Sandor Clegane ground a dry branch beneath the heel of his boot, the sharp crack echoing in the crisp air. "If the Seven had any sense, they'd have struck down those pious knights farting in their septs long ago. They're nothing but gilded privies."
The burned half of his face caught the sunlight, gleaming with a waxy, unpleasant luster.
John's brow knotted into a tight frown, but Septon Ray simply touched the crystal at his chest and offered a weary, patient smile. "Compared to when he was delirious and comparing the High Septon to a rutting donkey, Lord Sandor is practically a saint today."
John looked at the Hound, who seemed entirely indifferent to his own blasphemy, and felt a mounting headache. During his years wandering the Seven Kingdoms, he had met many such thorns. A perfectly good sermon could be ruined in heartbeats by a man like this.
I am not built for this one, John thought. I'll leave him to Aldric.
They entered the parade grounds of the monastery, but the Commander was nowhere to be found. John flagged down a squad leader named Devon who was drilling a line of pikemen. "Devon, where is the Lightbringer?"
"Brother John," the soldier saluted. "The Master isn't in the camp today. He's at the riverside workshops. Word is he's tinkering with something new."
"Something new? Did he say when he'd return?"
Devon shook his head. "No, Brother. We haven't seen him for days."
John turned to the others. "The workshops are half a day's walk, though faster by horse. Is your news urgent, or shall we rest in the monastery and ride at dawn?"
Ray looked at the horizon. "We are here now. It is better he knows the fate of the North sooner than later."
John's heart sank. Though they were no longer sworn to Robb Stark, they had marched south with the winter-men. There was a bond of shared roads. "What happened to the Northern host?"
"Luice Bolton and Walder Frey turned their coats," Ray said solemnly. "They laid a trap at the wedding feast. Robb Stark and his men were slaughtered where they sat."
"What?!" John went pale. "The Freys... they broke the Guest Right? Murder at a wedding?"
"They stained the salt and bread with blood," Ray replied. "The heavens will judge them, but the North is broken. Sandor was at the gates; he saw the fires. He can give the Master the details he needs to shift our strategy."
John knew the Gods Eye Alliance had flourished because the War of the Five Kings had kept the lords distracted. If the war was ending, the Alliance would have to either strike now or go to ground.
"Then we cannot wait. I'll have horses saddled."
They rode to the Gods Eye riverbank, where the hydraulic forge had become the industrial heart of the Dawn. Beside the thundering water-wheels, Aldric had established the smithy, the sugar refinery, and the cement kilns. It was the source of the Alliance's wealth and its future.
When they found Aldric, he was standing with two apprentices, leveling a strange-looking weapon at a distant ash tree.
"Aldric! Brother Ray has returned," John called out.
THWACK.
A heavy bolt hissed through the air, burying itself deep into the center of the trunk. Yellow leaves fluttered down like dying butterflies. Aldric handed the weapon to a brawny apprentice and turned, his face lighting up. "Ray! You're back—and Sandor Clegane?"
Sandor's expression was a mask of cold iron, but his voice held a trace of genuine surprise. "Spider-Slayer. It's been a long road."
They gathered around a workbench, pulling up stone blocks and stumps for chairs. Ray recounted the horrors Jon Snow had witnessed at the Twins. Sandor, having no interest in the political fallout or the mourning, wandered over to the small table where Aldric had left the weapon.
It was a crossbow, but unlike any Sandor had seen. It was heavy, and instead of a composite of wood and horn, the prod was made of a single piece of recurved steel. Sandor picked it up. It felt twice as heavy as a common crossbow.
He pulled the hempen string, his massive muscles straining as he locked it into the nut. He aimed at the target, squeezed the trigger, and watched the bolt fly. It slammed into the tree right beside Aldric's shot, vibrating with terrifying force.
Sandor walked to the tree and inspected the depth of the bolt. He was stunned. At this range, neither mail nor boiled leather would have offered a shred of protection. Only the finest plate of the Reach might have turned the point.
However, the weapon was cumbersome. The steel prod made it front-heavy, and the draw weight was absurd. Crossbows were meant for peasants and levies, not warriors with the strength of a Hound. This design seemed impractical for a common man to reload in the heat of battle.
What is Aldric thinking? Sandor wondered. A toy for giants?
"You can use this," a voice said.
Gendry, the black-haired apprentice standing by the forge, handed Sandor a mechanical winch.
Sandor squinted at the boy. There was something familiar in the jawline. "I know your face."
"The Crossroads," Gendry said. "I was there when you fought Dondarrion. I'm Gendry. I'm a smith."
"The new apprentice," Sandor grunted. "Tell me how this works, boy."
Gendry took the crossbow, hooked the winch to the string, placed the foot in the stirrup, and began to crank the handle. Within seconds, the powerful steel prod was drawn back and locked. He handed it back. "Try again."
Sandor fired five bolts in succession. When the quiver was empty, he wiped sweat from his brow. "It's slow. Fine for a siege, maybe. But in the field? A longbowman will have turned you into a pincushion before you finish the second crank."
"You're right," Aldric said, walking up behind him. "It isn't for a skirmish. But in a defensive line, it is devastating. It's easier to maintain and faster to build than a composite bow. For the Golden Dawn, craftsmanship is a resource, but time is our enemy."
Sandor turned to face him. "Then you'd best hurry. Once Tywin Lannister finishes with the North, he'll turn his eyes to this little lake of yours. Your 'Light' won't save a manor from ten thousand spears."
"I know. I have a plan for the Lion," Aldric said calmly. "How do you find the weapon?"
Sandor touched the cold steel prod. "It's honest. Heavy. If you put a shield-wall in front of the shooters, it'll break a charge of heavy horse. But if your pikes fail, these men are dead meat."
"What if I brought the walls of a castle onto the battlefield?"
Sandor snorted. "Madness."
Aldric let the topic drop, shifting to the past. "It's been nearly two years since Winterfell, Sandor."
"We weren't friends then. We aren't now."
"True. But you helped me in the North, and I don't forget a debt. Ray says you've lost the hunger for the fight."
"The fight was never a hunger. It was a trade. I like wine and I like women. Killing is just how I pay for them. If I could make more coin as a carpenter, I'd trade the sword for a saw tomorrow."
Aldric nodded. "The Dawn welcomes anyone who believes in the Word. But your hands are wasted on chairs. Work for me instead."
"Guarding a stone wall? Hunting bandits? If it involves the Lannisters, save your breath."
"Why? Do you still hold loyalty to them?"
"Loyalty?" Sandor spat. "Tywin wants fear, not love. I just don't think you can beat them."
"I know we can't—not yet. But I want my men to know how they fight before the first spear is thrown. I want to give you fifty men. Fifteen horse, thirty-five foot. You train them as Westermen. You lead them in mock-battles against my other companies. What do you say?"
Sandor narrowed his eyes. "You're building an army to fight the Lion."
"I'm building an army to fight any lord who thinks he owns the breath of the poor."
"Ray told you what I want?"
"The head of Gregor Clegane."
"Can you give it to me?"
Aldric shook his head.
"Why? Are you afraid of him?" Sandor's voice turned dangerous.
"I fear no man in Westeros," Aldric replied simply. "But the Mountain's head is a crowded prize. There is a line from here to the Narrow Sea of people who want him dead. My own Sunwalkers have blood-feuds with him. I cannot trade something I'm already going to do for your service."
"Hmph. Noble of you. Then give me gold."
"The Order is broke," Aldric smiled. "But I can give you something that no amount of gold in Casterly Rock can buy."
Sandor's heart skipped. He had a suspicion, a hope so fragile he didn't dare speak it. "Don't play games with me, Aldric."
"I can heal the scars on your face," Aldric said, his voice steady. "I can make you look like a man again."
"Liar... Ray told me the Light couldn't do that. He tried."
"Ray is a Friar. I am the Lightbringer. Mending your spirit's mask is not impossible for me. If you work for the Dawn, I will give you your face back as a down payment."
Sandor stood frozen. The hope flared like a torch in a cave. He swallowed hard. "Allow me... allow me to think on it, Lightbringer."
"Think fast," Aldric said with a smirk. "I have a world to build, and I'm short on foremen."
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