A silence hung over the courtyard, thick and heavy, before it broke into a roar of applause and cheers that rivaled a summer storm. Aside from House Costa, which had drawn the lucky lot to sit out the first round, every man in the plaza had seen their comrades fall and rise again under the Sunwalkers' hands.
The soldiers were no longer just participants; they were witnesses. Their excitement surpassed even the victors, as they stared at the men who had just "murdered" them with blunted wood and then "saved" them with golden fire.
Ser Charles Costa, acting as herald, didn't forget his duty despite his inner smugness. "My Lords!" he bellowed. "The first round is concluded! Houses Blount, Bennett, Schmidt, and the Golden Dawn have advanced to the semi-finals." He looked at the high sun. "It is midday. Shall we let the men rest, or do we see this to the end?"
Dane Bennett, seeing the sweat on his men's brows, spoke up first. "Let them breathe, Charles. A healed bone isn't a rested muscle."
Ser Dean Blount scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Rest? Why bother? Let's end this farce now." He looked around the circle of lords, his eyes sharp. "Is there anyone here who can guarantee a victory against the Commander's men?"
He turned his gaze to Karlo Schmidt, the loser of the final bout. "Karlo, speak truly. If the Golden Dawn had been carrying live steel and sharpened pikes, how many of your 'Gold Cloak' elites would be breathing right now?"
Karlo went silent, his pride warring with his tactical sense. "My men are riders," he muttered. "We are not used to fighting behind walls of wood. But... even with my infantry added, we would have lost. I do not know how much blood it would take to exhaust that kind of discipline."
Dean nodded. "Neither do I. If I am pitted against the Dawn in the next round, I yield. I won't have my kin beaten for a pride we've already lost. What say the rest of you?"
Dane Bennett looked at Aldric. "Commander... how many of these warriors do you have?"
Every lord leaned in. This was the question that mattered.
Aldric calculated quickly. "Aside from those I have sent on the road... I have thirty Sunwalkers at the monastery and twenty militia training alongside them." He paused, glancing at Charles. "Do we count the fifty youths you sent for training? If so, we are over a hundred strong."
"We count them," Charles said firmly, nodding to the others.
Karlo Schmidt felt a jolt of alarm. His own veterans—the core of his power—numbered barely thirty. St. Maur's, a tiny patch of lake-shore, had produced fifty elite warriors in months?
"Commander," Karlo asked. "Did you bring these men from the North?"
"No," Aldric said. "Of those who followed me south from Robb Stark's host, only ten stayed when the Silver Hand dissolved. The rest... I found them. Refugees, broken soldiers, and honest men looking for a reason to stand. I pulled them from the mud and gave them the Sun."
The mention of the "Silver Hand" and the Oxcross campaign resonated. To these petty lords, Robb Stark was a King who had abandoned them to loot the West. Aldric, who had given up the spoils of Casterly Rock to return and help his friends, had a moral weight that gold couldn't buy.
"Commander," Ser Malin Sharp said, his voice thick with respect. "Your choice puts our own to shame."
Aldric offered a humble smile. "I simply cannot bear to see the smallfolk broken by the high-born." He stepped into the center of the lords' circle. "The Golden Dawn is still weak. We protect six hundred souls, but our grain is thin. We can only support fifty full-time soldiers.
"Tywin Lannister has not broken Riverrun, and Robb Stark has not taken the Rock. This war is a deadlock. Once the threat of Stannis is gone, Tywin will turn his lions back to the Riverlands to starve the North. He will burn your crops to empty Robb's belly. If a hundred men come, I can stop them. Two hundred? I can hold the walls. But if more come? I will have to flee, and the people I promised to protect will burn. I cannot accept that. We must have a force that commands respect from both the Wolf and the Lion."
Aldric had effectively declared himself a local lord.
"Enough," Ser Dean Blount barked. He stepped forward and drew his longsword, driving the point deep into the packed earth at Aldric's feet. "The covenant we swore in the sept stands. I recognize you as the Commander of the Joint Task Force. House Blount follows the Dawn."
Charles Costa, who had brought Aldric to bolster his own claim, realized he had been surpassed. But he was "Lucky Charles"—he knew a winning horse when he saw one. He drew his sword and planted it beside Dean's. "I agree. There is no better man."
Dane Bennett followed suit. "I'm a tourney knight, and I know when I'm outclassed. Count the Bennetts in."
Karlo Schmidt was next, his sword thudding into the dirt. "I said it before: only a god can see into a man's heart. Your magic is proof enough for me, Aldric."
Tucker Ward looked at the circle of steel. "House Ward cannot hold its own lands alone. We seek your protection, Commander." He turned to Aldric. "And your mercy. I will send my kin to St. Maur's as you suggested. This manor is too close to the capital for peace."
"They will be welcomed," Aldric promised.
Finally, Malin Sharp planted his blade. The melee was over. It hadn't been bloody, but it had been decisive. "Lucky Charles" stepped forward and announced to the entire plaza that the Golden Dawn had won the tourney and Aldric was now the Lord Commander of the Shore.
The final feast was a blur of wine and shared boasts. Lords and commoners alike crowded around Aldric, offering skins of ale. By the time the moon was high, Aldric had been "convinced" to drink more than he intended, eventually being hauled to his bed by his Sunwalker guards.
In the hall, Karlo Schmidt watched Aldric leave. He took a heavy skin of wine and sat across from Dean Blount. He looked at the young guards around Dean and grunted, "Out, lads. I need a word with your uncle."
Once the table was clear, Karlo leaned in. "Dean. Why did you back him so fast? And don't give me that 'miracle' rot. We've both seen mummers with tricks."
Dean Blount, the round-faced, balding knight, looked at Karlo. He didn't look like a fool now. "You were a Gold Cloak, Karlo. You saw how the world works in the shadow of the Red Keep."
"I did," Karlo hissed. "I was the best they had. I caught the most thieves, I paid the most bribes... and I stayed a sergeant for nine years while a sixteen-year-old Arryn boy was made my captain because of his name. I know the barrier of blood, Dean. It's why I'm here. I want to break it."
"And you think Aldric is the hammer?"
"I think he's the opportunity," Karlo's eyes flashed with ambition. "But I want to know about you. You're acting like a convert."
Dean leaned back, a strange, proud smile on his face. "My ancestor, Edric Blount, was a personal guard to Ser Joffrey Doggett—the last Grandmaster of the Warrior's Sons."
Karlo blinked. The Warrior's Sons were the elite of the Faith Militant, disbanded centuries ago by the Targaryens. They were the 'Swords' of the Church.
"My house has held that secret for two hundred years," Dean whispered. "We were the 'Swords' when the Faith had teeth. We have waited for the Seven to send a sign that they hadn't forgotten us. Tonight, I saw a man heal the broken while calling upon the Source. I don't care if he calls it Anshe or the Sun."
"He's a foreigner, Dean. From the East."
Dean shrugged. "The Andals came from the East. The Faith came from the East. 'Anshe' (AWN-shay) and 'Seven' (SEH-ven)... in the old tongue of the Andals, the sounds were the same, just turned about. He's bringing the old way back, Karlo. The way that doesn't care about Arryn boys or Lannister gold."
Karlo took a long drink. "Anshe... and Seven. Sounds plausible enough for a man who wants to believe. Well, if he's the new Grandmaster, I'd best make sure I'm his first General."
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