As dusk settled over the Isle of Faces, the group shared a meal of lake trout—massive, silver-scaled beasts caught in the deep waters of the Gods Eye. Looking at the gaunt faces of the Brotherhood, it was clear they hadn't seen a proper feast in moons.
Aldric put his mastery of the hearth to use. He combined the fat trout with fresh-picked forest mushrooms, simmering them into a thick, ivory-white broth that smelled of wild herbs and woodsmoke. Had they been back at St. Maur's, he might have finished the meal with a cluster of sweet grapes, but here the only growth was the ancient, silent weirwoods.
Despite the lack of dessert, every man ate until they were breathless. Only Beric Dondarrion remained abstinent, sipping a single bowl of broth with the slow, detached air of a man tasting fine wine. Aldric watched him—skin and bone, a walking shadow. He wondered if the Lightning Lord even truly needed to eat anymore. Perhaps the Stranger's embrace is the only thing that will truly sate him, Aldric thought grimly.
After dinner, Beric and his men rowed back to the western shore. Thoros remained behind with Aldric, per their pact. To hide his identity, the priest shed his pink-faded robes and donned a rough brown tunic borrowed from a Sunwalker. He took the name "Aster," a simple commoner's alias.
As they approached the monastery along a hidden game trail, a sharp, trilling whistle echoed from the canopy above. Thoros stiffened, his hand going to his belt. The sound was too rhythmic to be a bird; it sounded like the wooden whistles used by golden-haired squires at tournaments.
"Easy, Aster," Aldric said, noting the priest's tension. "My scouts. If the wrong sort approaches, they give the word. We don't like being surprised by 'collectors'."
Thoros nodded, impressed by the layer of security.
Outside the monastery walls, the land was transforming. Farmers leaned into heavy plows pulled by grunting oxen, turning the earth into deep, dark furrows. Ash from burned crops was being tilled back into the soil as fertilizer. Women moved through the waist-high weeds with scythes, clearing the way for the next planting. Nearby, a half-dozen warriors in battered mail patrolled the perimeter, their eyes sharp and wary.
When Aldric's party drew near, the farmers reflexively looked to the woods to flee. But when they recognized the golden armor, they stopped. They didn't return to their work; instead, they removed their caps and bowed low.
"Sun-Seeker! May Anshe shine upon you!" they called out.
Aldric raised a hand, a shimmering golden crest appearing momentarily over his fist—a small sign of recognition. "And upon you. Return to your labors; the day is short."
Thoros watched this with keen interest. "Your name carries weight here, Aldric."
"They were walking corpses when I found them," Jon Snow said, speaking for his master. "Most had the rot or the flux. The Dawnguard gave them bread and the Light. In these times, a full belly and a mended leg buy a lot of gratitude."
Thoros looked at the healthy, smiling laborers. It was a sight he hadn't seen in the Riverlands for a long time. "A pity the monastery has so little land," he remarked. "You could shelter a thousand more if you had the soil."
Aldric glanced at him with a cold, knowing smile. "In my homeland, we have a saying: The soil belongs to the man who tills it. The Sun provides the rain, the farmer provides the sweat, and the earth provides the sprout. He who works the land is the true master of it."
Thoros's eyebrows shot up. "That is dangerous talk, Captain. The lords and kings might have a different view on who 'owns' the dirt."
"There will be much 'dangerous talk' in the days to come," Aldric shrugged. "I suggest you get used to the flavor of it."
The monastery was at capacity. Aldric was forced to lodge Thoros in a room with three other strangers.
"My apologies," Aldric said as they reached the barracks. "I'm sharing a cot myself. Every room within the walls is packed with those seeking the Peace."
"I have slept in ditches and under gallows," Thoros laughed. "A roof is a roof."
"Good. But here, we follow the Law of the Scythe," Aldric added. "Everyone works, or no one eats. You're a guest, but a man of your size loitering in the yard will draw eyes. You need a job."
Thoros frowned. It had been years since he'd done common labor. In King Robert's court, he was a fixture of the feasts and tourneys. "You have no need for an old soldier?"
"Two kinds of soldiers here," Aldric explained. "The guards in the fields, and the recruits in the woods. Guard duty is dull work—mostly stabbing at ants with a spear. The woods... that's where we train."
"The woods then," Thoros said firmly. "I'd rather die in the dirt of a yard than the stink of a privy."
Aldric led him to a clearing where twenty Sunwalkers were in the midst of drills. Some were cleaving at massive oaks with iron bars, the rhythmic thwack-thwack echoing through the pines. Others were engaged in live-steel duels, while in the distance, crossbowmen practiced leading moving targets.
Aldric introduced him as "Aster," a veteran to help with the melee. For the next few days, Thoros watched in growing disbelief. The Dawnguard fought with a ferocity that bordered on madness. They used "dirty" tricks—moves Thoros had only seen in the pits of Essos or the bloodiest vanguard charges.
But it was the recovery that broke his mind.
In one session, two warriors simultaneously ran each other through. As they hit the dirt, two others knelt beside them, their hands glowing with that terrifying golden light. A moment later, the "dead" men were on their feet, drinking water and stepping back into the line.
If Harwin had told me this, Thoros thought, his blood beginning to boil with excitement, I would have called him a liar. With five of these men, the Brotherhood could sack Harrenhal.
While Thoros watched the training, Aldric returned to the village smithy. He spent his days at the anvil, the rhythmic hammering helping him focus. He needed to prepare forty-nine sigils for the coming Conclave, but more importantly, he needed to prepare his words.
He spent his evenings with John and the Sparrow, refining his "sermons." He realized his modern concepts of liberty were too abstract; they needed to be anchored in the daily suffering of the smallfolk. The Sparrow, with his decades of walking among the poor, was the perfect editor.
By the day before the Vigil, over fifty people had arrived at the gates. Most were common-born brothers in grey robes, but some were village elders or sellswords carrying rusted axes.
Aldric ordered the bloodier drills to stop. He didn't want to terrify the new arrivals before they'd heard the Word.
On the final evening, Aldric found the Sparrow in the garden. "Fifty men, Sparrow. Shall we begin, or wait for the stragglers?"
The Sparrow wiped sweat from his brow. "Some I hoped for have not come. The roads are long and treacherous. But the Sun does not wait for the slow. We begin at dawn."
The Sparrow looked at the monastery, now a hive of quiet, purposeful activity. "Let them be like seeds on the wind, Aldric. Where they land, they shall take root. So long as there is injustice in this world, our Light will find a home."
At dawn the next morning, the bell rang. The recruits filed into the Great Hall, bathed in the golden light of the rising sun.
Brother Sparrow stepped onto the pulpit, holding the seven-sided crystal high. As he prayed, a beam of solar grace descended, shattering through the crystal into a magnificent, seven-colored rainbow that filled the charred hall.
"Faithful brothers," the Sparrow announced, his voice echoing with newfound power. "I have called you here to hear the Gospel of the Seven... and the truth of the One who grants them Light."