Standing on the balcony outside his guest quarters, Aldric watched below as Ser Karlo Schmidt strode through the manor gates, led by Ser Tucker Ward. Karlo moved with a dangerous, rhythmic grace, looking about him with the arrogant confidence of a predator.
"A fine specimen of a man," Aldric mused. "Who is he?"
Charles Costa, standing beside him, offered a sour look. "Ser Karlo Schmidt. The man is a peacock. He served in the City Watch in King's Landing and took his vows in the Great Sept of Baelor itself. He fancies himself better than the rest of us River-knights—he doesn't even show proper respect to the Whents. I can promise you this: no matter who the others choose to lead us, it won't be him."
Aldric sighed. A commander should be the strongest among you, not the one who makes everyone feel comfortable. "Seven hells, Charles. We are talking about an army of barely three hundred men. Why must you lot make it so complicated?"
Karlo Schmidt seemed to sense eyes on him. He looked up, catching Aldric's gaze, and offered a bold, sweeping wave.
Charles forced a smile and waved back, but his voice remained a low hiss. "It isn't complicated. Tomorrow was meant to be the wedding day. Everyone who matters is here. We'll have one last council. Before that, I'll find an ally to nominate me. When the time comes, you just give me your vote."
Aldric gave a noncommittal nod. "We'll see how the wind blows."
He had little interest in the title of Commander. His order was growing—talents like Caden Storm and Brother Rune were already beginning to integrate into the Golden Dawn. He would rather spend his time forging Serene-Steel and imbuing weapons than bickering with petty lords over who got to stand in the center of the line.
That evening, House Ward hosted a feast to apologize for the "canceled" festivities. As the wine flowed and the lack of a wedding night became apparent, the talk turned naturally to the vacuum of power. Lady Whent was gone, Harrenhal was an empty skull, and the vassals were orphans of the realm.
The debate dragged on for hours. Charles's "mysterious supporter" never materialized. Finally, Karlo Schmidt grew tired of the dither. He leaped onto the heavy oak table, a wooden tankard in one hand and a greasy duck leg in the other.
"My Lords!" Karlo bellowed, his voice echoing off the scorched rafters. "Stop chattering like old washerwomen at the creek! At this rate, Littlefinger will have Harrenhal torn down and rebuilt before you pick a name. I nominate myself. I'll lead this host. Who stands for me, and who is man enough to stand against?"
In Westeros, such bluntness was expected. If a man wanted something, he reached for it.
Charles Costa dived in immediately. "Brothers! I nominate myself once more! And to prove my commitment, I will provide grain for an additional twenty-five men from my own stores!"
Aldric rubbed his face in his hands. Are we at a slave auction or a council of war? He saw Ser Dean and young Dane Bennett preparing their own "bids." If the command was bought with bread and gold, the alliance was dead before it breathed. A leader who pays for his post can never be fair to those who didn't.
Karlo saw the trap too. "Enough, Charles! This isn't the Flea Bottom markets! We are choosing a warrior—a man who can lead us to independence and dignity. Do you think you can buy those things with a bag of corn? Sit down and stop playing at merchant."
Charles turned purple. "Foolish talk? This alliance was my idea! I have the Lightbringer at my back! Do you think I seek this for my own glory? I seek it for us! If my way is foolish, Schmidt, then how does a 'wise' man choose a leader?!"
Karlo looked around the room, meeting every eye. "A commander must be strong. I propose a Tourney. A melee between our houses. The master of the winning squad takes the command."
Young Dane Bennett spoke up. "But Karlo... Ser Tucker said yesterday that a tourney is not a war."
"Of course it isn't," Karlo said, leaning down toward the youth. "I'm not suggesting we lords risk our own necks. A commander is only as good as the men he trains. Let our guards fight. Ten men from each house. The household that stands at the end proves its master knows how to build a winning force."
The lords murmured in agreement. It was fair, it was martial, and it involved no personal risk to their own aristocratic hides. Even Ser Dean Blount, weary of the haggling, pounded the table. "A Tourney! Let the steel decide!"
The others followed suit, one by one. Finally, they all looked at Aldric.
Aldric stood, raising his cup. "A Tourney. Fitting. There are seven parties here—the holy number. Let us swear by the Seven in the sept: we will abide by the outcome. If any house refuses the Commander's orders after tomorrow, the rest of us shall unite to crush them. Do you swear?"
"We swear!"
"By the Seven!"
They marched to the manor's small, damaged sept. Before the chipped statues of the Mother and the Warrior, they bound themselves to the result.
Later that night, Charles caught Aldric in the corridor. "Lightbringer... about tomorrow."
"I'm looking forward to it, Charles," Aldric said, his eyes bright with a competitive fire.
"Don't play the innocent with me," Charles whispered. "If Karlo or Dean wins, do you truly mean to let them command your Sunwalkers? They'll spend your men like copper stars."
"We swore an oath," Aldric said solemnly. "I will follow the Commander. But... if any man sends my brothers to a useless death, I will answer that with my own steel."
That wasn't what Charles wanted. "Is it possible... that you could sweep the other houses, and then... 'stumble' against my men in the final? Give me the win?"
Aldric looked at him with feigned shock. "Charles! We swore before the gods! You're suggesting we cheat the Seven?"
"I remember the oath," Charles grumbled. "The gods said nothing about a clever plan."
Aldric laughed. "If you can make it to the final against me, Ser Charles, then we can talk about plans. Sleep well."
The rules were set. Ten men per squad. A knockout tournament. Malin Sharp had the most guards, Aldric the fewest. To keep it fair, the squads were limited to ten.
Charles knew Aldric's men were lethal—he'd seen Jon Snow in action. He was certain the Golden Dawn would reach the final. His own guards, however, were his aging veterans and kin, not the fifty youths he'd sent to Aldric for training. They were sturdy, but ordinary.
"Lightbringer," Charles sighed, "if you win the command... remember your neighbors."
"Neighbors always come first, Charles," Aldric offered a hollow comfort.
Once alone, Aldric lay back on his bed. He knew the oaths meant little to these men; Westerosi history was a tapestry of broken vows. But he was confident. He had hand-picked his Sunwalkers for this trip—veterans from the North and the best of the Riverlands.
If he won, he controlled the region. If he lost, he would use his magic to "heal" the other squads, spreading his influence into the very marrow of his rivals' armies.
The next morning, Ser Tucker Ward's servants cleared the plaza. They filled the ruts with dirt and hauled away the debris.
The lots were drawn. The first match: House Bennett versus the hosts, House Ward.
Ser Dean Blount looked at Tucker Ward and sighed. "Tucker, save your men the pain. We both know Amory Lorch broke your strength. Don't let them get hurt for a vanity."
Tucker's jaw tightened. "This is my home, Dean. My men bleed for our honor and our soil. We don't yield to neighbors."
The small tourney was about to begin.
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