twenty men left. We cannot bleed away our strength sending boys into the woods."
Gwyneth looked at her nine-year-old son, who was huddled by the cold hearth. "What does the mercenary want? What does this 'Lightbringer' demand?"
"He demands you walk barefoot to the Fisher Septry," Casimir whispered, "to confess your sins against the Faith and the smallfolk for a moon. Only then will he lift the siege."
"Insanity!" Gwyneth shrieked. "I am a lady of House Vance! He is a commoner with a stolen title!"
"He claims the title is from the High Septon," Casimir noted. "And the 'Sparrows' in his camp grow in number every day. If we do not yield, Lady Gwyneth... the soldiers in this keep will soon realize they are hungry, and the men outside are fed."
Ser Henry's jaw set. He knew the Dawn demanded his head for the flogging of the monks. He would never allow a surrender.
In the command tent of the Dawn, Sandor Clegane sat unarmored, nursing a bottle of stolen wine. Aldric was busy at a desk, scratching out orders with a quill.
"You don't drink," Sandor noted, taking a long pull.
"I have a world to build, Sandor. I don't have time for the fog."
"Hmph. Why aren't we over those walls yet? My boys are getting restless. Give me a Sunwalker to mend the arrows, and I'll give you that keep by midnight."
Aldric looked up. "I don't want the keep yet. I want the husband."
"Lymond Goodbrook? He's at the siege of Riverrun with the Lannister host."
"Exactly," Aldric smiled, a cold, strategic glint in his eyes. "Tywin is dead. The Riverlords are looking for any excuse to go home. I want Sandor Clegane to take the heavy horse northwest. Watch the roads from Riverrun. When Lymond hears his wife is trapped, he will ride to her aid."
Sandor smirked. "You're fishing for a Lord."
"I'm setting a trap," Aldric corrected. "We surround the point, then we break the rescue. 'Surround the point, strike the relief.' It's an old trick, but the Lions haven't learned it yet."
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