The evening was a dismal affair of clinging mist and steady drizzle. Jaime Lannister and Steelshanks Walton huddled inside a cramped, utilitarian tent, the canvas snapping in the wind.
Jaime stared at Walton, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You're telling me this Aldric can mend flesh with a flash of light? Magic?" He instinctively touched his right stump, which had gone nearly numb in the damp cold.
"Aye," Walton said, tearing into a strip of salt-beef. "Every soul in the Northern host knows it. Lord Robb didn't just invite him for his steel; Aldric Cerese was the only man holding the army together between Winterfell and Moat Cailin. One man managing the fevers and wounds of eighteen thousand."
Walton chewed thoughtfully. "If you had a broken leg, or a spear-lung, or just the shits from bad water, you found the Lightbringer. If you were on the edge of the Stranger's embrace, it cost you ten gold dragons to come back. The price went down from there—a winter-fever was just two silver stags. Fair prices, mostly."
"Ten gold isn't 'cheap' for a common spearman," Jaime noted. "A man's life is rarely worth that much in coin. You've seen this yourself? Or is it just another tavern tale from the bogs?"
Walton nodded. "I saw it outside Barrowton. My man Will fell from his saddle and took a hoof to the skull. He was dead as a stone. I pooled eight dragons from the squad and took him to Aldric. I watched the Master pray to Anshe, and Will walked out of that tent ten minutes later. Poor bastard had to wash the squad's smallclothes for six months to pay off the interest, but he was alive. Until your father's men gutted him at the Green Fork, anyway."
Jaime looked through the tent flap toward the Golden Dawn's perimeter. He vaguely remembered a pillar of golden light erupting from the Whispering Wood the night he was captured. He had thought it a trick of the moon or the blood in his eyes.
"Go see him," Walton suggested, pointing to Jaime's stump. "It won't take long."
"If he recognizes me, it's a long walk to a short rope," Jaime hesitated. "His men are Rivermen. Half of them probably had their homes burned by my sister's 'justice'."
Walton waved it off. "It's war, Ser. Everyone bleeds. Besides, you were a prisoner for most of it; you've no personal feud with the local lords. We've eaten his bread and salt. By the laws of the heavens, he is our host. And he's a sellsword at heart—mercenaries don't turn down gold."
Jaime stood up, grabbing his cloak. "Fine. You've convinced me. But from this moment, I am 'Ser Henry.' Don't forget it."
Walton laughed. "Whatever you say, Ser Henry. But mind you—you've no coin. I'll pay the fee, but you'll owe me triple interest by the time we hit the capital."
As the leaders moved, a small market had formed between the two camps. Walton's two hundred Northmen were tired and hungry. While they had coin from rewards and looting, they lacked fresh supplies, having lived on hard tack for days.
The Golden Dawn, by contrast, traveled like a manor on wheels. The scent of hot stew—potatoes, leeks, and melted cheese—wafted toward the Bolton camp, making the Northmen salivate. They began trading silver for bowls of hot food.
"Where is the Lightbringer?" Walton asked a veteran.
"The central pavilion," the man pointed. "Behind the pikes."
At the gates of the Dawn's camp, two guards in black brigandine blocked their path. "State your business."
Walton frowned at their lack of deference. "My friend was maimed in battle. His wound will not close. We seek the Lightbringer."
"Wait here," the guard said. He watched the far exit, waiting until two men left before signaling them forward. "The Commander limits outsiders to ten at a time within the lines. You may enter now."
Jaime was impressed. "Strict discipline for a group of 'farmers'."
The guard offered a thin, mocking smile. "Discipline is the difference between a soldier and a corpse. If those boys trading at the fence forget the password tonight, they can sleep in the mud. The Lightbringer doesn't tolerate sloppiness."
Inside the central tent, Aldric was hunched over a desk, writing on papyrus by the light of an oil lamp. He handed the sheet to Greme Levin before looking up. "Walton. You have a patient?"
"I do, Captain," Walton said. "This is Ser Henry. He lost his hand in a skirmish, and the rot is setting in. We heard you have a gift for such things."
"Sit," Aldric said, gesturing to a folding stool. "I've mended twenty of your boys today. One more won't break the well."
Jaime sat, extending his arm. Aldric drew a dagger—The Shadow-Stripe—and carefully slit the filthy bandages. Despite his caution, the movement sent a jolt of agony through Jaime's arm. He hissed, sweat beading on his brow.
"Beautiful blade," Jaime managed, staring at the rippled steel. "Valyrian?"
"Serene-Steel," Aldric replied. "Taken from a Lannister foraging party. If you like it, it's yours for two hundred dragons. I'm in need of coin."
"Valyrian steel is for lords," Jaime muttered, looking away from the yellow pus staining his arm. "I doubt 'Henry' could afford it."
"Your bandages were applied by a professional," Aldric noted, discarding the rags. "But the infection is deep. Without constant care, the gangrene will take the elbow."
"That's what the scholar said," Jaime admitted.
"Total restoration—a Light-Flash to mend and a Purification to burn the rot—will be three dragons and two silver stags."
"And if I leave it?"
"Then we see if your spirit is stronger than the rot. It will be a very long, very painful death."
Walton didn't hesitate; he pulled three dragons and the silver from his pouch. Aldric looked at him. "No dagger for you, Walton?"
The captain scoffed. "Two hundred dragons for a knife? I'm not that far into my cups."
As he spoke, a blinding, white-hot glow erupted from Aldric's palm.
A searing, electric agony tore through Jaime's wrist. He vaulted off the stool, screaming, "Daughter of a—! You madman, my arm—!"
He stopped. The pain vanished as quickly as it had come. Jaime looked down at his wrist. The jagged, stitched mess Qyburn had left was gone. The skin was smooth, rounded, and perfectly healed, as if he had been born without a hand.
Aldric offered a playful, mischievous grin. "My apologies, 'Ser Henry.' I forgot to mention: the Light burns before it builds. I trust you won't hold the surprise against me."
Jaime rubbed the stump, his shock beyond words. He sat back down, his eyes narrowing. "You knew who I was the moment I walked in."
Aldric shrugged. "I haven't seen many men with your particular... luster. It's hard to miss the Kingslayer, even behind a beard."
"Robb Stark put a thousand dragons on my head," Jaime said. "Why haven't you called the guards?"
"I'm not interested in offending Lord Tywin for a pittance," Aldric said, wiping the remaining grime from Jaime's arm with a warm towel. "Besides, Tyrion is a friend of sorts. You're his brother. He paid me a handsome sum of gold in Winterfell to settle a debt of honor; I consider us square."
Jaime nodded. "I'm sorry for the trouble Lancel caused you. He was a fool."
"Everyone has a stupid relative or two. It's the one thing that truly unites the Seven Kingdoms."
Seeing no hostility in the room, Jaime leaned in. "Walton says you served the Young Wolf. Why leave? A man with your power could have ended the war at his side."
Aldric met his gaze. "I grew tired of watching Northern boots trample Southern peasants. I prefer to save lives. But if I must kill to save more, I don't mind picking up the blade."
He leaned forward, his voice turning grave. "Ser Jaime, I am a man of no rank, but I have a request. Go to your father. Tell him the war is over; Joffrey will hold the Throne. Tell him to show mercy to the Riverlands. These are his subjects now. Let them live."
"If they lay down their steel, my father has no reason to bleed them," Jaime said. But even he wasn't sure if that was true. "You should tell him yourself. With your skill and your 'Light,' he would give you ten times what the Starks offered."
Aldric smiled but didn't answer. "One more thing, Ser. You've lost a hand, but the arm remains. In the far East, I once heard of a legendary naval commander—a Captain Hook. He lost a hand and replaced it with a clever device—a socket that allowed him to switch between a hook, a blade, or a fork. It wasn't a hand, but it was a tool. When you reach the capital, find a master smith. You might find you're not as helpless as you think."
Jaime stood, his pride pricked but his body whole. "Thank you for the 'mercy,' Aldric. If you ever tire of the mud, find me in King's Landing. I can make the introductions."
He and Walton left the tent. As they stepped back into the rain, Walton sighed. "A shame. If we could have recruited him, your father would have had his greatest general."
Jaime shook his head. "Aldric has a strange morality, Walton. He wouldn't last a day under my father's shadow. And his magic... how many lives can one man save in a war of thousands? He's a dreamer in a world of wolves."
They vanished into their own camp as the rain began to hammer down in earnest.
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