The Brave Companions—Tywin Lannister's "Bloody Mummers"—were men who lived for coin and the dark pleasures it bought. To them, loyalty was a garment to be traded for a warmer coat. Vargo Hoat had turned his cloak to serve the Northmen, and the dozen cooling corpses at the manor's gate were proof that his old "allies" were now his favorite prey.
Ser Charles Costa, having found a sliver of composure, abandoned any thought of negotiation. Hoat's men had driven his smallfolk to their deaths in plain sight. If Charles attempted a peaceful resolution now, his standing as a lord would be worth less than the mud on his boots.
Marching alongside the warriors of the Golden Dawn, Charles had discerned their structure: Brother John held the authority of the Word, deciding if blood should be spilled, while the youth called Jon Snow held the command of the steel, deciding how it would be done.
"Jon, isn't it?" Charles proposed as they reached the treeline. "Take your men and wheel around the right flank. I'll push from the left. Once we break their line, I'll signal the manor to sally out. We can trap them between three hammers."
The Golden Dawn and the Costa levies were hidden in a small grove to the left of the manor. For Jon's men to reach the right flank, they would have to march across open ground in full view of the Mummers. It was a baiting maneuver—Vargo Hoat would almost certainly strike the smaller, moving target first to prevent the encirclement.
Charles expected Jon to hesitate or haggle. Instead, the boy gave a sharp nod and signaled his men.
Under Aldric's tutelage, Jon had mastered the Swan Wing formation. His thirty-five men—comprising five scouts on horseback and three ten-man Wings—moved with a rhythmic precision that mirrored the old Silver Hand vanguard.
As the Golden Dawn emerged from the trees, they drew the eye of every man on the field. The Mummers, momentarily stunned by the sight of gleaming plate where they expected ragged monks, began to contract their lines. The human shields seized the moment of confusion to scatter toward the woods, while the defenders on the walls let out a ragged cheer at the sight of their lord's return.
The Mummers were sixty strong, nearly half of them seasoned cavalry.
"Lord Hoat," a Dothraki sellsword with a long, greased braid hissed, pointing a curved arakh. "Which side do we bleed first?"
Vargo Hoat let out a wet, lisping laugh. "Break the Costa trash. Then we turn and slaughter the nameless fools."
Hoat knew the local levies—Riverlands knights were soft, padded by fat harvests and old titles. He signaled the charge, his riders thundering toward Charles Costa's unmounted peasants.
Charles reacted with a veteran's instinct. He dived into the center of his mob, screaming for them to close ranks. "Stand! Poles up! Shield yourselves with the wood! Think of your families—if you run, the monsters get them, and if you live, I'll have your heads for cowardice!"
The peasants, looking at the galloping steel, huddled together in a shivering, desperate mass.
Hoat's riders didn't hit the center; they flowed like water around a stone, cutting at the edges of the Costa line. Curved blades bit into linen and bone, and several peasants collapsed, screaming.
Charles watched in horror. He had no archers, no horses. If his line broke, the manor was lost. He looked toward his "allies," expecting them to be struggling to reach the flank.
He was wrong.
While Hoat was occupied with the "trash," Jon's three Swan Wings had slammed into the Mummers' infantry. Divided into three independent cells, the Sunwalkers tore through the mercenary footmen like Gregor Clegane tearing bread. The criminals and deserters of the Mummers' vanguard were shredded by pikes and crossbow bolts. As they broke and ran, Jon's five light horsemen hunted them down with terrifying efficiency, their short spears finding the gaps in tattered mail.
The infantry of the Brave Companions, forty men strong, was melting like spring snow under a high sun.
"Dung!" Hoat roared, wheeling his horse. "To me! Break the nameless ones!"
Hoat led his remaining twenty riders in a desperate charge toward the Golden Dawn. Jon Snow, hearing the growing thunder of hooves, didn't panic. "Form the Great Wing! Close the gaps!"
He remembered Aldric's doctrine: a single Swan Wing is a leaf in the wind; a forest of Wings is a fortress.
The three squads sprinted toward one another, attempting to lock shields before the horses arrived. But the Mummers were fast. Before the line could fully knit, the riders punched through the seams.
Colin, a veteran who had followed Aldric since the rescue at Pinkmaiden, stood his ground. He had taken the Solar Spark during the Great Vigil and felt the hum of the Light in his veins every hour since. As a rider bore down on him, Colin planted the butt of his pike into the soft earth, aiming the head at the horse's chest.
The rider, a grizzled veteran of a hundred pits in Essos, swerved his mount with practiced grace. His curved blade lashed out, opening a deep, jagged furrow across Colin's face. The rider laughed, ready to trample the fallen man, but a bolt from the Wing's crossbowman caught him in the small of the back, pitching him from his saddle.
Colin fell to one knee, blood blinding his left eye. He reached up, his palm glowing with a sudden, golden flicker. A sharp, itchy heat washed over his face. When he pulled his hand away, the skin was whole, leaving only the copper taste of blood in his mouth.
He spat a red glob into the dirt and snarled, "Lucky bastard," before stepping back into the line to find his next mark.
Vargo Hoat was satisfied with his pass—he had personally unthroated a man. But when he reined in his horse to survey the damage, his heart sank. The nameless infantry hadn't broken. They had tightened. Their numbers seemed undiminished.
Even worse, the manor gates had swung wide. Six heavy riders—Ser Will Costa and his guard—charged out, taking over the slaughter of Hoat's retreating infantry.
The battle had lost its profit. Hoat raised his arakh. "Withdraw! To the fields!" The riders turned as one and vanished into the wide plains, leaving their dead behind.
The silence that followed was heavy with the smell of smoke and iron. Jon Snow exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders. In his first true command, he had shattered a superior infantry force and repelled a professional cavalry charge without losing a single brother. It was a victory Aldric would be proud of.
Ser Charles Costa trotted his horse over to Jon. The contempt in his eyes was gone, replaced by a deep, shivering caution.
"Jon Snow," Charles said, his voice strained. "Your men are more than brave. They are lethal. Tell me—who is your father? A man of your skill does not crawl out of a haystack."
Jon looked at the knight, his grey eyes cold. "My father's name is of no consequence here. I was taught my sword by a master-at-arms, but I was taught to fight by a Lightbringer. I am a bastard, Ser Charles. I seek no glory for my father's name, and I will not let his shadow dim my Master's deeds. Let the secret stay in the mud."
Charles nodded slowly. "I understand. A man's past is his own burden. But your father would have been proud."
"My father is dead," Jon said flatly. "Executed by the King you claim to serve."
Charles went silent, unable to find a reply. "Loyalty is a sacred duty," he muttered finally. "Regardless of who sits the Throne."
The conversation was cut short by a sudden, frantic rhythm of hooves. Jon spun around. The Mummers hadn't fled—they had circled back, charging from the tall grass with their blades leveled. They were seconds away.
The Golden Dawn was scattered, busy tending to the wounded and collecting weapons. The manor gates were still open. If the Mummers punched through now, the massacre would begin in earnest.
"Close the gates!" Jon roared at Charles, grabbing the knight's bridle.
Without waiting for an answer, Jon vaulted onto his horse, leveled his spear, and charged alone toward the banner of the Bloody Mummers.
Charles Costa watched the boy in the black leather armor ride into the maw of death, his heart warring between the urge to flee and the shame of staying behind.