Longwave Castle was the first inhabited fortress Aldric had taken by force, a move calculated to coerce Ser Varen Polk into the Alliance. It was a strategic necessity to build a unified front before the inevitable shadow of Petyr Baelish reached the Trident. The victory had been swift and decisive, far exceeding the expectations of the allied lords.
During the assault, Aldric had eschewed a war of attrition. To avoid a blood-feud, he didn't cycle waves of levies against the walls; instead, he led the vanguard himself, flanked by Sunwalkers. Their specialty was incapacitation rather than slaughter. Once the first line of defenders was broken and the attackers remained unnervingly whole despite taking hits, the Polk garrison collapsed and surrendered.
Longwave was no Winterfell; it was barely a quarter of the size. Stone curtain walls shielded an interior where timber and stone buildings stood in equal measure—a sign of a house that lacked the gold or the hands to fully rebuild its legacy.
As the dust settled, the Staff of Shadows moved with clinical efficiency. Martha and Beth, two senior female Sunwalkers, led a squad of women to secure the manor's ladies and servants. In the chaos of victory, the gallows-noose was always a concern for young soldiers; Aldric preferred to keep his discipline tight. Warehouse stores were sealed, and any servants caught "liberating" their master's silver were detained. The prisoners were disarmed and huddled against the walls.
Then came the mending. The wounded from both sides were gathered, and the Sunwalkers moved among them, their hands glowing with the soft radiance of Solar Grace.
Ser Varen Polk was a man of forty, a husband to Melanie and father to three. His eldest, Henry, squired in the Vale; his youngest, Horst and Jeyne, were still babes in the nursery. To protect them, Varen had faced Aldric on the battlements, only to be felled by a heavy blow to the helm. He had been on the edge of the Stranger's embrace when an unknown Sunwalker pulled him back, mending the skull-fracture with a pulse of Light.
It was an awkward peace. But compared to the fate of houses taken by the Mountain or the Mummers, the Polks were in a gilded cage. Witnessing the divine healing of his men, Varen's desire for resistance evaporated. He waited in silence for the Lightbringer's judgment.
That night, beneath the fading violet of the sunset, Aldric held a ritual in the castle plaza. Before the gathered host and the bewildered prisoners of Longwave, he granted the Solar Seed to Ser Dean Blount. Alongside the lord, twenty-one vice-captains of the Dawn were elevated, finally stepping into the Light they had earned through months of devotion.
It was a display of power as much as it was a reward.
Varen Polk, his head bandaged but his mind clear, stood on a high balcony with Karlo Schmidt. He watched as the warriors in black brigandine knelt one by one before Aldric, their eyes igniting with a golden hue as they swore their souls to Anshe.
"This is the man you follow?" Varen asked, his voice rasping. "This 'Lightbringer'?"
Karlo didn't look away from the glowing plaza. "I didn't ride here to find a joke, Varen. I rode here to find a future."
Varen shook his head. "The ritual... it is too simple. A knight spends a night in a sept, praying until his knees bleed. This looks like a child's game."
Karlo let out a cold laugh. "A night in a sept earns you nothing but a sore back. Ten seconds before the Master earns you the power to defy death. Which has more value? A knight might spit on the Seven in private, but a Sunwalker is a man who truly believes. He has a hundred of them now. And as he takes more land, the numbers will only grow."
Karlo pointed to the four hundred soldiers praying in unison below. "A month ago, only fifty followed him. The rest were our own boys—plowboys and shepherds. If I told them to come home right now, do you know what they'd do?"
"I imagine... they would stay," Varen whispered.
"Aye. I tried to threaten a few with their families. One lad told me that if I touched his kin, the Lightbringer would bring 'Justice' to my doorstep. He wasn't afraid of me, Varen. He was afraid of being unworthy of the Sun." Karlo leaned over the railing. "I'm blunt, but I'm not a fool. You saw Aldric on the wall today. If he'd been carrying a blade instead of a hammer, your halls would be a river of blood. Don't be a hero. Join us."
"But this alliance is illegal," Varen countered. "The King has not sanctioned it."
"The 'King' you serve might not be legal either," Karlo countered. "But that is our value. We—the Lords—are the face of this Alliance. Aldric and his miracle-men are the muscle. If the King had already blessed him, he wouldn't need us, and you'd be dead. You're alive because we still need a 'face' for Longwave. Think on that."
Silence fell between them. Finally, Varen spoke. "Tell your Master... I must see my family before I give my word."
Waiting for his fate, Varen watched the guards outside the Great Hall. They were young men in strange black tunics reinforced with hidden plates.
"Is that wool you're wearing, boy?" Varen asked, trying to find a crack in their composure.
The taller guard ignored him, but the shorter one glanced over. "It's brigandine. Iron-in-cloth. The Lightbringer designed it for us."
Varen sneered. "He doesn't care much for you, then. No mail? No plate?"
The guard scoffed. "When I served my last Lord, I didn't even have a tunic. I fought with a dung-fork. The Master gives us steel and hide. And when we retire, we get ten acres of soil and a two-tithe tax. That's more than my father saw in a lifetime."
Varen blinked. "Ten acres? Two-tenths tax?" He thought of his own peasants, whom he taxed at over half their yield just to keep the castle standing and his dues paid to Harrenhal. "How can he afford a host on two-tenths? You believe these lies?"
"The Master said—" the guard began, but the taller one barked a command.
"Enough, Filmore. He's a prisoner and a Lord. He might not see tomorrow. Don't waste your breath."
Varen's heart hammered against his ribs. "What do you mean? Tomorrow?"
The guards went silent. Not even a silver moon offered from Varen's hidden pouch could buy a word.
A short while later, Karlo led Varen back to the master's chambers. "Aldric says you can stay with your kin tonight. But he wants an answer at dawn. The Alliance moves fast; we don't have time for a slow rot."
"Karlo," Varen hissed, "is he going to kill me?"
Karlo shrugged. "He didn't say. But the tall guard outside? That's Gendry. He's one of the Master's three disciples. If he thinks you're a dead man, he likely heard it from the Source."
Varen entered his bedroom to find his mother, his wife Melanie, and his children huddled in the corner. They surged toward him, weeping.
"Thank the Mother!" his mother cried. "I saw that golden monster strike you down! I thought... if you died, what would become of us?"
Varen touched his bandaged head. "It was close, Mother. Very close."
Melanie grabbed his hands. "Varen, give them whatever they want! I don't care about the stone or the title. I just want you alive! We can go to my uncle in Raventree Hall."
Melanie was a Blackwood, a niece to Lord Tytos. It was a proud house, but she knew her uncle was occupied with the war. No help was coming.
Varen looked at his children, then at the door where the Sunwalker Martha stood guard. He thought of Gendry's words. The world was changing. A Lord who died left his family to be "scavenged" by rivals. If he knelt, he might lose his pride, but his children would have a father.
"I will bend," Varen whispered. "For now. We survive first."
At dawn, Varen Polk appeared in the Great Hall. He had washed away the blood and donned a clean wool doublet. Aldric sat in the high seat, the castle's ledgers piled beside him.
To the left stood the Lords of the Alliance—Dean, Malin, Tucker. To the right stood the young, bright-eyed officers of the Dawn.
Varen's knees felt heavy. The weight of their combined gaze was a physical force. He knelt, his head low.
"Lightbringer. I offer my steel and my silence. House Polk joins the St. Maur's Alliance."
Aldric smiled, a warm, terrifyingly sincere expression. "Welcome, Brother Varen. The Sun shines on us all."
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