John's decision to select Clark as his liaison proved an act of unintended genius. Though the guard was as illiterate as a mountain goat, he managed to convey Aldric's instructions back to the monastery through a series of crude charcoal sketches on a wooden board.
When Aldric and John finally returned to St. Maur's and entered the Great Hall, they found thirty-one devout believers waiting on the benches. These were the faithful who had earned their second badge of service.
Aldric didn't waste time with flowery liturgy. He walked straight to the altar, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. He saw elders with skin like tanned leather, youths with the shivering energy of a new spring, and young mothers clutching babes with a fierce, quiet resilience. But the majority were his Praetorians—men who had traded their lords' banners for the Golden Sun.
The ceremony was swift and effective. One by one, they received the Solar Seed. Perhaps because the Alliance offered them the first stability they had known in years, their faith was an iron anchor. All thirty-one candidates successfully felt the Light take root.
The success of the promotion carried into the war council the next morning.
"The Dawn is growing," Aldric told the assembled lords of the Alliance. "Our numbers increase, and our walls are high. But we cannot remain a static fortress. The time has come to expand our host."
"To what end, Lightbringer?" Dane Bennett asked. He quickly raised his hands as the room turned toward him. "I am not questioning the wisdom... only the logistics. We are safe enough here, surely?"
"The snow fell two nights ago," Aldric said, his voice dropping an octave. "Maester Brand says we haven't seen a Long Winter in over a decade. Gendry, you've never seen the White Death, have you?"
"Never, Master," the boy replied.
"It is a world without life," Aldric described solemnly. "The snow falls for years. Rivers turn to solid glass. Transportation dies. People cut down every tree to stay warm and still freeze in their sleep. Famine is not a risk; it is a certainty. And in that darkness, the starving will not be refugees anymore. They will be a mob. They will be a tide of teeth and desperation that will consume everything we've built."
Charles Costa scoffed. "If they are just starving peasants, the Praetorians can keep them at the border. Desperate men don't win battles."
Sir Dean Blount, the only other Sunwalker among the lords, narrowed his eyes. "And what will you do, Charles? Ride out and slaughter every woman and child who begs for a crust of bread? Who will swing that sword? You?"
Costa shifted in his seat, looking at the floor.
"We don't turn them away," Aldric stated. "But our current lands cannot sustain them. We need to incorporate more manors, more granaries. We need to pool every scrap of grain in the region under a unified command."
The lords perked up. "Annexation" was a word they understood. While the new lands wouldn't be their personal fiefs, their share of the Alliance's profits would grow with every acre.
"Which direction?" Tucker Ward asked eagerly.
Aldric pointed south. "Toward the Reach. The Riverlands are freezing, but the Reach is the breadbasket of the world. Even if the frost bites there, Dorne will be the last hope for food. I won't have some petty knight or arrogant lordling sitting on the roads between us and our supplies. We clear the path to the south."
Tucker Ward nodded enthusiastically; his lands were the southernmost of the Alliance, closest to the capital and most ravaged by the war. Expanding that way meant reclaiming his own borders.
"But the Paibers and Breckens are strong," Valen Polk cautioned.
"We don't hit the Great Houses yet," Aldric explained. "They are rooted deep. We would bleed for a few granaries. We wait for the frost to bite harder. When their subjects are dying and their walls are cold, that is when we strike and pull them out by the roots. For now, we secure the trade routes."
"The goal," Aldric continued, "is three thousand infantry and five hundred light cavalry. We promote the Sunwalker squad leaders to company commanders. We turn the original Praetorians into the new squad leaders."
"Three thousand?" John asked, surprised. "What of the fields? We need hands to plant."
"The refugees are a river that never stops flowing," Aldric said. "We pick the strong and the willing. But the core must remain our native sons. I want your people, My Lords, to be the spine of this host."
"And the coin?" Valen asked. "How do we pay for three thousand spears?"
Aldric leaned forward. "Agriculture is a failing game for now. We develop industry—things the weather cannot kill. Sugar, cement, and steel. Gendry?"
Gendry pulled a palm-sized iron ingot from his bag and placed it on the table. It was smooth, dark, and heavy.
"Iron ore has been found in the Ward lands," Aldric said as the lords passed the metal around. "We smelt our own. No more buying from merchants. We forge the tools of peace and the weapons of war. We don't tax the merchants who come to us; we offer them security. No checkpoints. No tolls. They bring us grain, they take our sugar and steel. We dominate the market because we are the only ones with the goods and the safety to trade them."
The plan was a radical departure from the feudal norm, but the promise of wealth was a language every lord spoke.
"Dane, Charles—you have the tongues of vipers," Aldric said. "You contact the merchant guilds. Bring them here. Let them taste the sugar and see the steel. Dean, Valen—you handle the recruitment. I want honest farmers, not sellsword scum. Recruit in batches of five hundred."
Aldric turned to Tucker Ward. "Lord Tucker, find an excuse to visit your southern neighbors. I want to know their strength, their loyalties, and their supply lines. If a man yearns for the Light, we give him sugar and a seat at the table. If he yearns for the old ways... we give him the sword."
The meeting dissolved into hours of logistical planning. Lunch was brought in—simple boiled potatoes, lake-fish, and greens. It was the food of the people they led.
As the sun dipped, Aldric walked out into the courtyard, stretching his aching back.
"Sir Dean," Aldric sighed. "I understand now why King Robert preferred the woods. Ruling a kingdom from a chair of melted swords... it's a madness. Aegon the Conqueror must have been a masochist. Why build a throne that cuts the man who sits upon it?"
"A king should never sit easy, they say," Dean replied.
"Nonsense," Aldric sneered. "A king should be efficient. If you spend all your energy worrying about a spike in your back, you have no energy for the realm. The Targaryens fell because they prioritized the symbol over the man."
A guard interrupted their talk, looking nervous. "Lightbringer... a blacksmith named Tobho Mott is in the hall. He's been waiting since the noon-bells. Captain Trick is with him."
Aldric blinked, his fatigue vanishing. "Tobho Mott?" He looked at Gendry. "Your old master from the Street of Steel?"
Gendry's jaw dropped. "My mentor... here?"
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