Lead-colored clouds pressed down on the heavens like a heavy shroud, as if the slightest pressure would crush the world beneath. A rugged track, winding like a serpent through mountain brush and fallow fields, marked the way. On either side, stunted trees stood like lonely sentinels, and the crops—haphazard and shivering in the wind—spoke of a harvest abandoned by hope.
"Do you think Kevin and the others are safe? Why haven't they closed the distance?" Brother Brooke asked, his boots squelching in the mire. He turned to look back, his rough, threadbare robe snapping in the gale to reveal a tunic of coarse wool beneath.
The road behind them was an empty ribbon of gray. A few sparrows fluttered down to peck at the mud, but there was no sign of the Dawn's spears.
"The Lightbringer commanded it," Brother Flores said, his voice raspy and thin. He pulled his old cloak tighter. "Kevin stays back. If the Lions see steel, our words will have no weight. The plan requires us to be alone."
Brooke's voice trembled. "Will they kill us, do you think?"
Brother Gal, the eldest of the three, stopped and turned. His face was a map of deep furrows, and his white hair danced wildly in the wind. "Life and death are in the Father's hands. The soldiers bleed on the front so we may pray in the Septries. If it is our turn to be kindling for the Sun, we do not flinch. How else can we call ourselves Seekers of the Light?"
Brooke looked down, a trace of regret in his eyes. "I only worry that I will not see the New Kingdom born on this earth."
"If we fall, we wake in the Seven Heavens," Gal consoled him softly. "Is there a better destination for a weary soul?"
Days earlier, a raven from the capital had brought word to St. Maur's Monastery: the High Sparrow had been elevated to High Septon, and Queen Cersei had officially restored the Faith's right to bear arms.
Aldric had moved instantly. He selected three brothers—men of iron faith and no fear—as envoys to House Goodbrook. They were to demand an accounting for the trade blockade and the disappearance of their brothers in Goodbrook lands.
After crossing the ridges of Big-Foot Mountain, the trio arrived at the outskirts of Five Willows. A crude checkpoint barred the road—felled timber and rusted chains. A few guards lounged nearby, throwing stones into the dirt. Their armor was a mosaic of rust and dried mud.
As the monks approached, a young soldier stood, leveling a spear at Gal's chest. "Identify yourselves! What business have beggars on the Lord's road?"
Gal straightened his bent back, his eyes steady. "I am Brother Gal. We are envoys from the Order of the Golden Dawn, sent from the Gods Eye. Your master, Lord Lymond, has barred the roads to the Faith and seized our goods. Our Commander demands an audience."
"An audience?" The soldier spat. "A mercenary hiding in a monastery sends beggars to talk to a Lord? Lord Lymond is at Riverrun. Maester Casimir holds the keys to Blue-Wave Keep, and he has no love for singers of hymns. Go on, then! But don't whine when they fit you for a noose."
Inside the walls of Blue-Wave Keep, Maester Casimir was busy with his ledgers. When word reached him of "monks from the Gods Eye," he barely looked up from his quill.
"Does Lady Gwyneth know?" he asked the sergeant.
"Not yet, Maester."
Casimir sighed, capping his ink. "I'll go with you."
He crossed the muddy bailey, passing young Lord Beren—a boy of nine—practicing his sword-play with a wooden blade. The boy's mother, Lady Gwyneth Goodbrook, was a Vance of Wayfarer's Rest, a woman of sharp features and sharper pride.
Casimir found her in the solar, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. The fire was roaring, and the scent of lavender and expensive oils filled the room.
"My Lady," Casimir bowed. "Three brothers from the Gods Eye seek to negotiate the trade blockade."
Gwyneth frowned, not looking up from her embroidery. "Envoys? The blockade is to gather grain for my husband's ransom. What does a pack of begging brothers have to do with the Lord's business? Give them hardbread and kick them out."
"It may not be so simple," Casimir whispered. "Ravens from the capital say the new High Septon is a 'Sparrow'—a man of the mud. He has convinced the Queen to restore the Warrior's Sons and the Poor Fellows. He has even chartered this 'Golden Dawn' as a holy order. If these men are truly his, we should listen."
"The Warrior's Sons?" Gwyneth looked up, horrified. "Cersei is a fool! The Dragons spent centuries and rivers of blood to disarm the Faith. Maegor offered a gold dragon for every scalp of those zealots."
"Indeed," Casimir noted. "But Maegor is ash, and the Queen needs the Faith's gold to pay her debts. We should see them."
Lady Gwyneth made them wait an hour while she dressed in silk of Lannister crimson and Vance green. When she finally took her seat in the Great Hall, the three monks stood before her, their clothes stained with the road but their faces unmoving.
"I am Gal," the elder monk said. "We represent the Alliance of the Gods Eye. We protest your blockade. The Seven desire prosperity for all, and to choke the flow of grain is to choke the Mother's mercy. Furthermore, our Brother Morgan was murdered on your lands. We demand the killer be delivered to the Light's justice."
"You are beyond your station!" Gwyneth snapped. "The taxes of this land are a matter of Goodbrook blood, not monkish prattle. How I rule my peasants is no concern of yours."
"Every soul is the concern of the Light," Gal countered. "Lords who ignore the Sun's law are but thieves in silk. We ask that you cease the harassment of our missionaries."
"Missionaries?" Gwyneth laughed. "I care nothing for your 'Solar' nonsense. I follow the High Septon of the capital."
"Then you follow the High Sparrow," Gal said firmly. "For he is the one who blessed our banners. We take orders from the Lightbringer and the High Septon alone."
Gwyneth stood, her face flushed with fury. "Enough! I will not be lectured by rags. Get out of my hall. Blue-Wave Keep has no welcome for you."
"And Brother Morgan?" Gal pressed.
"He is one of a thousand corpses in the Trident!" she shouted. "If you want an accounting, go dig him up yourself! Guards! Throw them out!"
Brawny men-at-arms seized the monks by the limbs and bodily tossed them through the main gates into the mud.
Gal stood slowly, rubbing his bruised hip. He looked at the closed oak doors of the keep—a barrier of cold stone and colder hearts.
"Do we return to the Master?" Brother Flores asked.
Gal looked toward the village hovels where smoke was beginning to rise. He saw a glimmer of golden light in the clouds above.
"No," Gal whispered. "The gods never promised a flat road. If they fear the Lord's lash, we will make them hear the Light's song. We go to the people."
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