Kevin watched the golden fire fade from Aldric's irises and rubbed his own eyes in disbelief. "Teacher," the boy asked, his voice hushed, "what was that in your eyes just now?"
Aldric shook his head, the memory of the vision already scattering like smoke in a gale. "I don't know... how long was I out?"
Seeing his master's reluctance to dwell on it, Kevin shifted the subject. "About the time it takes to eat a meal. I saw a pillar of light rise from these woods and rushed over. When I arrived, Eddie and the scouts were already here, along with the Young Wolf's personal guard, circling you."
Aldric rubbed his temples, trying to piece together the fragments of consciousness. "Before I fell... I was tending to a man with a severed arm. Did he recover?"
"He did," Kevin nodded vigorously. "And not just him. Everyone within thirty yards—Stark men, Karstark spears, even the Lannister prisoners—their wounds knitted shut. Though... Lord Robb's guards put the lions to the sword soon enough, healed or not."
Aldric looked around the quiet clearing, seeing only Kevin's squad. "Where are they now?"
"They left me to watch over you while they hunted down the stragglers," Kevin explained. "The Young Wolf said you were to rest. He will summon you when the butchery is done."
From the distance, a warhorn blew—a low, mournful note signaling the recall of troops to camp.
"Then we should return," Aldric said. He tried to push himself up against the rough bark of the weirwood, but his legs turned to water, and he nearly collapsed into the moss.
"Teacher!" Kevin caught him instantly, his grip firm. "Careful. Are you alright? We can make a litter."
"No," Aldric gritted his teeth, shaking his head. "Just help me up. I can ride."
At Aldric's insistence, Kevin fetched Blitz, who was grazing placidly nearby. With great care, the boy helped his teacher into the saddle, and the small group began the trek back to the main encampment.
In truth, the "great battle" had lasted scarce an hour from the first arrow to the final surrender. Twelve hundred Lannister horsemen, blind and arrogant, had ridden into a trap set by six thousand Northmen. It was not a fight; it was an execution. Caught off guard and unable to form lines, the lions were crushed before they could unsheathe their claws. It was Robb Stark's first true taste of command, and it was a complete, bloody triumph.
Back at the encampment, the air smelled of woodsmoke and victory. Wineskins passed from hand to hand, and songs of the North rose into the night air. But as Aldric and his men rode past the fires, the singing died down, replaced by urgent, hushed whispers.
"Hey, is that the Commander of the Silver Hand?"
"Aye, that's him. The one who heals with magic."
"He really glowed," another man cut in, his voice thick with awe. "I heard he turned himself into a pillar of fire—no, he set himself on fire to save Torrhen Karstark!"
"Bullshit," a Riverlander scoffed. "If he set himself on fire, how is he riding a horse? I heard he prayed to the Seven, and the Mother descended from the heavens to knit the flesh with her own hands."
"You Southron fool," a Northman growled. "He's a warrior of the North! Why would he pray to your Andal statues? He burned a branch of a Heart Tree and invoked the Old Gods!"
"What do you know, you snow-savage?"
"You river-rat!"
A fistfight broke out in the mud. Aldric glanced back at the commotion and sighed. "To kill all night and still have the energy to brawl. To be young again."
"Teacher, you aren't exactly old," Kevin pointed out.
"Quiet, you." Aldric flicked a finger at the boy's helm—a playful Yi Yang Finger strike—but Kevin blocked it nimbly with his shield.
To ensure the ambush remained secret, the camp was hidden in a deep mountain hollow. The Silver Hand had claimed the edge of the perimeter. As Aldric rode in, his men rose from their fires, bowing in genuine respect.
Bell, the snow bear, was busy fighting the direwolf Ghost for a horse leg. Seeing his master, the bear abandoned the prize, charged over, and tackled Aldric the moment he dismounted, pinning him to the ground with enthusiastic, slobbery licks.
"Get off, you rug!" Aldric laughed, shoving the bear's heavy head away. He wiped slime from his face and looked at Juan. "Any trouble while I was gone?"
"None," the engineer replied. "A westerman tried to sneak up on us, but Ghost and Bell tore him apart before he could draw steel."
"Good boy." Aldric pulled his wet hand from Bell's mouth and ruffled the bear's ears. "Keep that up, and when I get my own lands, I'll make you the Guardian of the Mountain."
He raised his voice. "Martha! Where are you?"
"Here, Commander!" The head medic waved from a nearby fire.
"Casualties? Have you treated them?"
"None of our own," she reported. "But we dragged a few Northern soldiers out of the press on the way back."
"Show me."
Since Aldric had strictly ordered that the wounded be kept separate from the healthy, the rescued Northmen were lying by a designated fire, waiting for treatment.
Aldric walked among them. They were conscious, pale from blood loss, but alive.
These men, mostly from Winterfell, knew Aldric's rules well. Almost every soldier who marched south with him kept a few gold dragons tucked in his boot for just this reason. Those who didn't borrowed from their brothers. Tonight, that gold saved their lives or limbs.
Aldric took their coin and healed them. Within moments, the tents were filled with gratitude as the men, now whole, made their way back to their own units.
Martha watched him work. She had bandaged these men herself, wrapping them tight in linen, yet under Aldric's hands, wounds that would take months to heal vanished in seconds.
"Commander," she asked quietly as the last patient left. "Can I learn that?"
Aldric turned to her. "Why do you want to learn?"
Martha bit her lip. "If I could do it... I wouldn't have to wait for you. I could save them right there on the field. I lost men today because I couldn't stop the bleeding fast enough."
Aldric considered her. "You can," he said. "But there is a condition. You must offer your faith to the Sun God."
Martha fell silent.
It was one thing to mumble along with the prayers during camp services to fit in. It was another entirely to abandon the Old Gods of her ancestors and truly give her heart to this foreign Sun God.
Aldric didn't press her. He knew from his sermons that while many came for the extra rations, true believers were rare. Changing a person's faith was like grinding a stone with water; it took time.
"Commander Aldric! Commander!"
A voice called out from the dark. It was Frank Miller, the defensive captain of their battalion.
Aldric stepped forward to meet him. Frank was followed by two soldiers carrying a stretcher.
"Frank," Aldric asked, "one of yours hurt?"
"No, my boys are all breathing," Frank grinned.
"Then who is this?" Aldric looked at the man on the litter.
"This is Ser Geryon Moreland, my prisoner," Frank explained. "Word is his father is Tywin Lannister's pet, rich as Craster. But I stuck him in the gut during the fight. I'm worried he won't live long enough for his daddy to pay the ransom, so I brought him to you."
Aldric nodded. "Bring him here."
Frank waved his hand. "You heard him! Put him down!"
The soldiers set the stretcher before Aldric. In the dancing firelight, the wound was clear—a nasty gash in the right abdomen.
"No problem," Aldric said calmly. "If he's breathing, I can fix him. You know my rules, Frank."
"Of course." Frank produced a heavy purse. "Ten dragons. Who do I pay?"
Aldric took the gold and tucked it into his tunic. He knelt beside Geryon Moreland. "Alright, Frank. You and your men, kneel and pray with me."
Frank and his soldiers knelt immediately. They had seen this ritual before. Frank had even asked the soldiers afterward if they felt drained or cursed, but they always reported feeling fine, so he had no qualms.
"Aldric, begin," Frank said, clasping his hands.
Aldric began the invocation. "Repeat after me: Great Sun God, you are the source of radiant light, the protector of all living things..."
"No!"
The dying knight on the stretcher suddenly thrashed. He waved his weak hands, shouting with surprising vigor. "Stop! Get away from me! You demon's servant! Follower of a false god! I would rather die—cough—than let you touch me! Seven save me!"
Aldric paused. He could easily restrain the man and force the Holy Light into him, but what then? The man might claim he was cursed or defiled, spreading rumors that the Sun God practiced dark blood magic.
Frank slapped the knight's forehead. "Shut up, you fool! Is being alive not enough for you? Your Seven aren't here! I haven't seen the Seven save anyone tonight!"
"I won't!" Geryon wheezed stubbornly. "I'd rather die..."
Frank looked at Aldric helplessly. "Sorry, Commander. If he's this stupid, maybe we just let him rot."
Aldric shook his head. He had underestimated the hold of the Seven on the southern mind. But he wasn't out of options.
"Martha," he ordered. "Go to the artisan squad. Fetch Brother John."
Brother John, a blacksmith-monk, had been traveling with the Silver Hand for safety on his way back to his monastery. He had agreed to stay until the fighting lulled.
Moments later, the monk arrived. "Aldric? What is it?"
Aldric pointed at the stubborn knight. "This boy refuses treatment. Calls the Sun a false god. Talk some sense into him."
Brother John frowned. He was a devout follower of the Seven, but after witnessing Aldric's miracles, he did not doubt that the Sun God was also a true deity.
He knelt beside the stretcher. "Child, I am a septon of the Smith, Brother John of St. Maur's Priory by the God's Eye. You can trust Commander Aldric. He has healed many."
Geryon grabbed John's hand, eyes desperate. "Father, Father... can you heal me?"
John looked pained. He shook his head. "I am sorry. I cannot. Perhaps my faith is not strong enough..."
"But... cough... I have always been faithful," Geryon wept. "Why will the Seven not look upon me?"
John was at a loss. He looked to Aldric for help.
Simple enough, Aldric thought.
"Ser Geryon," Aldric interjected, his voice smooth and authoritative. "Have you never considered... that the Seven and the Sun God are one and the same?"
The clearing went silent. Northmen who worshipped trees and Southrons who worshipped statues both stared at him.
Aldric didn't explain. He simply knelt beside Geryon and began to chant, his voice taking on a holy cadence.
"Oh Great and Noble Seven, I pray to you with all my heart. You are the bright stars that light our path, guiding us to hope and glory. Seven Gods, hear my prayer, grant me strength and wisdom..."
As he chanted, his hands began to glow with golden light. Under his touch, Geryon trembled, and the gaping wound in his abdomen sealed shut instantly.
When Frank had dragged his bewildered but healthy hostage away, Brother John grabbed Aldric's arm and pulled him into the shadows, away from the firelight.
"Aldric," the monk hissed, his eyes burning with intensity. "You said the Seven and the Sun are one. Did you lie to him just to perform the healing?"
"Of course I lied," Aldric admitted freely. "The Seven are the Seven. The Sun is the Sun. They have nothing to do with each other. And John... does it matter? Ser Geryon lives. Frank gets his ransom. I get ten gold dragons. Is that not a happy ending?"
"No!" John looked agitated. "It matters! If you pray to the Seven, you must tell the people that it was the Seven who saved them, not your Sun God! But if it is your Sun God's power, why did He answer a prayer addressed to the Seven?"
Because the Sun God is a lie too, Aldric thought. But the magic is real.
To Aldric, the Seven were just Andal cultural symbols—Judge, Mother, Warrior, Crone, Smith, Maid, Stranger. Concepts created by men. How could man-made concepts override the creator of the universe?
But seeing John's distress, Aldric realized a religious war between his followers and the Faith of the Seven was inevitable unless he acted. Syncretism was the answer. Merging the faiths was the best outcome for everyone.
And John was the perfect apostle.
"John," Aldric said gently. "You don't need to dig so deep. Whether it's the Seven or the Sun, a god that brings happiness and health is a good god. But... if you must have the truth... come to me at sunrise. I will show you proof."
According to Robb's plan, with Jaime's army shattered, the next move was to lift the siege of Riverrun.
The next morning, as the sun barely peeked over the horizon, the camp was already buzzing with the sound of hooves.
Aldric was still half-asleep when his tent flap was ripped open. Brother John, looking like he hadn't slept a wink, stormed in.
"Aldric! Wake up! You promised me proof! Where is it?!"
Aldric groaned, rubbing his face. "John... let me put on my pants..."
"Hurry! Hurry!" John actually started handing him his clothes, helping him dress. Aldric marveled that at twenty-seven years old, he was being dressed like a lord.
When they stepped out of the tent, the morning sun was high enough to cast beams of gold through the canopy, dappling the forest floor.
Aldric called Kevin over and asked for a full waterskin.
He held the skin up to the light. With one hand, he pinched the opening tight. With the other, he squeezed the leather bag.
"John," Aldric said, his voice solemn. "I used the name of the Seven to channel the Holy Light. You think this means nothing? Watch."
He squeezed hard. The pressure forced the water out in a fine, misty spray.
The sunlight hit the mist.
Physics took over. The white light refracted through the droplets, splitting into a perfect spectrum. A small, shimmering rainbow materialized in the air between them—Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet.
"Seven colors," Aldric whispered. "From one Light."
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