The cheers of victory had barely faded when a voice called out from the dark, urgent and loud.
"Commander Aldric! Commander Aldric! Where are you?!"
"Over here!" Aldric shouted back, wiping black blood from his breastplate.
A Stark guard, his surcoat emblazoned with the running direwolf, pushed through the crowd. He bowed breathlessly. "Lord Robb has ordered a tent erected for you near the castle walls, Commander. Please, follow me."
"Lead the way," Aldric said.
He turned to his men. "Eddie, take the riders. Scavenge what you can from the battlefield—weapons, armor, horses. The rest of you, with me."
Outside the walls of Riverrun, amidst the smoking ruins of the Lannister siege lines, a large, tattered tent had been hastily pitched near several roaring bonfires. Conrad and the foot soldiers were already there, waiting.
"Commander," Conrad saluted. "What are your orders?"
Already, the wounded were gathering. Men clutched severed fingers, pressed rags to gushing bellies, or leaned heavily on comrades, their eyes fixed on Aldric with desperate hope.
Aldric knew the drill. In war, life was the only currency that mattered. He wouldn't let men die while he sat down for a meal.
"Vitali," Aldric barked, his voice cutting through the groans of the dying. "Take First Squad. Perimeter guard. Keep order. No one enters unless I say so. Watch for stragglers."
"Philbert, Kevin," he continued. "Take Second and Third Squads. You're my orderlies tonight. Stretcher bearers. Restraining the thrashing ones. Boiling water for bandages. Move."
He established a triage system immediately. The medics, under Martha's direction, sorted the meat from the men. Those with internal injuries or head wounds—the dying—went to the front. Broken bones and torn muscles came second. Flesh wounds were told to wait.
Northmen first. Then their prisoners. The common Westermen soldiers would have to wait for the mercy of leftovers.
"Back!" Vitali shoved a man who tried to push his way into the tent. "You have a cut on your arm. Wait your turn!"
The victory had been glorious, but the butcher's bill was higher than at the Whispering Wood. The night became a blur of blood, screams, and golden light.
Aldric worked through the darkness. He drained his mana, drank the last vial of Heart Tree sap, drained himself again, and kept going until the sun began to bleed over the horizon.
Only when the last critical patient hobbled away did Aldric collapse onto the bloodstained grass. His mouth tasted bitter from the sap, his head pounding like a war drum.
I can't keep doing this, he thought, staring at the canvas roof. If the war goes on like this, I won't die by a sword. I'll die of exhaustion at the operating table.
He needed help. He needed more Sunwalkers.
He reached into the void of his inventory and pulled out the crystal—the strange, eight-sided prism he had received in the cosmic vision. It was the length of his middle finger, clear as ice, filled with a golden liquid that swirled sluggishly, glowing with its own inner light.
The Seed of Light.
It felt heavy, holy, and terrifying.
How to use it?
With a thought, a tiny droplet of the golden fluid oozed through the crystal wall. It fell onto the trampled, muddy grass. Instantly, a patch of lush, vibrant green clover sprouted from the blood-soaked earth, growing inches in seconds.
Aldric stared. Life energy.
But how to administer it? Drip it on a man's forehead?
He hesitated. The Holy Light was notorious for its ability to... influence minds. Zealotry was a side effect of the Light. If he wanted to conquer Westeros, creating an army of brainwashed fanatics would be efficient. But Aldric didn't want slaves. He wanted comrades.
Animal trials first, he decided. Rats. Then rabbits. Maybe Bell.
He put the crystal away. He needed sleep.
Three hours later, Marvin, his runner, shook him awake.
"Commander. Lord Robb invites you to enter the castle with him."
Aldric groaned, splashing his face with leftover boiling water—now lukewarm—and mounting Blitz.
By the banks of the Tumblestone, a small flotilla of boats waited. Robb Stark sat in the prow of the lead boat, Grey Wind curled at his feet like a jagged shadow. His mother, Lady Catelyn, sat in the stern.
As Aldric walked toward the rearmost boat, a voice hailed him from the second vessel.
"Commander Aldric! With us!"
It was Rickard Karstark. The Lord of Karhold was sitting with the white-haired noble from the war council and the Greatjon, the giant who had lost two fingers to the Kingslayer and had them reattached by Aldric.
"My Lord? I shouldn't—"
"Get in here!" Karstark roared, his grief momentarily forgotten. "You saved Torrhen. You have a seat in this boat."
Aldric saw the Greatjon nodding approval. He stepped in.
"Commander," Karstark said, gesturing to the white-haired man. "This is Ser Brynden Tully. Lord Hoster's brother. The Knight of the Gate."
"The Blackfish," Aldric realized. He took the old knight's hand. It was calloused and hard as ironwood. "An honor, Ser Brynden."
"The honor is mine," the Blackfish said, his voice gravelly. "I saw you fight last night. You ride well for a sellsword. I hope we ride together again."
"We will," Aldric promised.
The boats pushed off. The current of the Tumblestone was strong, carrying them past the massive water wheel that churned the river.
On the battlements, soldiers and smallfolk cheered. "Winterfell! Tully!"
They passed under the Water Gate, the massive iron portcullis rising with the groan of heavy chains. From sunlight into shadow, and back into sunlight as they docked inside the fortress.
Robb waited on the steps as his mother was escorted inside. "Ser Brynden," he said. "Lead us to the Godswood."
The Blackfish shook his head. "Your mother is with her father. I will wait for her. My captain will guide you."
A freckled squire led the way. The Godswood of Riverrun was a bright, airy garden compared to the brooding darkness of Winterfell. Redwoods and elms towered overhead, and in the center stood a slender weirwood, its carved face looking more sorrowful than fierce.
Robb knelt. He planted his sword in the earth and bowed his head.
Around him, the lords of the North—Greatjon, Karstark, Maege Mormont, Galbart Glover—knelt in the dirt. They were children of the First Men, and they prayed to the Old Gods.
Aldric remained standing. He felt awkward, like an intruder at a funeral.
He glanced to his side. Theon Greyjoy was also standing, leaning against a tree with a smirk. The Ironborn caught Aldric's eye, made a drinking motion with his hand, and jerked his head toward the castle. Forget this gloom. Let's get drunk.
Aldric shook his head. Theon shrugged and wandered off.
Lady Catelyn entered the wood a moment later. She stood silently, watching her son pray. Aldric bowed to her, but her eyes slid over him as if he were part of the scenery.
Robb stood up, sheathing his sword. "Mother. We must hold a council. There are decisions to be made."
"Your grandfather is too ill," Catelyn said softly. "But he wishes to see you later. We must meet, yes. News has come from the south. Renly Baratheon has crowned himself King."
"Renly?" Galbart Glover frowned. "Surely you mean Lord Stannis?"
"No," Catelyn said. "Renly."
The Great Hall of Riverrun was packed.
Four long tables were arranged in a square, open at one end. Edmure Tully sat in his father's high seat, flanked by the riverlords who had come crawling back after the victory.
Tytos Blackwood sat as far as possible from Jonos Bracken. Karyl Vance, Marq Piper, and the others argued loudly, banging cups and shouting over one another.
Aldric sat in a corner, sipping wine, listening. He was a spectator here, tolerated for his usefulness.
The debate raged for hours. Some wanted to march on Harrenhal to finish Tywin. Others, like Jason Mallister, urged caution and refitting.
"Renly is not the King," Robb cut through the noise, his voice hard.
"He cannot be worse than Joffrey," Galbart Glover countered. "My lord... Joffrey killed your father."
Aldric froze, his wine cup halfway to his lips. He leaned toward Lord Karstark. "Lord Eddard... is dead?"
Karstark looked at him, his face grim. "Beheaded. On the steps of Baelor's Sept. Did you not know?"
"I... I had not heard," Aldric whispered. The reality of it hit him. This wasn't just a skirmish anymore. This was blood feud.
"Joffrey is Robert's eldest son," Robb insisted, though his voice trembled with suppressed rage. "By law, the throne is his. If he dies—and he will die, I promise you—it passes to Tommen."
"Tommen is a Lannister too," Marq Piper spat.
"Even so," Robb said. "Renly is the youngest brother. He cannot come before Stannis."
"Stannis has nothing!" Piper slammed his hand on the table. "Renly has Highgarden! He has Storm's End! If we join him, we have five of the Seven Kingdoms! We could have Tywin Lannister's head on a spike by moon's turn! Why should we bleed for Stannis? What has he ever given us?"