The march from St. Maur's to Saltpans was a two-week trek through a landscape that had forgotten the meaning of peace. Aldric led four hundred spears north along the winding trails of the Gods Eye, intending to skirt the massive ruins of Harrenhal before cutting east toward the lower reaches of the Trident.
Day after day, they moved in the pale light of autumn. At night, they camped by the water's edge, their fires flickering like lonely stars against the dark expanse of the lake. As they pushed further, the trees thinned, replaced by rolling hills that looked like the arched spine of a great beast.
The silence of the plains was broken only by the skeletal remains of burnt manors. They stood like blackened, rotted teeth against the sky, monuments to the cruelty that had swept through the Riverlands. These had once been homes; now, they were only wind-whipped rubble.
By the end of the third day, the silhouette of Harrenhal loomed over the horizon. Even from a distance, the castle was a nightmare made of stone.
Friar Ray, the man who had once pulled Sandor Clegane back from the lip of the grave, stood beside Aldric on a low ridge overlooking the fortress.
"Harren the Black built that pile to scream his name to the heavens," Ray whispered, his voice thick with awe and distaste. "King of the Isles and the Rivers. He spent forty years grinding the bones of his captives to raise those five towers. They say he mixed human blood into the mortar to make the walls unbreakable."
Ray gestured toward the jagged tops of the towers. "He boasted that no army could take it. He was right. No army did. But Aegon came with Balerion the Black Dread. Stone does not burn, but Harren and his line roasted inside those towers like pigs in an oven. The heat was so great the stone ran like candle wax. That is why they call the tallest one the Kingspyre."
Aldric looked at the walls, which rose like sheer cliffs. Even the smallest tower was taller than the highest spire of Winterfell. But every inch was scarred—twisted, melted, and cracked by dragonfire three centuries old.
"A monument to vanity," Aldric said. "And a curse to whoever holds it."
"Aye," Ray agreed. "The Houses that took it after Harren—the Qoherys, the Harroways, the Towers, the Strongs, the Lothstons, the Whents—they all withered like autumn leaves. If House Whent hadn't called on me for cleansings and prayers, their names would be forgotten by all but the Maesters."
Aldric shook his head. "It is a trap. To hold a castle this size requires a small kingdom's worth of grain and a massive garrison. It is too large to defend and too expensive to maintain. Littlefinger is welcome to his 'prize.' I have no interest in cold stones. Our wealth is in the soil, the canals, and the people. But I won't have the Mountain's curs using those walls as a shield to bleed the countryside. Tomorrow, we give them a reminder of who owns the Light."
As they neared the castle's shadow, the air grew heavy. They passed through the ruins of a town west of the walls—a place Tywin Lannister had used as a staging ground. The stench was the first thing to hit them: the sour, overpowering odor of overflowing latrine pits and old blood that even the autumn rain couldn't wash away.
Harrenhal sat across the white-capped water of the lake, its five twisted black fingers reaching for the clouds. Gregor Clegane had seized the castle from the Mummers before being recalled to the capital. His men remained behind like maggots in a carcass.
Aldric led his personal guard—ten Sunwalkers in burnished plate—straight to the main gatehouse. He looked up at the sentries pacing the ramparts.
"Are you the dogs of Gregor Clegane?" Aldric roared.
A guard leaned over the crenellations, squinting. "Who's asking?"
"I am Jack of the Brotherhood!" Aldric shouted, deepening his voice to a rough, soldier's growl. "Where is your master?"
"The Lightning Lord's pup?" the guard laughed. "The Mountain has killed your Beric half a dozen times. If you want to join him, stay right there. We'll be down to collect your heads."
Aldric's lip curled. "Tell your captain the war is over. The Young Wolf is dead. You can keep your pile of stones, but if you touch another farmer in this valley, I will see you buried beneath them."
The guards jeered, but Aldric noticed movement behind the iron portcullis. They were mobilizing.
"Master, they're mounting up," Kevin whispered, his hand on the hilt of Tide-Breaker.
"Good. I'm tired of talking," Aldric said. He turned to a Sunwalker named Marco, a former leatherworker with a tongue like a rasp. "Marco, give them a taste of the pits. Keep them angry until they commit."
Marco grinned. He stepped forward and loosed a torrent of vitriol that would have made a sailor blush, his voice amplified by a subtle pulse of the Light. He questioned the guards' lineage, their courage, and the virtue of their mothers with a rhythmic, biting cruelty.
The gate groaned. The heavy iron portcullis slammed upward. Thirty Lannister riders, spurred by Marco's insults, thundered out like a red tide.
Aldric watched them come with a cold, mocking eye. He reached behind his back, drew a longbow, and loosed a single shaft in a motion so fluid it seemed mechanical. The arrow hissed through the air, clipping the lead guard's helm and sending him diving for cover.
"Retreat!" Aldric commanded, wheeling his horse.
The Lannister men pursued, smelling blood. They chased the ten "outlaws" into the ruins of the camp, far from the safety of the castle walls.
The sentry on the wall watched them go, waiting for the slaughter. But when the dust settled in the ruins, he didn't see a massacre of outlaws. He saw his comrades pulled from their saddles. He saw the "outlaws" move with a terrifying, synchronized grace, cutting down the Lannister men before they could even level their spears.
One knight in silver-white plate—Kevin—dismounted. He and two others methodically took the heads of the fallen. They stacked them in a neat, grim pyramid in front of the Harrenhal gates.
When the work was done, Kevin looked up at the remaining guards. His voice was young but carried the weight of a King's command.
"The Sun has seen your work," Kevin shouted. "This is the price of the dark. Touch the smallfolk again, and we won't stop at the gates."
He turned and urinated on the pile of heads before mounting his horse and riding away, leaving the guards of Harrenhal staring in silent, paralyzed horror.
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