On a large boulder in the center of the temporary camp, Harwin unrolled Aldric's map. He tapped a spot near the Blackwater Rush.
"The Westerlands column will camp here tonight," Harwin said, his voice rough. "Old Sam—my scout—reckons they'll reach the ambush point by noon tomorrow. To be safe, we should move out tonight. If we delay, we might miss them."
Ser Marq Piper frowned. "Noon? The sun will be directly overhead. The glare will blind us."
"Conversely," Harwin countered, "the light will help our archers aim. We don't have many arrows. Every shot needs to count."
The commanders debated for a while, eventually agreeing to march under cover of darkness to avoid detection.
Aldric rolled up the map. "An'she grant us strength."
He had chosen this spot carefully. It sat on the border of the Reach, the Westerlands, and the Riverlands—a no-man's-land. If the convoy was hit here, reinforcements would be days away, while the Rivermen could easily melt back into the forests.
Why not a night raid? Because Old Sam had reported that this convoy circled their wagons at night—twenty-one heavy carts linked end-to-end. A tortoise formation. Hard to crack without siege equipment.
They moved out.
By the next morning, they were in position. The soldiers chewed on hardtack and cold water, waiting.
The commanders crouched on a low ridge north of the road.
They waited. Noon came and went. The sun didn't blind them, because the sun was gone.
Dark clouds rolled in. A few heavy drops of rain tapped against Aldric's helmet. Pink. Pink.
"Aldric," Harwin whispered, crawling closer. "Scouts say the Westermen have stopped. They're setting up camp to wait out the storm."
Aldric looked up at the bruising sky. "This rain is going to get heavy."
"It will ruin the bows," Harwin said grimly. "And the mud will slow the horses. Our plan is dead."
"Not dead," Aldric said, watching the distant figures on the road. "Changed. You think they stopped to avoid the rain? They're vulnerable while they set up tents."
Harwin's eyes lit up. "You want to hit them now?"
"Why not?" Aldric grinned. "Tell Marq. Get the men ready."
They split up. Aldric led the Golden Dawn and the Brotherhood cavalry along the northern ridge. Harwin signaled Piper's men.
When they crested the hill, they looked down.
The Westermen were indeed scrambling. Eight wagons had been pulled into a rough arc, but the circle wasn't closed. The rest were stuck in the mud.
Then the heavens opened. The rain fell in sheets, turning the world gray and blurry.
"We can't wait for the mud to deepen," Aldric shouted over the roar of the rain. "CHARGE!"
A horn blast cut through the storm.
Down on the road, Ser Alyn Osgrey was shouting at his men to secure the tarps. When he heard the horn, his blood ran cold.
He looked up. Through the curtain of rain, a wave of dark shapes was thundering down the hill.
"Ambush! Form up!" Alyn screamed.
But his men were holding hammers and ropes, not spears.
"Caron! Shield wall! Cavalry, with me!"
Ser Alyn drew his sword and spurred his horse, leading his thirty mounted guards into the teeth of the charge.
It was a clash of chaos.
The two lines of cavalry smashed into each other in the pouring rain. Lances skidded off wet armor. Horses slipped in the mud. It wasn't a glorious charge; it was a brawl.
Visibility was near zero. Men slashed at shadows. The rain turned the dust to slick mud, stealing the momentum of the horses.
The ambush was devolving into a muddy slog. The Riverlords' men, unsure of who was friend or foe, began to pull back, looking to regroup.
Then, from the northwest corner of the battlefield, a chant rose above the storm.
"AN'SHE PROTECTS!"
Every head turned.
Twelve men had dismounted. They held two-handed swords. They wore heavy plate. And they were charging on foot.
Leading them was a golden giant. Flanking them were a white direwolf and a massive shadowcat clad in black armor.
They hit the Westerlands infantry line like a hot knife through butter.
A spearman thrust his weapon into the chest of a Golden Dawn warrior. The warrior didn't fall. He didn't even flinch. A flash of golden light erupted from his body, and the wound knit shut in an instant. The warrior stepped forward and cleaved the spearman in two.
"Monsters!" a Westerman screamed. "They don't die!"
Ser Alyn Osgrey watched in horror. He saw his line disintegrate. He saw men stabbed through the gut, only to glow with golden light and keep fighting.
A mace slammed into Alyn's chest, knocking him from his saddle. He scrambled up, mud filling his mouth, only to see the golden giant bearing down on him.
"Seven save us..." Alyn whispered.
Aldric slammed the pommel of his longsword onto Alyn's helm. The world went black.
When Alyn woke, he was tied to a wagon wheel. The rain had slowed to a drizzle.
The battle was over.
It hadn't been a battle. It had been a massacre.
The cavalry charge had been messy, but the Sunwalker infantry assault had been decisive. Aldric and his twelve disciples had torn through the enemy formation, their supernatural endurance breaking the Westermen's morale.
Why fight a man who heals instantly? Why strike a man who doesn't bleed?
The Westermen broke and ran.
Martha, the Golden Dawn's only female Sunwalker, was moving among the wounded. The "Battlefield Rescue" unit had been disbanded, but old habits died hard.
She reported to Aldric: "Thirteen of ours wounded. Five dead—none of the Golden Dawn. The enemy has twenty-eight dead, nineteen captured. Seven wounded."
"Treat them," Aldric ordered.
"Treat them?" Ser Marq Piper rode up, his face splattered with mud. "Why waste magic on Lannister dogs?"
"Because I said so," Aldric said calmly. "I treat nobles. I treat peasants. A life is a life."
"If you let them go, they'll just come back to kill us," Piper argued. "Or they'll raid the countryside. Their crimes will be on your head."
"If we kill the nobles," Aldric countered, "the smallfolk levies won't have anyone to order them to war. They'll go home. They're farmers, Marq. Not monsters."
Harwin stepped in. "The Commander has a point. They haven't raided yet. They were just guarding wagons."
"Fine," Piper spat. "What about the prisoners?"
"You wanted a ransom for Ser Alyn, didn't you?" Aldric said. "Let these men carry the message back to the Rock. Give them some food so they don't starve on the way."
Piper scowled but agreed. It was a practical solution.
"Then let's split the loot," Piper said, eyeing the wagons.
The count was confirmed: twenty-one wagons. Six with arms and armor—mail, spearheads, arrows. Fifteen with grain, sourced from the Reach, destined for King's Landing.
"A hundred men for this haul?" Aldric mused. "The Young Wolf must be causing havoc in the West if they're desperate enough to send this much food east."
As agreed, Piper took three wagons of arms and two of grain. Harwin and Aldric split the rest evenly.
The allies looked at the Golden Dawn soldiers with new eyes.
They weren't the most skilled swordsmen. But their resilience was terrifying. A soldier who can take a spear to the gut and keep fighting is worth ten who can't.
Harwin did the math. If Aldric had three hundred of these men... he could break any army in Westeros.
With the loot divided, Piper and Vance departed, their wagons heavy but their minds troubled.
Harwin stayed behind.
"Commander Aldric," Harwin said, leaning on his sword. "I have a request. Would you meet with the leader of the Brotherhood? Lord Beric Dondarrion?"
Aldric paused. The Lightning Lord.
"Is he nearby?" Aldric asked.
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