Aldric woke to a ceiling over his head—a luxury he hadn't enjoyed in weeks. The setting sun hung low, tangled in the branches of the western oaks. He sat on the edge of the cot, staring with glazed eyes at the cold stone wall until his spirit finally caught up with his body. He rubbed his face and stood.
He knocked on John's door, but there was no answer. Guessing the monk had already descended to the Great Hall, Aldric decided to explore. He bypassed the hall for now, instead climbing the stone stairs that led to the wall walk.
The rampart was narrow, barely a yard wide. Every ten paces, a stone staircase led back down to the courtyard, designed for quick troop deployment. Aldric ran his hand along the masonry. He noticed jagged, broken edges where stone had been sheared away years ago.
Towers should be here, he thought. A tall, sturdy tower on these corners would grant a sentry eyes for leagues. Without them, the monastery was a blind man in a forest. Especially in a storm, who would stand on these exposed walls to keep watch?
He frowned, touching a weathered break in the rock. These weren't recent scars. They had been dismantled generations ago. If those towers had stood, John's brothers wouldn't have been butchered like sheep. Even the Bloody Mummers couldn't simply leap a wall.
Aldric descended into the Great Hall. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and vegetable pottage. He took his wooden bowl from a matron at the hearth and sat with John and the man called Sparrow.
Tonight's feast was funded by Aldric's wagons. His company had consumed nearly two of their six supply carts since leaving the West, but the fresh potatoes and pumpkins they'd scavenged from abandoned fields along the road made the soup hearty and thick.
Aldric's refugees sat in an orderly line, supervised by a few Sunwalkers. The local smallfolk, accustomed to the frantic scramble of the starving, watched in bewilderment.
One burly local tried to shove his way to the front. He was met by a Sunwalker who applied a swift, practiced technique—one that left the man rolling on the floor in agony without a single broken bone. When the man scrambled up to retaliate, he saw Aldric laughing with the monastery's masters and quickly found the back of the line.
The first rule of survival in a sack, Aldric mused, is knowing whose hand holds the leash.
"Your discipline is remarkable, Captain Seres," the Sparrow said, pulling his gaze from the crowd.
"They are refugees who have learned my rules," Aldric replied, spearheading a chunk of pumpkin. "Did my men cause trouble by laying hands on your people?"
The Sparrow shook his head. "Most of the brothers were slain. Without these commoners, the monastery would be a charnel house. But not all who seek shelter are pious." He nudged his chin toward the troublemakers. "They prey on the weak, stealing bread and forcing others to do their labor. If not for the fear of John's rainbows and my own meager influence, they would have taken this place for themselves already."
Aldric offered a cold smile. "The Golden Dawn is a forge. I can turn rusted iron into tempered steel. Hand those men to me; I'll make them useful."
"The Golden Dawn?" John interrupted. "What happened to the Order of the Silver Hand?"
"The Silver Hand is gone, John." Aldric explained the schism at Oxcross in a few sharp sentences. "I reorganized those who remained to bring a flicker of light to those the war has forgotten."
"I feared Conrad and the others had fallen," John sighed. "I should have known you were too stubborn to lose that many men."
The Sparrow spoke, his voice like dry parchment. "The high lords do not care if a sparrow falls. They care for their lands and their 'honor.' To them, a hundred smallfolk are worth less than the silk on their backs."
"Is slavery not forbidden in Westeros?" Aldric asked.
"Forbidden by the Seven and the Old Gods alike," the Sparrow sneered. "But what is the difference? A lord has the power of life and death over his smallfolk. They are bound to the dirt he owns."
"Is there no one to watch the watchers?" Aldric pressed. "In the North, Lord Stark ensures the King's Peace. A girl can walk the Kingsroad in a fine dress without fear."
"Because Eddard Stark is a man of rare honor," John said. "But even in the North, there are shadows. In the lands of the Dreadfort, they say Ramsay Snow hunts women for sport, and no one dares speak. In my travels, such tales are more common than flies."
The Sparrow sighed. "It is worse in the south. A peasant seeking justice from the King would be a pile of bones before he reached the gates of the Red Keep. And the Faith..." He trailed off. "The Septons are mostly the third and fourth sons of lords. They preside over altars while their brothers preside over castles. A common-born monk like John or me is lucky to host a village shrine."
Aldric nodded. He wasn't surprised by the corruption—it was a mirror of Earth's history.
"The Church has no teeth," the Sparrow continued. "Centuries ago, King Maegor the Cruel burned the Faith Militant. He rode his dragon, Balerion, and turned the Sept of Remembrance into a pyre. He hunted the Warrior's Sons and the Poor Fellows until their heads were worth a gold dragon each. Since then, the Faith has been forbidden from holding walls or towers. That is why our ramparts are bare, Captain. We are not allowed to defend ourselves."
The Sparrow leaned in. "What use is a Septon's candle against a lord's sword? Can we drag a murderer to judgment with a prayer and a whip?"
Aldric chuckled. "Justice without power is as useless as a blunt dagger."
The three men shared a silent look. Aldric realized the trap. He was hunting for the legitimacy of the Faith, but the Faith was hunting for his steel.
"John," Aldric shifted the topic. "Tell me about 'Rainbow John.' The road was full of the name."
John pulled a seven-sided crystal prism from his robes. "At Riverrun, you told me the Seven and the Sun were one. You showed me the rainbow in the mist. I didn't forget."
John lowered his voice, describing the raid on the monastery. "I used the Sun's Grace to heal Brother Sparrow. I told him your words—that the Light of the Sun is the source, and the Seven are its colors. He didn't believe me until I showed him."
The Sparrow took up the tale, his eyes growing fervent. "John made a rainbow in the air, but the trick was fickle. We experimented with amber, with water, and finally with this crystal. When the Sun's ray passes through it, it shatters into the seven sacred colors."
The old monk's voice trembled with excitement. "For a thousand years, the Church has taught that the Seven are one. But it was a mystery of faith, a theory that most commoners ignored. They saw seven gods. But Anshe... the Sun-God... he changes everything. A single beam of white light contains all seven aspects. The Sun is the high god, and the Seven are his manifestations. It is a perfect theology! And the fact that this 'Solar Light' can actually heal the sick is the proof the world needs."
The Sparrow gripped Aldric's arm. "Anshe provides the power the Seven lacked. With this, the Faith will have no rivals. The glory of the Sun will wash over the world!"
Aldric felt a surge of adrenaline. He had been playing at politics, but this old man was a master of the craft. He had perfectly synthesized Aldric's "foreign" religion into the existing power structure of Westeros.
Aldric took the crystal. He channeled a pulse of the Light into it. A brilliant, blinding white beam hit the facets, exploding into a vibrant, prismatic rainbow that danced across the scorched stone walls.
"Brother Sparrow," Aldric said, his voice serious. "I agree with your vision. But I have two concerns."
"Speak," the Sparrow urged.
"First, the core of Anshe's faith is the Solar Core and the Three Pillars: Liberty, Equality, and Compassion. Can you truly accept that a peasant is equal to a king under the Sun?"
Aldric paused, his eyes narrowing. "And second... if you accept it, will the High Septons and the noble-born lords of the Faith ever allow such a truth to be spoken?"
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