The territories of the eleven vassals under House Whent were tightly clustered, a patch of land unbroken by foreign enclaves. As the Joint Task Force marched from the monastery, the roads remained clear. They encountered neither the organized resistance of rival houses nor the predatory foraging parties of the Lannisters.
While the peace was a blessing for the logistics of the march, it left the fully armed warriors of the Alliance feeling restless. To prevent the inevitable brawls born of boredom and adrenaline, Aldric commanded Lennar to lead the men in song. The thunderous choruses and rhythmic chants served as a valve for their pent-up aggression, keeping the column moving in disciplined harmony.
Gendry, marching in the middle of his squad, felt out of place. The melodies were familiar—tunes hummed in the taverns of Flea Bottom—but the words were entirely alien. While his comrades bellowed at the sky, Gendry could only move his jaw and grunt rhythmically, a mummer's mimicry of a singer.
That night, as they made camp, Gendry turned to Royce, the squad's vice-captain. "Royce, those songs... I know the tunes, but the lyrics sound wrong. I've never heard a drunk in the capital sing about a 'Rising Sun.'"
Royce was an old hand, a veteran who had followed Aldric since the skirmishes outside Pinkmaiden. He had embraced the faith of Anshe during the Great Conclave, though he had yet to officially request the Awakening for himself.
"You arrived late, lad," Royce said with a faint smile. "If you'd been here a week earlier, you'd have caught Lennar's lessons. Before the Lightbringer opened the night-school, Lennar spent the evenings teaching us these verses. It was better than staring at a slate, I'll tell you that."
Gendry looked toward the front of the camp, where Lennar was deep in conversation with Aldric. The songs, originally bawdy tavern tunes or peasant folk songs, had been systematically re-written by the singer to serve as auditory drills. Charlie's Little Lambs—a song about a foolish farmer's soft-bellied sheep—had become The Red Sun Rising, a hymn about the Light's protection and the duty of the soldier.
Through constant repetition, the Golden Dawn's code of conduct was being etched into the men's minds. Aldric knew that the legendary lack of discipline in peasant levies wasn't born of inherent evil, but of a lack of purpose. Once the path of the "Just Warrior" was clearly marked, the men followed it with a terrifying, religious fervor.
Over the two-day march, the three hundred men of the Alliance acted with a discipline unseen in the Riverlands. No crops were trampled, no hovels were burned, and no women were harassed. This order allowed them to outpace their own schedule, reaching their destination half a day early.
By noon of the third day, the Alliance arrived at the gates of Fisher Manor. The site was clean; the corpses of Ser Amory Lorch's men had already been cleared away.
A middle-aged man in rusted mail stood atop the manor's stone curtain wall, a long-handled scythe propped against his shoulder. He watched the approaching column with a wary eye. "Who are you? State your business!"
Aldric signaled Jon Snow. The boy spurred his horse forward, his voice ringing out. "Who are you to hold a gate that does not belong to you? Why are you here?"
The man spat a glob of phlegm toward Jon's horse. "Brat. Did your father never teach you how to speak to your elders? Answer me first, or crawl back to the mud you came from!"
The insult to Lord Eddard made the veins in Jon's neck throb. His hand dropped to his hilt, but Aldric rode up beside him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"I am Aldric, Lightbringer of the Dawn," he called up to the wall. "Beside me are the lords of the Gods Eye, the sworn vassals of Harrenhal. We have formed a coalition to restore order to these lands. We know the Fishers were put to the sword by Lannister dregs. This manor is empty. Who do you serve?"
A younger warrior in polished boiled leather stepped up to replace the veteran. "I am Ser Godfrey Brooke, a knight in service to Earl Norbert of Wayfarer's Rest. Lord Vance heard of the Fishers' tragedy and sent us to hold this ground in the name of justice. We guard this seat until a rightful heir appears. Whatever your orders, turn your horses and leave."
"Justice?" Aldric scoffed. "The reach of Wayfarer's Rest is long indeed if it extends to the vassals of the Whents. Where was your 'justice' when the Mummers were gutting this place? You arrived after the fires were out, Ser. That is not guardianship—that is scavenging."
The standoff intensified as the other lords of the Alliance—Dean Blount, Karlo Schmidt, and the rest—rode to the front.
"Godfrey, boy!" Dean Blount bellowed. "I don't know you, and I don't care to. But look behind us. Five hundred men! The Lady Shary Fisher is under our protection. Open the gates, or we'll take the walls and leave the choice to the crows!"
The blunt, Westerosi style of diplomacy had an immediate effect. Godfrey Brooke didn't argue; he simply vanished from the battlements.
"He ran?" Aldric asked, surprised.
"He's young," Dean grunted. "He's likely gone to find someone with more grey hair to tell him what to do."
A moment later, Godfrey returned. His tone was noticeably softer. "My Lords... I do not know if Lady Fisher survives, nor can I confirm her presence in your camp. But Ser Shylin Fisher was a comrade to my master. These hundred men behind me are here out of duty to that friendship. With Lady Whent missing, Lord Vance has taken it upon himself to act as steward. Surely you understand the weight of an Earl's word?"
"We understand," Dean barked. "When are you leaving?"
Godfrey hesitated. "If you are willing to pay fifty gold dragons for our 'expenses'... we will vacate the manor and leave it to your care."
Dean looked at Aldric. "Fifty dragons. What do you think?"
Aldric didn't hesitate. "We have no gold for scavengers. Prepare the ladders."
For a normal lord, fifty gold was a bargain compared to the cost of an assault—the blood, the compensation for the fallen, the risk of a stalemate. But Aldric had forty Sunwalkers. His casualties would be negligible, and he'd likely gain recruits from the survivors. More importantly, Aldric was broke, and he wasn't about to spend his last coppers on a "departure fee."
Seeing Aldric turn his horse away, Godfrey's composure broke. "My Lord! Lightbringer! If fifty is too much, we can talk! At least give us enough to cover the march back to the Trident!"
Aldric ignored him. He rode into the ranks and ordered the camp established. Woodcutters were sent into the nearby grove to build scaling ladders and a ram. Fisher Manor's walls were only ten feet high; three-man ladders would bridge the gap in seconds.
For two days, the Alliance worked. The warriors, many of whom were skilled with axes and carpentry from their lives as farmers, built three massive siege-ladders.
On the third morning, Dane Bennett brought word to the command tent. "Godfrey has a new price. Twenty gold dragons, and they leave quietly."
Aldric didn't even look up from his map. "We've spent two days building ladders. Now he wants twenty gold? Tell him we'll accept twenty gold from him to let his men walk away with their lives."
The parley was over.
When the ladders were pushed to the gates, the battle seemed inevitable. Godfrey Brooke's men stood on the walls with crossbows leveled. But as the first ladder touched the stone, the manor gates suddenly swung open.
Godfrey Brooke walked out on foot, leading his horse. He knelt before Aldric and offered his sword hilt-first. "Lightbringer. For the sake of the realm, I cannot lead these men into a slaughter for a ruin. I accept your terms of surrender."
Aldric frowned. "You don't even want to test us? You might have held."
Godfrey shook his head. "If blood is spilled here, it won't end until our houses are ashes. It isn't worth it."
"A wise choice," Aldric said, taking the blade. "Though a late one."
Jon and the Staff of Shadows disarmed the hundred men and moved them into the manor's empty granaries for holding. When the tally was finished, Jon reported to Aldric. "Teacher, Ser Godfrey brought twenty-one veterans. The rest are green levies."
"So many?" Aldric mused. "Why would Lord Vance send veterans here when he should be defending Riverrun?"
He ordered Godfrey brought before him. The young knight looked pale. When Aldric asked why Wayfarer's Rest was projecting force so far south, Godfrey's answer was like a thunderclap.
"The war is over, Lightbringer."
Karlo Schmidt, standing nearby, scoffed. "Over? The Young Wolf is in the West, and the Lions are licking their wounds."
"No," Godfrey said, his voice hollow. "The Reach has declared for Joffrey. Robb Stark has been abandoned by the Freys and the Karstarks. And... the news from the North has broken the Trident. Winterfell has fallen to the Ironborn. Lord Eddard's sons, Bran and Rickon, are dead. Moat Cailin is sealed. The Northmen are trapped in the south with no home to return to."
Jon Snow's world shattered. He surged forward, grabbing Godfrey by the collar, his face a mask of primal agony. "What did you say?! Winterfell is gone? Bran... Rickon... murdered?! Who told you this lie?!"
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