The black-armored guard squinted at Caden for a long moment, his eyes searching the knight's scarred face. Suddenly, his features split into a jagged grin. "Ser Caden Storm! Ha! It's been a dog's age!"
He vaulted off his horse, catching Caden in a bone-crushing embrace. "Though, you'd best call me Ser Bronn these days."
"Ser?" Caden pulled back, eyebrows shooting up. "You've been anointed?"
Bronn's smirk was pure satisfaction. "Aye. I did a bit of heavy lifting during the Blackwater. My employer—a man of rare honesty and excessive gold—kept his word. He had a white cloak tap me on the shoulder once the fires were out."
He gestured with a thumb toward the dwarf watching them from the pony. "Meet the man who pays the bills: Lord Tyrion Lannister. Without his lack of height and surplus of coin, I'd still be sleeping in the mud."
Caden offered a polite nod to the rider. "My Lord Tyrion. A pleasure."
Tyrion remained mounted but extended a hand, his mismatched eyes twinkling with interest. "The pleasure is mine, Ser Caden. Bronn never mentioned he had friends who looked like they actually knew which end of a sword to hold. He keeps many secrets, but a knight of your stature shouldn't be one of them."
"I am as surprised as you, my Lord," Caden replied, shaking the small hand.
Tyrion glanced at Bronn. "I take it you wish to swap lies with your old comrade?"
Bronn shrugged. "Aye, but I'll see you back to the Red Keep first. If you get yourself gutted by a mob on my watch, I'll never find another dwarf quite as ugly to replace you."
Tyrion laughed. "If you found a Tyrion as tall as you to give back to my father, he wouldn't care how ugly he was. Go on then, Bronn. Ser Caden, would you join us for the ride to the gates? It's a short walk and the company is tolerable."
"It would be an honor, my Lord."
Caden and his squire, Jasmine, followed the pair through the King's Gate. They wound through the city, watching the Gold Cloaks and the throngs of refugees, until they reached the base of Aegon's High Hill. The Red Keep loomed above—a fortress of crimson stone and high-born secrets. Caden, having no desire to invite a Lannister interrogation, waited outside while Bronn went in to change.
A few minutes later, Bronn emerged in casual woolens, his longsword swinging at his hip. He clapped a hand on Caden's shoulder. "Come on. I know a place where the singers are decent and the ale doesn't taste like horse-piss. Tell me, is little Jasmine there old enough for a pleasure house yet?"
Caden glanced at his ten-year-old squire and frowned. "He's a boy, Bronn. Let's find somewhere respectable. When I lose the 'shadow,' we can find your kind of trouble."
Bronn thought for a second. "The Amber Glow, then. It's in the Street of Loaves. Good wine, better security."
"The Amber Glow? I've heard of it," Caden recalled. "Pricey, isn't it?"
"Ha! I've bled the Lannisters for enough gold to buy the street. Today, the tab is mine."
The tavern was an anomaly, a clean and sturdy stone building nestled among the cured-meat shops and spice stalls of the district. Inside, Bronn ordered honeyed ale and thick slabs of ham and bread for them all.
"How long have you been in the city?" Bronn asked, leaning back. "I haven't seen your face at the barracks."
"Arrived yesterday," Caden lied easily. "I was in the Reach with a company, waiting for King Renly to make his move. Then he died, and Lord Randyll Tarly started purging anyone who smelled like a Stannis supporter. The water got too deep for us, so we headed for the Riverlands. Tywin's men have burned that place to a cinder, so we came here to see if the capital still needed steel. Seems I'm late for that war, too."
Bronn chewed on a piece of ham. "Bad timing. Two months ago, I could have made you a captain of the City Watch. I was the Hand's right hand; I recruited every sellsword in the city."
"So I hear," Caden said, taking a long pull of the ale. He winced. "Gods, that's real ale. I've forgotten what it tastes like."
"How did you get tangled with the Imp?" Caden asked. "I heard Lady Catelyn took him to the Vale."
"Ha!" Bronn's laugh was sharp. "I was in the inn the night she took him. Chiggen was with me—remember him?"
"I remember. He was with you when I pulled your hides out of that bandit ambush years ago."
"Aye. Well, Catelyn Stark stood up and asked who had the 'honor' to help her find justice. I figured the wife of the Warden of the North could pay better than a tavern-wench, so I followed."
"Justice?" Caden scoffed. "Since when do you care about that?"
"I don't. But the Starks and the Tullys... they're a stiff lot. They think men like us serve because of 'duty' and 'blood.' Little Tyrion, though? He understands that loyalty is bought and paid for in gold. The Lannisters are much more generous than the Wolves."
Bronn recounted his journey to the Eyrie—the mountain clans, the Trial by Combat, and how he had danced around a knight in heavy plate until the old man was too tired to breathe. "Those high lords... they're fine against a peasant with a hoe. Against me? They're just slow meat."
Caden raised his cup. "To the dance, then."
"To Chiggen," Bronn added, clinking his cup.
They spent the afternoon in a haze of salt and malt. Bronn took the opportunity to brag about his new station, his influence, and his gold. Caden listened, nodding and smiling, carefully hiding the fact that he was now a Sunwalker of the Golden Dawn.
By nightfall, Bronn headed for a brothel to sample Littlefinger's "Eastern imports." Caden declined, using the boy's age as an excuse. The truth was simpler: the Lightbringer forbade his disciples from squandering their spirits in the flesh-trade.
Walking back through the dark alleys, Caden looked at his hand. He summoned a spark of golden Light, watching it dance across his knuckles. It felt denser than before, more solid.
The dog has his gold, Caden thought, remembering Bronn's easy laughter. But I have the Sun.
Aldric had taught them that being a Sunwalker meant enduring the silence and the solitude of the path. Caden had found it easy at the monastery. Seeing his old friend's success made it harder, but it also made the Light feel more precious.
He returned to the inn on Shadowblack Lane. Entering the room, he found a stranger sitting on his bed, deep in conversation with the Sunwalker Trick.
The man's hand flew to his sword-hilt as Caden walked in. "Is he yours?" the stranger asked Trick.
Trick grinned. "This is Ser Caden Storm. He joined after you left for the south, Brother."
The stranger, a man named Theodore Wells, relaxed. He pressed a hand to his chest and bowed. "Brother Caden. A pleasure."
"I'd know your name before I call you brother," Caden grumbled to Trick. "Where's the introduction?"
"Knock next time," Trick shot back. Then he pointed to Theodore. "This is Ser Theodore Wells. He was one of the first to take the Seed during the Great Conclave. He knew Brother Rolf. I found him at the Great Sept of Baelor today and brought him back."
Theodore stepped forward and cast Purify on Caden. A warm shimmer of light washed over the knight. "Rolf was a saint of the Light. To see his legacy in you... it is a blessing."
Caden returned the gesture, casting Purify back. The ritual was becoming a silent language among the Order—a way to prove one's soul in a city of masks.
"The Master is on the march," Trick explained, filling Theodore in on the recent months. "He leads four hundred men against the Harrenhal vassals. He intends to take the Gods Eye before Baelish can even find the road."
Theodore's eyes flashed. "I wish I were there. To drive the Lions and the outlaws from the river for good."
"You could return," Trick suggested. "Aldric would make you a commander in a heartbeat."
Theodore shook his head. "I cannot leave the High Sparrow. He needs a shield. We've been low-key, but the local gangs have noticed us. They fear his numbers, but they're plotting. If I leave, the old man is as good as dead."
Caden looked confused. "High Sparrow? Why are we protecting a bird?"
Theodore and Trick burst into laughter. Theodore wiped a tear from his eye. "It's not a bird, Caden. It's a man. A Friar of the Seven who has more followers than the High Septon himself."
He began to tell them the story of Friar Sparrow and their journey from the Conclave—how they had walked the Kingsroad, mending the broken, burying the dead, and gathering a host of the desperate who called themselves "Sparrows."
The pieces of the board were moving. The Dawn was no longer just a monastery on a lake; it was a fire spreading through the very heart of the kingdom.
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