"Karina? My Karina?!"
Old Carlyle clawed his way out of the darkness, his first breath a frantic cry for his wife. He lunged from the wooden bench, only to be held fast by the iron grip of Brother Roland.
"The woman you carried... was she your wife?" Roland asked, his voice a low thrum of pity.
Carlyle seized the monk's rough wool sleeve, his eyes wild. "Yes, Brother! My Karina! Save her, please. The tax-man... he flayed her. Forty lashes! Her back is a ruin. Please, by the Mother's mercy, mend her!"
Roland's expression fractured into deep sorrow. He stood slowly, his movements heavy as if the very air of the room had turned to lead. "Follow me."
Carlyle's heart constricted. He followed the monk into a dim, quiet chamber behind the Septry. Inside, a woman in black robes—a Silent Sister of the Isle—was methodically arranging the shroud of a figure on a stone slab. Her movements were graceful and reverent, treating the cold flesh as if it were precious silk.
"When our scouts found you on the ridge, she had already passed," Roland said softly. "The stone took the blood from your head, and that I have mended. But for your wife... the Light had no thread left to weave."
The world turned silent for Carlyle. He drifted to the bedside, his hand trembling as he touched her cold cheek. A faint, ghostly smile still lingered on Karina's lips, as if she were merely dreaming of the Starflower River. Memories cut into him like glass: Karina tilling the mud, Karina stitching his rags by the fire, Karina handing him the last bit of salt-pork with that tired, beautiful laugh.
"It is over, Karina," he whispered, his voice a broken rasp. "The suffering is done." He looked at Roland. "Brother, she worked her whole life in the dirt. She never struck a soul. She shared her bread with the hungry and lit our home with her kindness. Tell me... is there a place for her in the Seven Heavens?"
Roland's jaw tightened. "There is, Carlyle. Beyond the reach of any Lord. I swear it."
"Hear that, Karina?" Carlyle collapsed to his knees, clutching her cold hand to his brow. "You've made it to the Light. Wait for me... just wait for me."
Days later, in the war room of the St. Maur's Monastery, a grim silence reigned. Aldric, Kevin, Friar John, and Lennar sat on low stools, listening to a messenger from the Fisher estate. The man spoke with a simmering fury, detailing the cruelty of the Goodbrook bailiffs and the fate of the Carlyles.
As the messenger was dismissed to the canteen, the four leaders of the Dawn remained. It had been over a year since they huddled in a shack in the North, living on the scraps of smallfolk and the odd coin from a tavern song. Now, they were masters of a territory, but the world outside was still a slaughterhouse.
"The soldiers who killed Brother Morgan were Goodbrook men," Kevin barked, his hand slamming onto the oak table. "Now they hunt our brothers and choke our trade. Give me two companies, Master. I'll burn the gates of Blue-Wave Keep and teach them the meaning of Justice!"
Lennar, the troupe leader and propaganda master, adjusted his cap. "House Goodbrook is no Shell Keep, lad. Tom of Sevenstreams tells me they are a resilient lot. They backed the Dragons during the Usurper's war and were nearly put to the torch by the Tullys for it. This time, they stayed with the Trout until the Red Wedding. Lord Lymond Goodbrook was taken at the Twins, but his kin have Frey blood. His brother wove a marriage pact with a Frey girl. If we strike them, we strike the Twins by proxy."
Aldric rubbed his temples. "The Freys are busy gorging themselves on the spoils of the Riverlands. They won't care about a minor vassal unless he stops paying. Tywin Lannister wanted to pacify the Riverlands with a soft hand after the war, but that 'mercy' doesn't reach the smallfolk. The Lords are just squeezing their peasants harder to pay their ransoms and fines. To the Freys, Carlyle's wife is just a broken turnip."
"The Lords go home to their soft beds while the smallfolk rot in the fields," Kevin spat. "It's a foul cycle."
John, the heart of the civil Order, looked troubled. "Perhaps we should retract our trade missions. The Alliance is safe. The brigands are cleared from our woods. In two moons, our people will be back to pre-war strength without needing to cross the Goodbrook border. Why invite more blood?"
"No," Aldric said, his voice absolute. "Isolation is a slow death. We need trade to survive the winter. One snow does not mean the frost is done. We must sow grain here and buy the greens from outside. If the Lords won't talk, we use the sword."
He leaned over the map. "Lord Goodbrook is a dangerous precedent. If we let him close the road, every other knight in the Trident will do the same. We will be strangled on the shores of the Gods Eye. We strike, but we do not strike to occupy. Not yet."
"Then how?" Kevin pressed.
"We need a scalpel, not a hammer," Aldric explained. "Kevin, you will take the Brotherhood Without Banners. You will raid their outposts. Hit them hard, but let them think they can win if they gather their allies. I want Lord Goodbrook to call for help. I want them to assemble an army to 'crush the outlaws.' And when they are all in one place, away from their walls, the Golden Dawn will descend and break them in a single day."
Kevin's eyes lit with a predatory excitement. "A trap."
"A necessity," Aldric corrected.
Aldric turned to Lennar. "Carlyle's story... every peasant in the Riverlands has felt that lash. Take the old man with you through the Alliance lands. Let him speak. Let the people's anger turn to a forge-fire. They need to know that the peace they have here is a miracle that must be defended with steel."
Lennar nodded. "I'll weave it into a song. Do you have a melody in mind? The 'Arise' hymn is already being sung in the fields."
Aldric tapped his finger on the table. "The woman was Karina. There is an old tune from the East... a maiden standing on a high bank as the mist rolls in. A song of a soldier's love and a home worth fighting for."
Aldric began to hum a low, haunting melody—the bones of Katyusha, transformed into a Riverlands lament:
"When the pear trees bloomed in the valley, and the mist rolled soft off the shore... Karina stood where the river winds, and wept for the peace of yore..."
Lennar closed his eyes, catching the rhythm. "A bit bright for a dirge, but it carries hope. The smallfolk will love it."
"Give them hope," Aldric said, standing up. "It's the only thing that burns hotter than a Frey torch. John, come with me. I want to see how the war-wagons are progressing in the forge. We march soon."
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