That night, Aldric and his company slept fitfully on the Quiet Isle.
As the first sliver of dawn bled over the horizon, painting the Bay of Crabs in shades of molten gold, Aldric rose. The discipline of the march had carved a permanent wakefulness into his bones. He walked alone to the shore, finding a flat, salt-crusted rock to watch the sun climb out of the narrow sea.
"Master, it feels like an age since we've seen a sunrise this clear," a voice said behind him. Kevin stepped onto the sand, his boots crunching on dried kelp.
"Aye," Aldric said, his eyes fixed on the red orb. "Since we left the coast of the Vale, we've had little time for silence. It feels like another life."
"I remember the seafood," Kevin smiled faintly. "I ate so much crab I thought I'd grow a shell."
Aldric stood and stretched, his joints popping like dry kindling. "It's been too long since I tested your steel, boy. Draw Tide-Breaker. Let me see if your time with the Lightning Lord's outlaws made you a warrior or just a brawler."
"Shall I use the Way of the Sun, or the Way of the Sword?" Kevin asked, unsheathing the patterned blade.
Aldric laughed, a hearty sound that carried over the water. "Try to touch my shadow first, then you can worry about your 'Ways'."
The duel began as the sun's warmth hit the sand. It was a dance of light and steel—Kevin's aggressive, lunging style meeting Aldric's immovable, veteran grace. Their shadows stretched long and thin across the beach, flickering like ghosts.
By the time the brothers of the Isle emerged from their cloisters, the two were a blur of motion, their practice blades ringing with the sound of a hundred bells. They fought until their lungs burned and their limbs turned to lead, eventually collapsing side-by-side onto the damp sand.
"A fine display," the Elder said, approaching with measured steps. He looked down at them, a hint of awe in his sharp eyes. "Do all the warriors of the Dawn train with such... ferocity?"
"Every day," Aldric gasped, wiping sweat from his brow. "Steel is only as good as the arm that swings it."
"War is a rot," the Elder sighed. "If you avoid the fight, you save the man."
"And if you cannot avoid it?" Aldric countered, looking toward the smoldering ruins of Saltpans across the water. "We train so that those who must fight have the strength to survive it."
The talk turned to the coming occupation.
"I have only a dozen men here," Aldric explained. "Not enough to show Ser Quincy Cox the weight of my resolve. My main host is a day's march behind. Four hundred spears, Kevin. And three hundred more souls we gathered along the road."
"Four hundred?" The Elder's brow furrowed. "To lease a town?"
"Fifty horse, three hundred foot," Aldric said. "And in every ten, a Sunwalker to mend the broken. If Quincy is reasonable, we lease. If he is not... we find another way."
The Elder traced a Seven-Pointed Star in the air. "Ser Quincy is a poor Lord, but only the King may judge a man's lands. If you take his castle by force, you invite the wrath of the Throne."
Aldric offered a confident grin. "As long as I wish him to live, Elder, he shall live. I am not here for his head, only his gates."
After a brief breakfast, Aldric's party took the ferry back to the mainland. He rode out to meet his advancing host, the red-and-gold banners of the Divine Eye Alliance snapping in the wind.
As he approached the vanguard, a knight named Ser Greme rode forward to intercept him. "Lightbringer! A messenger arrived from the monastery. A merchant woman from the capital has been trailing us for three days."
"A merchant? From King's Landing?" Aldric asked, surprised.
He found her at the rear of the column, riding a sturdy chestnut mare. Beside her rode a massive figure in dark, scorched plate—Sandor Clegane.
"The Hound?" Aldric pulled up, blinking. "The recruits are at the monastery. Why are you on the road?"
"The pups are in the yard," Clegane grunted, his voice a low rasp. "John needed a shadow for the lady here. I grew tired of watching boys trip over their own feet, so I brought her to you myself."
Aldric turned to the woman. She was petite but sat her horse with the confidence of a commander.
"I am Alis Waters," she said, offering an elegant bow. "I seek the master of these miracles. Friar John spoke highly of your vision, Lightbringer."
"I am no Lord, Miss Alis," Aldric said. "But speak your piece."
She detailed her plan for the Sole Charter of the Sun-Sugar in the capital, her words painted with the gossip of the High Ladies and the greed of the Red Keep.
"I can grant you the trade," Aldric said. "I'll send word to John. But I cannot give you the entire stock. I have plans for Saltpans. This port will be our gate to the Free Cities."
Alis frowned. "Saltpans is a graveyard, My Lord. King's Landing is where the world's gold gathers. Why waste your strength on a ruin?"
"Because King's Landing is a cage I do not control," Aldric said bluntly. "I can control Saltpans. I will rebuild it. I will give the laborers a fair wage and the merchants a safe harbor."
Alis looked at the ruined town in the distance. "A noble dream. But Ser Quincy Cox will never yield, and the Hand of the King will not let a commoner-led Alliance seize a port. Lord Tywin Lannister has a long reach, Lightbringer."
"Tywin?" Sandor Clegane barked a short, jagged laugh. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a crumpled raven-scroll. "The Old Lion has finally met a hunter he couldn't kill."
Aldric took the parchment. His eyes scanned the messy ink. It was a message from the monastery's maester.
"Tywin Lannister is dead," Aldric whispered, the weight of the words settling over the camp. "Murdered in the Tower of the Hand... by his own son."
He looked at Alis, then at the smoking remains of Saltpans. The iron grip that had held the Seven Kingdoms together had shattered.
"The Lion is dead," Aldric said, his voice rising with a new authority. "And the Sun is rising. We take the town tomorrow."
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