"Who told me?" Godfrey looked bewildered. "The news is common tongue in every tavern from here to the Trident. Winterfell was put to the torch by Theon Greyjoy. Moat Cailin is in the hands of the Ironborn. The Young Wolf's belly is cut off from his home, and he's driven his strongest allies—the Freys and the Karstarks—straight into the arms of the Lion. He's a king with no kingdom. If not for his unbroken string of victories in the field, his host would have deserted him weeks ago."
"Theon... that treacherous cur!" Jon Snow's jaw tightened until it felt like his teeth might shatter. "Robb treated him as a brother. How could he?"
Jon didn't descend into a blind rage or shout accusations of lies. He was a creature of the North—winter-forged and steady. But the absolute agony in his eyes spoke volumes. The support of the North was gone, and his family was being systematically erased from the world.
Once the guards hauled the prisoners away, the hall fell silent, leaving only Jon and his teacher, Aldric. Jon dropped to one knee, his head bowed. "Teacher... I fear for Robb. I cannot stay here. I beg of you—let me go to him."
Aldric looked down at him, his expression unreadable. "Go to him as a brother, or go to him as a soldier?"
Jon was silent for a long moment. "Robb is not of my mother's blood, but he is my heart. We grew up together. We bled together. Now Bran and Rickon are gone, Sansa is a prisoner of the Lannisters, and Arya... Arya is lost to the wind. Robb is all I have left. My father told me: When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. I cannot watch the last of my pack die while I sit behind stone walls."
Aldric's voice was tinged with disappointment. "And the Golden Dawn? The Sunwalkers? Are they not your pack? I remember the night at the Wall when you swore to the gods of your fathers to cast aside your name. I remember the night outside Riverrun when you vowed to give your life to Anshe. Do those oaths mean so little when the wind turns cold?"
"I remember!" Jon's voice cracked with raw emotion. "But my father is dead! My brothers are murdered! I have no mother, no home... I don't know what to do, Teacher! I just cannot watch him die alone!"
Looking at Jon's flushed face and the unshed tears in his eyes, Aldric realized the depth of the torment the boy had been carrying. But for every Robb Stark in peril, there were a thousand smallfolk in the Riverlands facing the same darkness. Beneath their feet, Fisher Manor was a graveyard; its family extinguished, its lady a hollow shell. Who wept for the nameless peasants in the surrounding fields? Only the Golden Dawn.
The mission of the Sunwalkers was to end the cycle of noble bloodletting and build a world where the plow was more sacred than the crown. They weren't meant to be pawns in a game for the Iron Throne.
Aldric had a hundred lessons he could recite to keep Jon in line. He knew that if he commanded it, Jon would stay, serving as Vice-Commander with the same quiet efficiency as always. But they were not merely commander and subordinate; they were Master and Apprentice.
Finally, Aldric exhaled a long, heavy sigh. "If you must go, then go. Many Sunwalkers have scattered since the Conclave; one more will not break us. But remember this, Jon: helping Robb Stark is your choice, not the Order's. Whatever you do there, you do as a Snow of Winterfell, not as a representative of the Golden Dawn. Do you understand?"
Jon knew the cost. The Order was in its infancy, barely a thousand souls strong, relying on fragile alliances to survive. By leaving, he was taking a pillar out from under Aldric's roof. Shame clouded his features, but the pull of blood was a tidal force. He bowed once, deeply, and left the hall without another word.
Aldric sat alone in the high-backed chair, a silhouette against the fading light. After a time, Karlo Schmidt entered, chewing on a strip of salt-beef. "I saw Jon riding out alone. Some urgent errand for the Order?"
Aldric forced a thin smile. "Family business. He asked for leave to settle matters at home."
Karlo frowned. "He's a Northman, isn't he? How does he expect to get home with the Moat closed?"
"He has kin in the south," Aldric said, shifting the subject. "Tell me of the manor. What have we won?"
Karlo took the hint. "The Staff is still tallying, but initial reports are lean. Godfrey Brooke and his 'knights' didn't bring much in the way of stores. There are no servants, no smallfolk—just a handful of camp followers they picked up on the road. They never intended to stay long."
"As I thought," Aldric mused. "Godfrey was a pawn sent by Earl Vance to test the waters. Whether he lived or died didn't matter, so long as his master learned how the neighbors would react."
"So how do we react?" Karlo asked. "Do we gut them or let them fly?"
"Let them go. But not empty-handed." Aldric called for Bud, his young orderly. "Find Greme Levin. Bring him here."
Greme was a junior member of the Staff, a distant branch of House Levin. He was literate, sharp, and nearing his own Awakening. When he entered, Aldric didn't waste time. "Jon is away on assignment. Until his return, you lead the Staff. Can you handle it?"
Greme's eyes went wide. "I... yes, Lightbringer! I won't fail you!"
"Good. Your first task: Disarm Godfrey Brooke and his veterans. Strip their horses and their mail. Give them back their swords, and give each man five silver stags for the road. Tell them to get out. As for their levies? Break their units and integrate them into our squads."
Karlo looked skeptical. "Why pay them? Not taking a ransom is mercy enough."
"A hundred silver is a small price to keep the Vances from turning their full attention to us just yet," Aldric explained. "If we hold them for ransom, we have to feed them and guard them. Better to send them home with enough coin to keep them from robbing the peasants on the way back. It's a seed of goodwill, Karlo. Even if the fruit is bitter."
Once Greme left, Karlo turned to the map. "And the manor?"
"I'm leaving a company here," Aldric said. "We establish the Parish-Stewardship system immediately."
"Parish-Stewardship? More of your Eastern talk?"
"In my home," Aldric began, "the King's hand rarely reaches the village. We rely on the community. A Steward-Friar—a man of age and wisdom—is elected by the people to manage the law and the faith. He represents the villagers to the Alliance, coordinating taxes, irrigation, and disputes.
"To support him, we establish a Sheriff-Post every few leagues. The Sheriff is responsible for hunting bandits and training the local militia. Both roles must be held by committed Light-Seekers. With this, the Alliance controls the land directly. We don't need to 'manage' through minor lords."
Karlo's brow furrowed. "That sounds like a world where a Lord doesn't have many knights left to command. Or a world where the Lord himself is... redundant."
Aldric met his gaze. "Knights will be soldiers of the Order, paid by the Alliance. Civil matters will be for the Friars."
"And what of the six houses?" Karlo's voice was low, dangerous.
The silence that followed was a contest of wills. Karlo was the representative of the old guard. He had seen his levies turned into disciplined warriors, but he had also heard them whispering about a world where every man was a brother under the Sun. He knew he was on a "pirate ship," and he wanted to know where the captain was steering.
"This isn't just your fear, is it, Karlo?" Aldric asked.
"Except for Dean, the others are terrified," Karlo admitted. "Your ideas are radical. If these men bring this 'brotherhood' back to our lands, our rule ends."
"And your view?"
Karlo thought of a night in the capital, puking in an alley and watching wild dogs fight over the mess. They had barked at him not because they were brave, but because they thought he wanted their 'feast.'
"Lightbringer," Karlo said, "if we hadn't allied at House Ward, you would have taken this manor eventually anyway, wouldn't you?"
Aldric laced his fingers, saying nothing. The silence was the answer.
"Fisher Manor today. The rest of the lake tomorrow. Your discipline and your magic would have won out. So tell me—why bother with us at all? Why not just crush us?"
"Because Winter is Coming," Aldric said, his voice dropping an octave. "I have seen the dead walk beyond the Wall, Karlo. Cold things that do not tire and do not fear. They are coming for all of us. I am here to save this continent, not burn it. I need a united front, and I would rather build it with friends than on a mountain of corpses."
He leaned in. "From the moment we swore that oath, your houses became friends of the Dawn. I am building a Grand Council of Seven. It will represent the knights, the officers, the smiths, the farmers, the scholars, and the women of the fallen. This council will eventually choose the next Lightbringer. And for your support now, your six houses will have a permanent, hereditary seat on that Council."
Karlo stared at him. "That promise only matters if you win."
Aldric smiled. "If you don't stand with me, who else will ensure you win? The Whents? The Targaryens? They are ghosts, Karlo. Choose the Sun."
Karlo leaned toward him, his ambition naked. "The Council is fine for the others. It's enough to keep the 'dogs' happy. But for me? It isn't enough."
"Then what do you want, Ser Karlo?"
"I want the Awakening," Karlo said, his eyes burning. "I want to be a Sunwalker."
Aldric frowned. "The Light requires true faith in the Word. I do not trade the Awakening for political favors."
"Theodore Wells is a Sunwalker," Karlo countered. "I knew him in the capital. He's no more a saint than I am. If he can do it, I can negotiate too. I can believe in Anshe. Just show me the path."
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