Inside the deep, suffocating dark of the cave, the campfire flickered with an unnatural yellow light, throwing twisted, elongated shadows against the jagged stone walls. The air was a thick, stagnant soup of mildew and woodsmoke, pressing into the lungs with every breath.
Lem Lemoncloak sat on a mossy rock, stirring a wooden bowl with impatient, jerky motions. "How have things been in the light, Rand? What's the word from the world of men?" His voice, as always, was a sharp blade of sarcasm forged in bitterness.
Captain Rand took a cautious sip of his soup. It was vile—a gray, gelatinous slurry that tasted of wet earth and boiled leather. He forced himself to swallow, his throat constricting in protest. "The same dance. Chasing ghosts, repairing fences, mending bones. We've been running free clinics for the smallfolk. It's a quiet life, mostly."
"I heard the Lions have reclaimed Harrenhal," Lem said, abruptly dropping his spoon. His eyes were hard. "Is it true?"
"Aye. The Mountain tore it from the Northmen. The Mummers scattered like rats, but they're still out there, hiding in the deep woods like winter foxes." Rand's brow furrowed. "They aren't done biting."
Lem spat a curse. "Whore-son monsters. Are the villages around the castle burning again?"
Rand shook his head. "No. Not those. Aldric and the former vassals of House Harrenhal formed the Divine Eye Alliance. Every manor and hamlet under their sun is guarded by disciplined steel. The Mummers know better than to touch them."
"What about Gregor Clegane?" Lem pressed. "Does he know better?"
"The Mountain was recalled to the capital. Some urgent business for the Queen. I only heard it from his brother, Sandor."
Lem recoiled, a look of pure disdain crossing his face. "The Hound? You've been rubbing shoulders with that beast? He's the one who took Arya!"
Rand gave a tired shrug and recounted the meeting with Thoros and the Hound. "Sandor should be at St. Maur's Monastery by now. Aldric is deciding what to do with him."
Lem went quiet, his gaze falling to the dirt. "The Hound lives, while Lord Beric rots. There is no justice in the stars."
"And your lot?" Rand asked, shifting the focus.
Lem took a long swig of thin ale. "Since Lord Beric left us, the Lady has kept us on a short leash. We caught Petyr Frey. Strangled him. Then we caught Merrett Frey when he came with the ransom. Strangled him too. We took a heavy toll in gold."
"Then why is the pottage so thin?" Rand gestured to the iron pot.
Lem scowled. "Because Walder Frey didn't take the deaths well. He sent a hundred riders to hunt us. We can't enter a town or a market without seeing a noose. We have gold we can't spend and blood we can't wash off. We left with forty spears; we came back with less than thirty."
"Dead?"
"Deserted," Lem spat. "Ran off in the night with their horses and their packs. Spineless cowards."
Rand looked around the cavern. The Hollow Hill Company was at its breaking point. Their spirit was as gray as the walls. "This can't hold, Lem. You can't support this many mouths on spite and stolen purses."
A young Northerner—Barron—stepped forward from the shadows near the hooded woman. "Captain Rand, the Lady asks: when you saw the Hound, was the girl with him? And where is Jon Snow?"
The cave went silent. Lady Stoneheart was listening. Though her throat had been opened, her ears were sharp.
Rand stood up, his gaze meeting the red, glowing pinpricks of light beneath the Lady's hood. "Madam, is there a quiet place? There are things regarding Jon Snow and the future of this brotherhood that require a private ear."
The thing that was once Catelyn Stark stared at him for a long heartbeat before nodding. She turned and walked toward a fork in the tunnel.
"Kevin, Lem—come with us," Rand called out.
The five of them—Rand, Kevin, Lem, the Lady, and Barron—entered a cramped side-chamber. It reeked of ancient dust. Tattered cloaks hung like flayed skins on the walls.
"Madam," Rand began, "when we found Sandor Clegane, he was alone, defending a village from the Mummers. He didn't speak of the girl. Jon Snow found us later. He told us Arya fled after he was wounded by the Mountain's men. He and Thoros have followed her trail toward Saltpans. They haven't returned."
The Lady emitted a series of high-pitched, rasping syllables.
"The Lady thanks you for the word," Barron translated. "She asks if you have anything else to say before you depart."
"Madam," Rand said, his voice grave. "Have you considered leaving this hole?"
The Lady shook her head slowly.
"Winter is coming," Rand pressed. "A Long Winter. You have no fields, no hearth, no castle. The Frey gold won't last through a frost. Lord Beric was the soul of this company; he led from the front with a flaming sword. Without him, the Brotherhood is just a band of outlaws waiting for a rope."
"We will take turns playing the Lightning Lord," Lem interjected.
"A mummer's farce," Rand snapped. He looked back at Stoneheart. "You seek revenge. That settles the past. But what of the future? What of the people who follow you?"
The Lady's voice rasped again. Barron translated: "I have no future. Only the Wolf's justice."
"But the Brotherhood does," Rand countered. "The war is ending. Littlefinger is the new Lord of the Riverlands. The nobles are surrendering to the Iron Throne one by one. If you keep fighting 'for the people,' you are fighting the Lords. Without their support, you will become the very bandits you used to hang."
"Rand!" Lem shouted. "Are you telling us to kneel? Have you forgotten your oath to Beric?"
"I remember it better than you," Rand said. "Which is why I'm worried. Peace is coming, and it's a lie. When the food runs out this winter, the Lords will hoard it all. The Riverlands will burn again, and we will have no friends left."
He turned to the hooded woman. "Aldric—the Lightbringer—has built a different world at the Gods Eye. There, a man isn't hanged for failing to kneel. There, soldiers guard the smallfolk, not the stone walls of a Lord. Lady Catelyn, merge the Brotherhood into the Golden Dawn. It is the only way for your men to survive."
The cave was silent for a long time.
"Aldric wants a world without nobles," Stoneheart rasped through her ruined throat. "He denies my son's rights."
"You have no son, Madam," Rand said bluntly.
"I have daughters. They inherit Winterfell."
"Winterfell is a blackened husk," Rand said. "Sansa is a Lannister puppet. Arya is a ghost. If you want revenge against the Lions, the Freys, and the Boltons, only the Dawn has the strength to give it to you. Kevin?"
Kevin Turner stepped forward. "My Master sees the old nobility as a sickness—a cancer that maintains power through fear. But he is not a butcher. He welcomes any noble willing to trade their blood-right for the Light. The Lords in the Alliance have lost their titles, but they have gained the favor of Anshe and a place in a world that isn't rotting. A truly benevolent soul has nothing to fear from the Light."
Lem laughed, a harsh sound. "And if they don't want your Light?"
"Then they are part of the darkness," Kevin said simply. "And the Dawn will sweep them away."
Rand leaned in. "Sansa will be executed the moment she gives the Lannisters an heir. Arya is a child alone in the wind. Do you want her to grow up in this damp, dark grave? Every child deserves the sun. Consider your daughters, Catelyn."
The Lady clutched her throat, her fingers digging into the scar. "Your words... they make me wish I could weep. But I left my tears at the Twins." She looked at Kevin. "Introduce me to your Master. If his steel is as sharp as your tongues, perhaps we can talk."
Kevin nodded firmly. "The Dawn welcomes its brothers."
Stoneheart stood, her gray robes swirling. "When Harwin returns, we will speak of it. I will not force them. But the path... the path is changing."