Late into the night, the Golden Dawn's barracks were swallowed by a thick, clinging mist, turning the world into a realm of gray ghosts.
Sandor Clegane pushed open the heavy timber door of his new quarters. The hinges let out a sharp, protesting shriek that set his teeth on edge. In the corner, a small spider was diligently weaving a web between the fresh-cut beams. The room smelled of sap and raw earth, a sharp contrast to the stale stench of wine and old blood that usually followed him. Moonlight filtered through the narrow wooden slats of the window, casting bars of shadow across the floor like the iron gate of a dungeon.
Sandor crushed a beetle with the toe of his boot, unbuckled his longsword, and let it drop. The heavy thud startled an owl on the roof, which took flight with a frantic beating of wings.
He lay back on the straw-stuffed mattress. Every time he turned, the stalks crunched and rustled, their sharp ends pricking through his linen shirt. In the distance, a sentry let out a dry cough, and the rhythmic pop of a pitch-pine torch broke the oppressive silence.
Aldric's offer echoed in his mind. Who wouldn't want a whole face?
For Sandor, however, the ruin on his cheek was more than just a scar. It was his anchor. It was the source of his rage, his shield against the world's hypocrisy. He traced the smooth, twisted flesh with his fingers, memories surging like a black tide: fire, screaming, salt-water, stone towers, the baring of teeth. For thirty years, he had been defined by this mark. Gregor was the Beast; Sandor was the Burned Dog.
If the scar vanishes, he wondered, am I still the Hound? And if the monster was gone, would a certain "little bird" he had once pulled from the thorns finally be willing to offer him a kiss?
Sandor tossed and turned until the sky outside turned the pale, bruised color of a fish's belly. Just as his eyes grew heavy, a frantic pounding at the door jolted him awake.
"Cursed hells!" Sandor growled, pulling himself upright. He wrenched the door open to find Aldric standing there, accompanied by a grizzled veteran with a thick shadow of a beard.
"Morning, Sandor," Aldric said, his smile annoyingly bright.
"It's a dismal morning. It would be better if you let me rot in bed for another hour," Sandor grumbled.
Aldric ignored the bile. "This is Ser Wayne Jarvis. He is a Sunwalker. He will be your partner in training the Blue Company. You will be responsible for turning my boys into soldiers who fight like Westermen."
Sandor's eyes narrowed. "I haven't said yes yet."
"Still wavering?" Aldric asked, sounding genuinely surprised. "The Hound, who laughs at the Stranger's face, is terrified of a simple choice?"
"Hmph. When do I get the 'mending'?"
"This afternoon. This morning, I must meet with the Lords of the Alliance to adjust our sails. Familiarize yourself with Ser Wayne and go to the barracks. Select any men you want, excluding the Captains. Anyone you point at is yours to break."
Aldric offered a sharp nod and departed, leaving the veteran behind.
"Ser?" Sandor looked down at Wayne Jarvis, his gaze appraising.
Wayne was a man of golden-blonde hair and a face lined with a century of weariness, though he was barely a year older than Sandor himself. He offered a cocky, jagged grin. "Aye. Knighted two months ago by Ser Duncan Baker of the Dawn."
Sandor snorted. "How many dragons did that 'honor' cost you?"
Wayne laughed. "Not a copper. I won the title during a game of cards with Baker. In this camp, any knight can dub another. It's a simple thing."
"Knighthood has become cheap indeed," Sandor sneered.
Wayne's expression turned solemn. "Since the Lightbringer began granting the title of Sunwalker, the old 'holy' vows of a knight have lost their shine. The Sun is a far brighter master."
Sandor grunted. He seemed to recognize the man's posture. "You were in the capital. Kingsguard or City Watch?"
"Neither," Wayne shrugged. "The high-born looked down on a common rider like me. I followed King Robert from the capital to Winterfell and back again. I spent my life's savings and never saw a single real fight. In the end, I had to sell my destrier, 'Speckle,' just to buy a meal."
His eyes ignited with a sudden, fanatical spark. "Only in the Golden Dawn did I find a future that wasn't a ditch. Work hard, Clegane. The Master is building a world where men like us aren't just fodder."
Sandor looked away. "New worlds are usually just old ones with fresh paint. You kill or you die. That's the only truth."
Wayne let out a bark of laughter that sounded a touch mad. "That isn't the truth! Men don't kill for the sake of it. They kill to eat. They kill to make the 'food' stay still while they carve it. That is the truth of Westeros."
Sandor frowned. "That doesn't sound like your words."
"They aren't. They're the Master's. That's why we're here. To stop the carving."
Sandor puckered his lips in distaste. "You talk like a friar, not a sellsword."
"Every Sunwalker is a monk of the Light," Wayne smiled. "Believe it or not, I haven't stepped foot in a brothel since my Awakening. The Master forbids any union outside of a marriage vow."
Sandor rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Your Lightbringer keeps a tight leash. Does he dictate your positions in bed as well?"
Wayne rubbed his nose, looking embarrassed. "Let's move. I've been standing in the damp long enough. We have a company to build. You said you wanted bad boys? We have plenty of those."
While Sandor and Wayne moved toward the drill fields, the third floor of the monastery keep was host to a far more cold-blooded gathering.
Aldric sat at the head of the narrow table, his voice low and heavy with grief. "We must face the winter. The Young Wolf's cause is dead. According to Septon Ray and Sandor Clegane, the Northern nobility was decapitated at the Twins. Their army was butchered in the tents while they drank to a wedding. Those who escaped are now broken men, outlaws who will plague the Riverlands for years."
He turned to Maester Brand. "Is the raven-line secure?"
"The network is established, Master," Brand replied. "Caden's work in the capital gave us the time we needed. Every Alliance manor now has birds trained to return to St. Maur's. We can coordinate the entire lake in hours."
"Good," Aldric said. "Brand, record our conclusions. The manors must receive their orders by sunset."
Dane Bennett leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "Lightbringer, if Robb is dead and Edmure is a captive, Riverrun will fall within the moon. What does the Alliance do when the Lion turns his head toward us?"
Aldric looked around the table. Dean Blount, now a Sunwalker, spoke first. "I say we stand fast. But we must be realistic. Our core guard is four hundred; the garrisons add another five hundred. That is our limit. We cannot fight Tywin Lannister in the open."
Malin Sharp nodded. "True. We survived this long because House Whent vanished and didn't call us to Riverrun. We kept our strength while the others bled. If we don't bend the knee now, Tywin will make us a 'lesson' for the rest of the Trident."
"How many River-lords have already folded?" Dane asked.
Karlo Schmidt sighed. "Most, I imagine. Ray tells us that many of the Riverland houses refused to ride to the wedding. They saw the end coming. They'll be racing to the Red Keep to swear loyalty to Joffrey before the week is out."
"Our enemy isn't Tywin," Charles Costa said smoothly. "He is a Great Lord. He deals in kingdoms. Our blood was spilled by the Mountain and the Mummers—scavengers. The Mummers are being hunted down as we speak. As for Gregor Clegane... my friends in the Reach say the Dornish have arrived in King's Landing. Oberyn Martell is there. He hates the Mountain more than we ever could. Why should we die for revenge when we can watch the 'Viper' do the work for us?"
Dean bristled. "Watching others fight for us? We are the ones at the bottom!"
Aldric raised a hand to quiet them. He looked at Varen Polk, the former enemy turned ally. "Varen?"
Polk cleared his throat. "Lord Randyll Tarly has already retaken Duskendale and Maidenpool. If we don't submit to the Throne, we'll be crushed between Tarly and the Lannisters. We were never the North's allies. Why die with them?"
Aldric nodded. The consensus was clear: survival over sentiment.
"We are not the North's brothers," Aldric stated. "But the war between the Wolf and the Lion has given the Dawn the room it needed to breathe. Now, the board has changed. Petyr Baelish is the new Lord Paramount of the Trident, though he hasn't reached Harrenhal yet. The Riverlands are a fractured mess of ancient feuds. This is our time to expand, but we do it under a mask.
"In my home, we say: Befriend the distant, strike the near. We will submit to the Iron Throne to secure our borders, then we expand our influence westward into the vacuum."
Dane Bennett remained worried. "Tywin isn't easily fooled by a letter of surrender."
"Then we give him what he craves most," Aldric smiled.
"A healthy heir?" Dean guessed. "Jaime is a white cloak, and the Imp is... well, can your magic turn him into a man?"
Aldric smirked. "Heavens, no. But I hear Tywin has always lusted for Valyrian steel. I'll send him a blade. One of my own forging."
The lords murmured in approval. They knew the 'Serene-Steel' was indistinguishable from the ancient treasures of Valyria to any but a master smith. It was the perfect bribe.
"Who will carry the message?" Aldric asked.
Karlo Schmidt stood. "I spent years in the capital. I know the faces in the Gold Cloaks. I'll lead the embassy."
Aldric turned to Malin Sharp. "Malin, you come too."
"Me? Why?"
"You saw the sugar-mill," Aldric explained. "Our product is pure, but we're selling it to passing traders for copper. You are the best businessman at this table. I want you to take samples to the capital. Open the markets. Don't sign any contracts yet—just let the high lords know that the finest sweetness in the world comes from the Gods Eye."
Malin's eyes gleamed with greed and ambition. "Consider it done."
Aldric looked at the group. "After costs, forty percent of the sugar profits will be split equally among the Alliance lords. Ten percent goes to Malin as a broker's fee. The rest goes to the Order's war-chest. John, find a Sunwalker with a head for numbers to accompany them. I want our ledgers clean."
"Brother Victor," John suggested. "He ran caravans for Lord Edwin before the war. He is honest to a fault."
"Victor it is," Aldric agreed. "Greme, provide a squad for their protection. We leave in three days. We go to the Lion to buy our peace."
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