After an exhaustive tour of the roaring workshops, Friar John led Alis Waters to the communal mess for a worker's meal. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the boisterous laughter of craftsmen. Though the fare was simple—boiled tubers, fresh trout from the Gods Eye, and hard cheeses—it was a bounty unheard of in the war-scorched Riverlands.
John speared a succulent piece of fish and offered it to Alis, his expression serene. "Aldric has given these men more than just a forge, Miss Alis. He has given them the means to feed their kin. But the Trident is still a graveyard. We lack grain, and our children lack wool for the frost. If you take our goods to the markets, we expect more than just gold in return."
Alis narrowed her eyes, her mind a whirling abacus of potential gains. "Your wares are unlike anything in the Seven Kingdoms, Friar. But I am a merchant, not a Great House. I lack the coin to buy your entire inventory in one stroke. Perhaps if I return to the capital and speak with my associates..."
John shook his head gently. "You do not need gold. You need sheep and wheat. You spoke of connections with the wool-traders. The wind is turning cold; we need wool to weave the winter's shield. And the Reach—we know their granaries are full while ours are ash. If you can move their grain here, we will pay you in Sun-Sugar and White-Stone."
Alis drummed her fingers on the rough wooden table. "A fair exchange... but we have not discussed the price of the miracles themselves."
"What price do you find appropriate?" John countered with a faint smile.
Alis leaned in, her voice low and playful. "Asking a merchant to name the price? Careful, Friar, you might find yourself penniless before the moon turns."
John sighed, his gaze drifting to the bustling workers. "Aldric is certain of their worth. He says a high-born lady will not care for the cost once she has washed her hands with lavender soap and plucked amber sweets from a bowl of white stone. He believes these goods are weapons that will conquer the courts of the south."
Alis sat back, a sharp, mercenary light in her eyes. "I am no Lady, but I know their hearts. They are hollow, vain, and greedy. Queen Cersei would demand her plates be made of solid gold just to spit on the poor. The Redwyne girls will wear a silk gown once and toss it to the dogs to prove their father's wealth."
She smiled—a predatory, elegant expression. "But they crave the new. If I hold a salon in the capital and show Aranne Redwyne a tea-set of your White-Stone, she will chirp about it to Margaery Tyrell until the whole Red Keep is screaming for it. And Naomi Rowan... she cannot bear for Aranne to have a ribbon that she does not possess. The young knights will bankrupt their houses just to buy a gift that wins a smile from such girls."
Alis's face suddenly hardened. "But this takes time. It takes gold to buy the right ears. And I will not build a market only for a rival to sweep in with your goods and undercut my price. If I do this, I want a Sole Charter. I am the only voice of the Dawn in King's Landing."
John finished his soup and looked at her squarely. "The patterns and the designs? We can forge whatever your 'Ladies' desire. But a Sole Charter and trade on credit... these are matters for the Lightbringer alone."
"Then take me to him," Alis demanded.
"He rode for Saltpans four days ago," John said. "He will not return for a moon."
"A moon?" Alis calculated rapidly. By then, her rivals in the capital might have already picked her bones clean. "No. Send me to him. I cannot wait."
"A battlefield is no place for a woman of the city," John cautioned.
"The counting-houses are bloodier than the fields, Friar. A failed merchant doesn't just die; they take their whole lineage into the Blackwater with stones in their pockets. I leave at dawn."
Before departing, Alis insisted on meeting the men behind the pottery. John, confident in the Alliance's "Assembly Line" system—where no single man knew the whole secret of the kiln—summoned a master named Miles.
Miles was a former cathedral painter, a man who had spent his life decorating the silent walls of the Seven. He listened to Alis describe "gaudy, bright, and vibrant" patterns with the intensity of a man finding his true calling. They spent hours sketching designs in the dirt with sticks, Alis using her silk handkerchief to show him the exact shade of Tyrell rose and Lannister crimson she required.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, John returned to the quiet canteen.
"Are we finished?" he asked.
"Nearly," Alis said, her voice raspy from hours of talking. "Master Miles is a genius. He understands that a plate isn't for eating; it's for boasting."
Miles flushed with pride. "I must speak with the kilns, Friar. It will take a week to fire the samples the Mistress requires."
Alis swallowed hard, her throat burning from the dry air of the forge. "Keep the samples. I will take what you have in the warehouse now to test the waters. I just need... I need..." She began to cough, her voice failing.
John frowned. He stepped forward, his hand hovering an inch from her throat. He closed his eyes and whispered a low, resonant prayer. "Great Anshe, restore the breath of our guest. Let the Light mend the strain."
A warmth like a summer hearth washed over Alis. The burning in her throat vanished. The dryness was gone as if she had just drunk from a cool spring.
"What..." Alis touched her neck, her voice coming out clear and melodic. "What did you do?"
John only smiled. "The Light is more than just a candle in the dark, Miss Alis. It is the life within us all. Now, let us get you ready for the road. The Lightbringer is waiting."
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