The four hundred men stationed at the monastery barracks were the finest specimens of the Gods Eye Alliance, culled from the strongest youths of all eleven domains. Their primary mission was the defense of St. Maur's and acting as a rapid-response force for any allied manor under threat. To distinguish them from the common garrisons, Aldric had bestowed upon these eight companies a formal title: The Praetorian Guard.
When Aldric initially proposed sending only a single squad to escort Karlo Schmidt to King's Landing, Dean Blount had voiced his concern. "A single squad lacks the weight needed to earn respect in that nest of vipers. Send Karlo and Malin with a full company. Let the capital see the sun on our shields."
Aldric had accepted the counsel, turning to Greme Levin. "Select the company with the highest drill scores. They belong to Ser Malin for the journey."
Karlo, however, had another concern. "What of Sandor Clegane? I saw him in the capital when he was the boy-king's shadow. He is a monster of a warrior, but his temperament... it leaves much to be desired."
"I have no intention of folding him into the regular ranks," Aldric replied. "But his knowledge of Westerman tactics is a resource we cannot waste. I'm giving him fifty men—his own 'Blue Team'—to act as a tactical aggressor unit. He will be our whetstone. No amount of static drill can replace a mock-battle against a man who fights like a Lannister dog."
Dean looked surprised. "But our training is already grueling."
"Individual combat, yes," Aldric explained. "But Sandor will teach them the coordination of the West. His task is to ambush our regular companies using the tactics of the Reach, the West, or the North. Our men must learn to react before they face the real thing."
Since its inception, the Alliance had absorbed a steady stream of refugees. Under the guidance of wandering Sunwalkers like Septon Ray, the population had recovered to pre-war levels. The first harvests were being gathered, and the richness of the Riverlands was finally fueling the Dawn's expansion.
Aldric's next move was the full integration of the Word. To do this, he needed to erode the political influence of the minor lords like Schmidt and Bennett. His bribe was simple: he would trade the vast profits of the new sugar and cement industries for their ancient feudal powers. He hoped they would find contentment in gold, for the alternative was far less pleasant.
As the meeting dispersed under the high noon sun, Aldric walked toward the drill fields. He found an interesting scene.
Sandor Clegane was locked in an arm-wrestling match with a brawny youth. Both men were red-faced, nostrils flared, their breath hissing like steam. Wayne Jarvis stood by, cheering with uncharacteristic fervor. A crowd of soldiers surrounded them, shouting for their teammate.
Aldric tapped a spectator on the shoulder. "What's the wager?"
"They're wrestling for—" The soldier turned, his eyes bulging when he saw the Lightbringer. He began to bow, but Aldric signaled him to stay silent. "Kamor was chosen for the 'Bad Boys' squad, Master. He didn't want to join. Sandor offered a challenge: if the Hound wins, Kamor joins. If Kamor wins, he gets a silver moon."
Aldric frowned slightly. "Your friend is a fool. Sandor doesn't have a copper to his name."
As expected, the youth's strength was no match for the Hound's raw power. With a violent grunt, Sandor slammed the boy's hand into the table. Kamor stood up, clutching his shoulder and hissing through his teeth; he had clearly pulled a tendon.
"Wrestling requires care," Aldric said, stepping forward. "A torn ligament takes weeks to mend—without the Light, at least."
He placed a hand on Kamor's shoulder. The youth flinched as a sharp, burning heat radiated through his joint. After a moment, the pain evaporated. Kamor rotated his arm in wonder and bowed. "My apologies, Lightbringer. I'll be more careful."
"Do so," Aldric nodded. "Pointless injuries are a burden the company cannot afford if we march to war."
Sandor stood up, rolling his own shoulder. "Meeting done? Can we begin?"
"Have you picked your men?"
"Thirty-odd. Give me another hour for the rest."
"One hour then. Meet me in the mending room on the ground floor. I'll be waiting."
An hour later, Sandor Clegane entered a sun-drenched wooden annex of the monastery. The windows were set high, and the light was caught by several polished silver mirrors, focusing a brilliant beam onto a central table.
A young girl, Martha, was arranging linens on the table, while Aldric and a middle-aged man in white silk-linen—Maester Brand—were inspecting a row of terrifyingly sharp knives.
"I'm not quite ready," Aldric said, looking up with a brief frown. "Wander the yard for a bit longer."
Sandor bristled, his impatience palpable. "No. I'll wait here."
Aldric sighed and turned to the girl. "Martha, take Sandor to wash his face. The sweat will foul the mending."
Martha hesitated. "But the table—"
"I'll move the table. Go."
Martha led Sandor to a basin outside. He sat as she provided hot water and a cloth. Once his face was scrubbed raw, she motioned for him to bow his head. Sandor felt the cold bite of shears as his long, greasy hair was clipped away in clumps.
"Why the hair?" he grumbled.
Martha tapped his scalp with the shears. "We're mending the flesh, not the wool. You don't want hair trapped inside your skin once the Light knits it shut. A soldier once had a scalp wound healed too fast by his captain; he spent a week in agony because the hair was growing under the skin. The Master had to cut him open again to fix it."
Sandor shivered at the thought. "What do you call this? Manual processing?"
"The Master calls it 'surgery'," Martha explained. "He found that the Light heals exactly what it sees. If a bone is set wrong, the Light heals it crooked, and the man limps forever. We have to cut the dead meat away and align the pieces by hand before the spell is cast. The Master spent a whole week last moon 're-fixing' all the botched jobs from the field."
Sandor touched the smooth, jagged scar on his cheek. "This isn't a broken bone."
"It's a ruin," Martha said simply. "We have to tear the old lie open to let the truth back in."
The truth, Sandor thought, looking at his distorted reflection in the basin. He couldn't remember a face without the fire. It had been his shadow since childhood.
"Don't worry," Martha said, noticing his hollow gaze. "The Master wouldn't offer if he couldn't deliver. He doesn't like to fail."
"Everyone calls him the Lightbringer," Sandor noted. "Why do you call him Commander?"
"Because when the Golden Dawn was just the Silver Hand, he was our Captain. Only the original twelve call him that. It is our honor."
"You've been with him that long?"
"Since the beginning," Martha said proudly. "Beside Kevin and Jon, I've seen more of his path than anyone."
"You're lucky," Sandor grunted. "To survive this war as a slip of a girl."
Martha's lips curled into a smile. She held up her empty palm. "Lucky? Or chosen?"
A brilliant orb of golden Light flared into existence in her hand, illuminating the basin.
"You... you have the gift too?"
"All of the original twelve are High Sunwalkers now," she said. "I didn't survive because I was lucky. I survived because I followed the right man. Any other captain would have seen me dead or worse in the first moon."
"Martha, are we ready?" Aldric's voice called from inside.
"He's scrubbed and shorn, Commander!"
Sandor was led back into the room. Aldric and Brand had donned white robes and linen masks that covered everything but their eyes. The sight was unnerving, clinical.
"Lie down," Aldric commanded.
Sandor obeyed, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. Brand stepped forward with a wooden cup of thick, white liquid. "Milk of the poppy. It will take you to a dreamless sleep. When you wake, the world will be different."
Sandor looked at the cup, then pushed it away. "I don't need it. I've lived with fire; I can live with a knife."
Aldric stepped into the light, his gaze hard. "Are you sure? I am going to peel the ruined scalp from your skull. I am going to harvest healthy skin from your chest to graft onto the wound. It will be a slow, screaming agony. This is the first time I have attempted a restoration of this scale. The Light will finish the work, but the process will be hell. Do you truly want to be awake for the carving?"
Sandor went silent. He looked at the knives, then at the milk. He took the cup and drained it in a single swallow.
The darkness took him quickly.
He dreamt of King's Landing, but it was a city of blood. Gregor stood atop a mountain of corpses, wearing a crown of human teeth, holding Cersei in one arm and the broken body of Joffrey in the other.
I should have killed you in the nursery, the beast-brother said, his face a rotting mask.
I'm not afraid of you! Sandor tried to scream, but his voice was that of a six-year-old boy. He raised a wooden toy sword, but Gregor lunged with a blade of living flame. The sparks hit his face. The heat was blinding.
"Cursed hells!" Sandor screamed in his sleep.
"Hold him!" a voice commanded.
"The poppy isn't holding, Maester," another voice whispered.
"Knock him out then," a female voice suggested. "The Light will keep him from dying if you hit him too hard."
"Nonsense," Aldric's voice snapped. "Give him another dose. His spirit is fighting the mending. More poppy, Brand."
A thick liquid was forced into his mouth, and the world finally went silent.
Sandor Clegane woke with a start. He was back in his bunk at the barracks. Across the room, Wayne Jarvis was snoring loudly, grinding his teeth in his sleep.
He reached up, his hand trembling as he touched his right cheek.
Smooth.
It was smooth. No ridges of melted flesh. No weeping sores. He could feel the texture of his own skin under his fingertips. He vaulted out of bed and ran to the stream outside the barracks. In the pale light of dawn, he looked at his reflection in the water.
The face was older, lined with the weariness of thirty years, but it was ordinary. The monster was gone.
He walked back to the quarters. Wayne was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. He looked at Sandor's new face and offered a lopsided grin. "Thought of a new name yet? To bury the past?"
Sandor buckled his sword belt, his movements deliberate and firm. "No. I am Sandor Clegane. That doesn't change. I was once the King's dog."
He looked at his hands, then at the rising sun.
"Now, I am the Hound of the Light."
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