In the third-floor solar of the monastery, the six lords of the St. Maur's Alliance huddled around a heavy oak table. Before each man sat a large wooden tankard filled with fresh grape juice from the monastery's vineyards, its sweet, tart aroma filling the small room.
Dane Bennett swirled the purple liquid, sniffing it with a connoisseur's frown. "The grapes are fine, but if they were fermented, they'd be a legend. Why are we drinking juice like children, Aldric?"
Aldric offered a dry nod. "When the Mummers sacked this place, they didn't just drink the cellars dry; they smashed every oak tun and murdered the brothers who held the secrets of the vintage. Even if we had the hands, we lack the casks. We drink what the earth gives us until we can rebuild."
Ser Malin Sharp sighed. "Better juice than a bad brew. Without a master vintner, you're just stomping fruit and sealing it in rot. I shudder to think what kind of monster would crawl out of those barrels."
"Heh, I wouldn't touch it," Dean Blount added with a chuckle. "Tell me, Commander—if a man drinks spoiled wine and his belly turns to fire, can your Light mend that too?"
Aldric rubbed his chin. "In theory, yes. But I've yet to test the Light against a bad hangover. I wouldn't recommend being the first volunteer."
The door creaked open, and Ser Charles Costa hurried in. "My apologies, Lords. Urgent matters at the border. I hope I haven't missed the meat of the discussion."
"You're the closest neighbor and the last to arrive, Charles," Karlo Schmidt grumbled. "You should offer an apology in silver."
"And how shall I pay?" Charles asked, sliding into a high-backed chair.
"By bringing real wine next time," Karlo complained. "The Commander only serves wild tea that tastes like an old mother's scowl or this juice. He's banned brewing in every village under his shadow. Since you're just down the road, surely your cellars aren't dry?"
Charles looked at Aldric. "Would that offend your decree, Commander?"
Aldric shook his head. "I forbid the use of grain for spirits while we are at the brink of hunger. I do not forbid drinking. When peace returns and the silos are full, I'll open the breweries myself. Until then, if Charles wants to share his private stock, I won't stop him."
Charles beamed. "Consider it done. Next council, the ale is on House Costa."
Tucker Ward rapped his knuckles on the table, calling for order. "Enough of the cups. To business. My messengers returned from Duckling Hall. House Rost is in a bad way. Aven Rost took his steel to Riverrun; only his wife, a Maester, and a few greybeards remain. Lady Linna says they'll take our protection, but she won't sign the Covenant without her husband's leave."
Dane spat a bit of juice back into his cup. "Riverrun? The price of that loyalty is watching your home turn to ash. I've no desire to be caught between the Wolf and the Lion."
"Let her be," Tucker reassured them. "A woman's caution is expected. Once we've secured the rest of the shore, she'll have no choice but to fold."
Karlo spoke next. "I went to Longwave personally. Varen Polk is as clear as glass: he won't help us, but he won't hinder us. He wants to save his own skin. He said if we squeeze something good out of Littlefinger, he might reconsider."
"Coward," Dean hissed. "He wants the profit without the blood."
"Dale Chambers is the same," Malin added. "Waiting to see if the Lion or the Wolf has the sharper teeth before he picks a side."
"And the Hardings?" Tucker asked.
Dean Blount's face darkened. "The Hardings are gone. The Brave Companions tricked their way through the gates. They butchered the manor to the last soul. Mathias Harding was found hanging outside his own hall, his body... incomplete. There is nothing left but crows."
Dane Bennett slammed his tankard onto the table, the wood splintering. "Seven hells! We should hunt those Mummers down and gut them first!"
"They're holed up in Harrenhal," Dean countered. "Under Roose Bolton's shadow. We aren't strong enough to kick that hornet's nest yet."
Karlo leaned in, his voice dropping. "Speaking of the Mummers... have you heard? Vargo Hoat took Jaime Lannister's right hand."
Tucker Ward gasped. "The Kingslayer? He wouldn't dare!"
"The Black Goat is mad with his own shadow," Karlo sneered. "Jaime is Tywin's heart. Whether the North wins or the West wins, Hoat is a dead man. I doubt Bolton will trade his own neck to save a sellsword's."
Malin Sharp wavered. "And Robb Stark?"
"Robb Stark beheaded Lord Karstark for 'justice,'" Karlo interrupted. "He's too stiff to keep allies. Hoat had best find a boat to Essos before the Young Wolf sees him."
"Then we take Harrenhal!" Dane shouted.
The room went silent as everyone looked at him as if he were a village idiot. Dane slowly sank back into his chair, hiding behind his juice.
"House Fisher is also gone," Tucker noted, steering the conversation back. "What of their lands? Shylin Fisher has a sister married into House Hay. Should we send word for her to claim the seat?"
Aldric spoke up, his voice cold. "Claim what? The Fishers couldn't protect their people or their walls. They have no right to 'inherit' a ruin. Besides, the line isn't entirely dead. The Lady of the house is at my monastery, under my protection."
Malin Sharp straightened. "Shary Fisher is alive? Why is she not at this table?"
Aldric sighed. "She was rescued from the dungeons by a group of... brave souls. When they found her, she was alone in the dark, singing nursery rhymes to the corpse of her starved son. Her mind is shattered. She knows only the Sun and the shadows."
No one asked who the "brave souls" were; they all knew the Brotherhood Without Banners moved like ghosts through the woods.
"Can you not heal her, Commander?" Malin asked.
Aldric offered a bitter smile. "If I could mend a broken soul as easily as a broken bone, would I be sitting here debating with you? I am a messenger, not a god of the mind."
The thought of Aldric having the power to rewrite a man's thoughts made Malin shiver. "Perhaps... perhaps it is a mercy she is as she is."
"Aldric," Dean said, "you told us of Lady Fisher for a reason. What is your mind?"
Aldric laced his fingers on the table. "Shylin Fisher's fate is unknown, and his family has suffered beyond measure. I propose the Alliance's first mobilization be the occupation of the Fisher lands. we restore order, we plant the fields, and we bring the smallfolk back. A portion of the yields will support the poor Lady Fisher; the rest will fund our Joint Task Force. What say you?"
The lords calculated the silver. "And if Shylin returns from the war?" Tucker asked.
"We have not stolen his land," Aldric explained. "We are stewards. If he returns, we return the soil—provided he pays the 'management fee' and the interest on the lives we spent to reclaim it."
Aldric was the CEO of this new firm; the lords were the shareholders.
The Fisher lands were a three-day march from St. Maur's, bordering the Whent lands and the Smallwoods of Acorn Hall. With Lord Smallwood away at war and the Lady Ravella barely holding her own gates, the territory was ripe for a "peacekeeping" mission.
The motion passed. One day of rest, then the march.
Aldric stood on a wooden bench in the center of the muster field, looking out at four hundred men. The Sunwalkers in their black brigandine stood at the front, with the allied levies of the six houses forming a sea of rusted mail and boiled leather behind them.
"Sunwalkers of the Dawn! Warriors of the Covenant!" Aldric's voice carried to the edge of the woods. "The Riverlands are screaming. Our neighbors are plundered. Our kin are defiled. The crows feast on our brothers while the Great Lords sit in their high towers, arguing over who is 'true-born' and who is 'bastard'!
"They play their Game of Thrones, and you—the fathers, the sons, the men of the soil—are nothing but coppers to be spent. I say no more! Why do they rule us? Because of their blood? No! Because they have the steel, the horses, and the armor! Now, raise your hands! Tell me—what do you hold?!"
A chaotic, powerful roar erupted from the ranks:
"An axe!"
"A sword!"
"A spear!"
Aldric unsheathed Song of the Azure Sky, the blade shimmering with a faint, blue-white light. "No! It is Destiny! You hold the fate of a life with dignity!" He slammed his palm against his own breastplate. "And what do you wear?!"
"Steel!"
"Mail!"
"Destiny!" a few shouted back.
"It is Responsibility!" Aldric bellowed. "It is the lives of your wives and your children! Never again will we be the grass under a Lord's heel! We take back our justice! Long live the People! Long live Anshe!"
"AN-SHE! AN-SHE!"
The fervor was infectious. The men were ready to march into the mouth of the Seven Hells. Aldric issued the marching orders: The Joint Task Force would move on the Fisher Manor tomorrow. He set the code of conduct: No looting. No killing of smallfolk. All spoils to the quartermaster. The penalty for broken discipline was the lash or the block.
That evening, Aldric found John in the monastery's vegetable garden, his hands stained with soil.
"I march at dawn, John. First stop: Fisher Manor. I'm leaving fifty men with you. Duncan Beck will command the garrison."
John leaned on his hoe. "Duncan is a solid choice. And our villages have Sunwalkers to watch the gates. We'll be safe enough unless a host descends. But Aldric... will you be bringing back more refugees?"
"No," Aldric said. "The Fisher lands will be managed under our model. They will absorb their own. If they need grain, the Alliance pays the bill, not our private stores."
John let out a long, relieved breath. "Good. The silos can't take much more. Go with the Light, Aldric."
Aldric gripped his friend's hand. "The Dawn is coming, John. For all of us."
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