Martha led Beth away to heal the villagers. Aldric sat down heavily next to Lennar by the fire.
"Lennar," Aldric asked quietly. "Do you feel it yet? The Light?"
The bard ran a hand through his messy hair and gave a wry smile. "Nothing, boss. Are you sure you planted it? Maybe the soil is too rocky."
"I planted it," Aldric confirmed. "Same as Kevin. Same as Jon."
"Maybe I'm just not pious enough," Lennar sighed.
Aldric stared into the flames. Piety. Was that it?
He knew An'she was a game mechanic, a backstory written by Blizzard Entertainment. But the ideals—Liberty, Equality, Fraternity—those were real. He had seen worlds where kings were toppled, where a peasant's son could lead a nation. That was his true faith. Not the sun, but the system.
"Lennar," Aldric asked. "Do you believe in equality? Do you believe a peasant is worth as much as a lord?"
Lennar was silent for a long time. The firelight danced in his cynical eyes.
"Boss," he said softly. "I want to believe it. I sing songs about it. But I've walked from the Westerlands to the Reach. I've played in dockside taverns and high castles. And everywhere I go, the knee bends the same way. The smallfolk look down, the lords look up. If you don't say 'm'lord,' you lose your tongue. Believing in the sun won't change that."
"Maybe," Aldric muttered. "Maybe not."
"Look at you," Lennar laughed gently, pointing at Aldric's bronze armor. "You talk like a revolutionary, but you dress like a lord. You kill like a knight. Do you think the villagers listen to you because of your philosophy? No. They listen because you have the big sword."
Aldric stood up, restless. He walked to the stream, listening to the water rush over the stones.
He's right, Aldric thought. Power dictates truth.
He needed a base. Every revolution in history—from the Red Turban Rebellion to the Storming of the Bastille—needed a stronghold. A place to prove the theory.
He had the power. He had the gold. But he was blind. He didn't know the Riverlands. He needed locals.
Elder Matt approached him, taking off his hat. "Master Aldric."
"Just Aldric," he corrected. "I'm no master."
"Captain Aldric, then," Matt said. "We have a request. We can't stay here. The Lannisters will come back. We want to harvest the last of the grain, then take our families into the hills. There are caves. We can hide until winter."
"You want protection for the harvest," Aldric guessed.
"Yes. We can't pay you gold. But we can feed your men."
Aldric looked at the desperate faces of the villagers. "Done. But when I give an order, you jump. Understood?"
"Understood, Captain."
For four days, the harvest proceeded in a frantic blur.
The women and children were sent to the caves. The young men stayed behind, scythes flashing in the sun, cutting the wheat as if their lives depended on it. Because they did.
Aldric set up a perimeter. Bonfires were built, ready to signal trouble.
On the fourth morning, smoke rose from the south road.
Terrance, perched in an oak tree, dropped a pebble on Aldiba's head. "Light it up."
The signal fire roared to life.
Aldric rode out with five men to intercept the intruders. He expected a Lannister patrol.
Instead, he found a dozen ragged scarecrows. They limped along the road, supporting each other. Leading them was a knight on a starving horse, carrying a banner depicting a naked maiden on a pink field.
"House Piper," Lennar whispered. "Pinkmaiden Castle."
The knight saw Aldric blocking the road. He didn't raise his lance. He looked too tired to lift it.
"Are you Westermen?" the knight croaked.
"Mercenaries," Aldric said. "Who are you?"
"Ser Duncan Baker," the knight spat. "Household guard to Lord Clement Piper. We just want to rest. My men are dying."
Aldric looked at the soldiers. Bloody bandages, hollow eyes, feet wrapped in rags. They were broken men.
"Come," Aldric said, lowering his sword. "We have food."
In the village hall, Ser Duncan ate like a wolf, tearing into bread and stew.
"Pinkmaiden is gone?" Aldric asked.
"Burned," Duncan mumbled through a mouthful. "Lord Piper was captured at the Golden Tooth. We tried to rally at Riverrun, but..."
He slammed his cup down, wine splashing on the table.
"Damn the Young Wolf," Duncan cursed. "Damn Robb Stark to the seven hells."
Jon bristled. "King Robb is fighting for you. He invaded the Westerlands."
"Invaded?" Duncan laughed bitterly. "He took the best horses. He took the best knights. He took the Blackfish. And he rode west to play hero. And who did he leave behind? Us! He left the Riverlands wide open! Tywin Lannister is burning our homes while your King plays conqueror in the west!"
"He's drawing Tywin away," Jon argued.
"Tell that to my dead wife," Duncan snapped. "Tell that to the ashes of Pinkmaiden. We are the bait, boy. Stark is using us as bait."
Aldric silenced Jon with a look. He poured more wine for the bitter knight.
"Rest, Ser Duncan," Aldric said softly. "The war is long. You're safe here for now."
As Duncan slumped into a drunken sleep, Aldric looked at the map Lennar had drawn.
Resentment, Aldric thought. The Riverlords feel abandoned. That is a seed I can water.
"Jon," Aldric whispered. "Double the guard. If Tywin is burning Pinkmaiden, the Mountain won't be far behind."
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