Aldric expressed deep skepticism at the rumors of Tyrion's demise. "Dead? Tyrion? Preposterous. I'd sooner believe he died of exhaustion in a tavern girl's bed. He's a dwarf; who in their right mind would put him on a battlefield?"
Lennar shrugged. "As an heir of House Lannister, he likely had no choice. King's Landing was on the brink of falling to Lord Stannis. They say the Imp personally led a sortie onto the mudflats to hold the shore during the most desperate hour. He fell there. A deserter from Stannis's host told us the tale; he watched it from a nearby galley. I doubt there's another dwarf in the Seven Kingdoms brave enough—or mad enough—to lead a charge in custom plate with a battle-axe in hand."
Aldric sighed heavily. "If the description fits... it must be him. I hope his luck holds."
"Taking a wound in a melee is a coin toss," John interjected. "Even if the axe didn't kill him, the fever or the rot usually finishes the job. But King's Landing is full of Maesters and the Lannisters have the gold to buy the best. Don't mourn him just yet."
Aldric looked toward the south. He had no power to teleport across the realm to save his old friend. "In my home, we say 'Fortune favors the kind.' I hope he survives this trial and finds a quiet life."
He shook off the melancholy and turned back to the map. "Renly is murdered. Stannis is broken. The game is down to Robb Stark and Joffrey Baratheon. Kevin's reports say the Young Wolf has returned to Riverrun, but he's burnt his bridges. He broke his oath to the Freys to marry a girl from a minor Western house, and he executed Rickard Karstark for defying him.
"Meanwhile, Tywin Lannister has wed the Lion to the Rose. The Reach is rich, fertile, and untouched. The North is bleeding. If the war tips further toward the Iron Throne, Tywin will look to settle scores in the Riverlands. If the Golden Dawn is to survive, we must become more than a sanctuary. We must become a political reality before the peace of the Lion arrives."
Lennar frowned. "Will the Throne permit a monastery to hold an army? Church militias were outlawed two centuries ago."
Aldric grinned. "Army? What army? We are merely a group of humble farmers tilling the monastery soil. If we happened to find some discarded mail and blades in the mud after a battle, who is to call that a crime?"
"I hope the new Lord Paramount is as blind as you hope," Lennar muttered.
"I will convince him with the Truth," Aldric replied confidently.
"What is the next step?" Lennar asked. He was eager to find his place in this growing machine.
Aldric leaned back. "I held a Conclave when I arrived. Many monks of the Seven accepted Anshe as the Source. They took the Solar Seed and returned to their parishes as Sunwalkers to spread the Word. Now, the monastery is at capacity. To prepare for the new Master of Harrenhal, I've formed the Seven-Sword Covenant with the local knights. In a week's time, we will begin 'persuading' the remaining four houses who refused the alliance."
"And what of me?" the singer asked.
"I need your voice, Lennar. I've been training these boys by day and preaching by night, but they're farmers, not scholars. They struggle with the doctrine. I want you to turn the Word into songs, into rhymes they can hum while they drill. And Brother Rolf... the man who died protecting the orphans... his story must be a ballad. Every man under our banner should know the name of a hero who died for the weak."
Lennar accepted the task, eyes bright. "I'll need apprentices. I'm only one man."
"Then find them," Aldric said. "Teach your craft to the young. You'll join my evening lessons starting tonight."
As the old friends began to talk of personal matters, Caden Storm slipped out. He felt like an intruder in their reunion.
He needed a new sword. During the forging of Petal-Breaker, Aldric had disassembled Caden's old knightly blade to study the southern geometry, eventually melting it down for scrap. Caden had left the Serene-Steel sword with Brother Gale in the Kingswood and was currently carrying a crude, unbalanced trophy taken from the traitor Malin.
Caden and Jasmine rode along the forest path to the Blacksmith's Reach, a branch of the Gods Eye where the hydraulic hammer thundered day and night. The simple shack he remembered was gone, replaced by a sprawling stone-and-timber workshop.
He caught a young apprentice by the shoulder. "Is Master Barlin in?"
The boy was thick-set, with a shock of black hair and eyes as blue as the summer sky. He nodded. "Aye. He's at the privy. Wait a moment."
Caden walked through the forge. The hydraulic hammer was a marvel of rhythmic power. Dozens of apprentices were busy, using tongs to move red-hot iron beneath the steady beat of the falling weight. The plates were hammered, heated again, pressed into molds to form the subtle curves of brigandine, and quenched.
Armor was a lucrative trade, usually guarded by jealous masters. Seeing the "production line" Aldric had established was fascinating to a man who had only ever seen smiths working alone.
"Ser Caden," Barlin's voice boomed from behind him. "Mission a success?"
"Success of a sort," Caden said, turning. "The grain is here, but the sword... nearly got me killed. I left it with Gale."
Barlin laughed. "I told the Master he should have sent it to King's Landing. A man named Tobho Mott would have paid well for it. He's a master from Qohor—says he can rework Valyrian steel."
Caden's ears perked up. "Why haven't you told Aldric?"
"I was waiting for you to fail first," Barlin winked. "Now, what brings you to my soot-hole?"
Caden pulled the rough blade from his belt. "I can't fight with this iron bar. I need a real sword. Anything in the stores?"
Barlin inspected the weapon and scoffed. "Balance is rot. Metal is pig-iron. But we've been busy making spearheads and Wild Goose Blades for the new recruits. We haven't had time for knightly longswords. I'll have someone check the back."
The blacksmith signaled the black-haired apprentice. "Take the Ser to the storehouse."
In the back, two barrels stood. One was filled with finished, single-edged curved blades in scabbards. The other held raw, unsharpened steel.
"Choose," the apprentice said.
Caden drew one of the finished blades—a Wild Goose Blade. He gave it a quick flourish. "The weight is good. Unusual, but good."
"The Lightbringer designed them," the boy explained. "He spent days showing us the taper. Each of us handles one part of the craft—one for the tang, one for the edge, one for the quench. Every blade in that barrel is identical. If you can use one, you can use them all."
Caden tried a few more. They were excellent, but they weren't knightly. "No double-edged swords?"
The apprentice shook his head. "The Master says they take twice as long to grind and don't last as long in a shield-clash. He had every captured longsword melted down for the pike-heads."
Caden sighed, looking at the pile of broken, rusted scrap weapons waiting for the furnace. Just as he was about to settle for the curved blade, the apprentice spoke up.
"Ser... if you truly want a knight's sword, I can help."
Caden looked at the boy. "And how is an apprentice going to manage that?"
"We work from dawn till dusk," the boy said, his voice steady. "But between the hammer and the bed, there is time. I can stay late. I'll forge you a blade of the old style."
"What's the catch?" Caden asked, intrigued.
"Teach me," the boy said, his blue eyes intense. "Spend a few hours showing me how to use a shield and sword. I want to know the weight of what I make."
Caden smiled. "John said you were too valuable a smith to be a soldier."
"A smith who can't defend his forge is just a slave for the next man with a spear," the apprentice countered.
Caden laughed. "Well said. Very well. You'll train with my squire. What is your name, lad?"
The apprentice wiped a soot-stained hand on his leather apron. "Gendry, Ser. I was an apprentice in the capital before the war."
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