The construction of the River-Hammer was no longer merely a task of engineering; it was the prologue to an expansion. On the fifth day of the Great Vigil, Aldric had stood before the seekers and laid out the reality of their struggle:
"Our struggle against the old nobility is not a celebratory feast. It is not a maester's leisurely scroll, nor is it the delicate embroidery of a high-born lady. It cannot be elegant, calm, or bound by the niceties of chivalry. The cause of the Sun is an uprising—a violent surge of those who seek the Light against the class that seeks to extinguish it.
"Do not place your hopes in the honor of the lords. As the Solar Core spreads across this continent, it will meet only with their malice. When our tactics touch their pockets and spark their rage, we must judge the strength of the field and fight where we can. Do not be shackled by ancient traditions. Remember: the laws of the lords were written to serve the lords. If we, the 'troublemakers,' limit ourselves to their rules, true Equality will never be more than a dream!"
Aldric's words had vibrated through the hall, and the Sun-Crystal had flared with a blinding brilliance, as if Anshe himself were stamping the doctrine with fire. Those who clung to naïve hopes of peaceful reform had failed to wake the Light; only the resolute remained.
The morning after John's standoff with Ser Charles, thirty-five men marched onto the disputed riverbank. Among them were fifteen Sunwalkers and twenty of the sturdiest recruits, led by Jon Snow. They didn't come with shovels, but with pikes. They didn't come to work, but to drill.
As the core of the new Faith's military arm, the Sunwalkers were under strict martial law. Aldric's training regimen was a brutal adaptation of the "basic training" from his own world—disciplined, repetitive, and focused on the unit. While the Riverlands smallfolk lacked the education of the students from Aldric's homeland, they possessed the desperate strength of survivors. Clad in the captured plate and mail of the Westerlands—originally intended by Tywin Lannister for his grandson's royal guard—they looked like a golden wall against the muddy bank.
When Ser Charles Costa arrived with fifty peasants armed with sharpened poles and rusted scythes, he stopped dead in his tracks. He had come to "forcibly dismantle" a few sticks of lumber; instead, he found a professional vanguard staring back at him.
He retreated into the center of his mob, pointing his riding crop at John, who wore a fine coat of mail beneath his grey robes. "Brother John! What is the meaning of this insolence?"
John stepped forward, his face a mask of solemn piety. "Ser Charles, please, do not misunderstand. These brothers are devout seekers who have volunteered to defend the sanctuary. They drill daily to uphold the honor of the Seven. Today, we simply found this terrain suited for maneuver. We have no quarrel with you."
Charles let out a cold, sharp laugh. "You think I'm a four-year-old child to be fooled by such talk? Listen, monk—by the decree of King Jaehaerys I, the Faith is disarmed. Before that law, a 'Warrior's Son' was worth a gold dragon, and a 'Poor Fellow' was worth a silver stag to any man who brought in their scalp. If you want me to start earning that gold today, I am more than happy to oblige."
Before the Sunwalkers could react, the peasants behind Charles stirred. A thin youth, no older than eighteen, looked at the golden-armored men with predatory greed. "A gold dragon, Ser? Truly?"
Charles turned, his face purple with rage. "Shut your mouth!"
The youth flinched, but the image of gold burned in his mind. The largest coin he had ever seen was a copper star. To him, the armored men were not soldiers—they were walking piles of gold waiting to be harvested. He didn't care about the odds; he only cared about being the first to grab a scalp.
But while the peasants saw coin, Charles saw a nightmare. He knew these lands. St. Maur's had always been a quiet neighbor, protected by House Vance and their ties to the capital. He had hoped the war would allow him to swallow their land while they were weak. He had even whispered the monastery's location to the Bloody Mummers, hoping they would soften the place up so he could step in as a "protector."
He hadn't expected a massacre. And he certainly hadn't expected survivors who could raise an army better equipped than his own.
"Do you truly wish to be my enemy, John?" Charles barked, trying to regain his footing. "I have the favor of Tywin Lannister! I have taken his gold!"
At the mention of the Lannister patriarch, the air grew cold. The Sunwalkers fixed their gaze on him with a look so lethal that Charles felt a shiver of primal terror. He felt like a squire again, facing his first knight with nothing but a blunt sword.
Fury and shame rose in his chest, drowning his caution. He drew his sword. "You think a few mummers in stolen plate can scare a Costa? You've picked the wrong fight, monk!" He turned to his men, his voice a scream. "Costas! Today we defend our honor! Smash these—"
The command died in his throat. His face went white. He pointed a shaking finger toward the horizon. "Back! Back to the manor! We are under attack!"
Far off, behind the treeline, columns of oily black smoke were roiling into the sky. It was the direction of the Costa estate—where their granaries sat and their families lived.
The knight and his mob didn't wait. They turned as one and began a frantic sprint back toward the smoke.
Jon and John shared a quick, silent look. "Do we follow?" Jon asked.
John watched the retreating dust. "We see who the new players are. We decide whose side we're on once the blood is spilled."
The Golden Dawn followed, pikes leveled, maintaining a steady, disciplined pace behind the chaotic mob of peasants.
Ser Charles was frantic. His eldest son and heir, Ser Will, was holding the manor, but the boy had been knighted barely a year. He lacked the stomach for a siege.
Who? Charles wondered. The Brotherhood? No, they didn't hit manors. Bandits? Not enough steel. The Westermen? He was their "ally."
"The Bloody Mummers," Jon Snow said, coming up beside him as they reached the edge of the Costa woods. "Except they aren't Lannister dogs anymore. They belong to Roose Bolton now. If you took Tywin's gold, they've come to take it back—with interest."
John realized then why the Mummers hadn't returned to St. Maur's. They had found a fatter, easier target in the knight who bragged about his gold.
They reached the edge of the clearing. The scene was a nightmare. The Costa outbuildings were in flames. A company of thirty riders, their mismatched armor and foreign banners marking them as the sellsword scum of the Brave Companions, were driving nearly a hundred peasants toward the manor walls.
The peasants were being used as human shields, forced to pile debris and earth against the palisade to form a ramp. From the walls, the Costa guards were desperately firing arrows and thrusting spears—killing their own kin to stop the ramp from rising.
Charles Costa let out a howl of agony at the sight. But before he could charge, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Wait, Ser," Jon Snow said, his grey eyes cold as the North. "If you run in now, you're just more 'material' for their ramp. Let the Sunwalkers lead."
John stepped forward, his hand beginning to glow with a faint, golden hum. "We help you save your people, Ser Charles. But the price for our 'protection' just went up."
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