With the ambush plan set, the four commanders—Ser Marq Piper, Lord Karyl Vance, Aldric, and Harwin—rode out to the site. They surveyed the ridge, simulated charge angles, and marked firing lines.
Arrows were the key. The three factions pooled their stockpiles. After redistribution, every archer had a quiver of twenty shafts. Barely enough for a prolonged engagement, but it would have to do.
Ten cavalry scouts were dispatched to the Goldroad near Stoney Sept to watch for the convoy.
Two days before the target was due, Aldric made a decision. It was time to expand the Golden Dawn's core strength.
The Westerosi lords had centuries of lineage, vast lands, and deep pockets. Aldric had none of that. What he had was a modern mind and a Resonance Crystal—a gift from the Naaru A'dal—that could grant the power of the Sun.
Now that he was independent of the Northern army, he no longer needed to hide his light under a bushel.
Expansion is survival.
He wasn't worried about spies or traitors infiltrating the ranks. The Resonance Crystal was imprinted with his specific interpretation of the An'she faith. Anyone who didn't genuinely resonate with his ideals—equality, protection of the weak—would simply fail to awaken. Lennar the Bard was proof of that; he had the Seed, but no Light.
That night, under the cover of darkness, Aldric gathered the Golden Dawn.
It was a solemn ceremony. In the flickering light of the campfire, twenty new recruits knelt before him. Aldric placed his hand on each of their heads, channeling the power of the crystal.
When the sun rose, the results were in.
Of the twenty, only five awakened. Five men who truly believed in the dawn.
That brought the total number of Sunwalkers to twelve.
Aldric stood before the assembled camp—including the curious men of the Brotherhood and the Riverlords' retinue—and made an announcement that would send ripples through the Riverlands.
"In the Golden Dawn," Aldric's voice boomed, "power is not a birthright. It is earned. Any man who believes in An'she, who is vouched for by two Sunwalkers, and who possesses the will to sacrifice for others, may receive the Seed of Light."
The crowd murmured. To the smallfolk, this was a revelation. To trade their plow for a sword was one thing; to trade their mortality for magic was another.
Spies from Marq Piper's camp watched closely. Even the lords themselves, stripped of their finery, lurked at the back of the crowd, listening.
The next morning, Aldric took his twelve Sunwalkers deep into the forest.
It was time for a masterclass.
Kevin and Jon Snow had been Sunwalkers for over a month, but they were raw. They used their powers like clerics, standing in the back and healing. They didn't know how to fight like Paladins.
Aldric, a man who had ground his way to an 1800 Arena Rating in World of Warcraft, was about to change that.
He stood in the center of the clearing, looking at his disciples.
"Listen closely," Aldric said. "A Sunwalker's combat doctrine rests on two pillars: Relentless Advance and Self-Preservation."
"Relentless Advance does not mean stupidity," he continued. "It means you do not fear pain. You are the avatars of An'she. You take the hits so others don't have to. You are the wall."
"But," he raised a finger, "you must survive. You can trade blows, you can bleed, but you cannot die. A dead healer heals no one. If you die, even I cannot bring you back."
Ser Roger Hogs raised a hand. "Lightbringer, how do we balance this? How do we advance without dying?"
"Good question," Aldric said. "The answer is armor. And math."
He waved Kevin forward. "Kevin, armor up."
Kevin donned his Lightbringer set. Aldric picked up a sturdy oak staff.
Thwack. Thwack.
He struck Kevin's breastplate hard. Kevin flinched but held his ground.
"A normal knight," Aldric explained, "relies on his armor to deflect blows. But kinetic energy still bruises. Bones still break. Eventually, he falls."
"We are different."
Aldric tossed the staff aside. "Our wounds do not accumulate. As long as the enemy cannot one-shot you, you can reset the fight. You can heal."
He looked at them with a predatory grin. "This means we can fight dirty. We can trade. We can take a sword to the gut if it means we take the enemy's head."
"Kevin," Aldric commanded. "Take off the armor."
Kevin blinked. "Ser?"
"Do it. Take your sword. Stab me."
"Ser?"
"Real stab. Do it."
Kevin hesitated, his hands trembling. He pressed the tip of his sword against Aldric's exposed abdomen.
"Harder!" Aldric barked.
Kevin pushed. The steel slid into Aldric's flesh. Blood welled up, dark and hot.
In that split second, Aldric stepped into the blade. He closed the distance instantly, his dagger flashing to Kevin's throat.
"Dead," Aldric whispered.
He stepped back, pulling the sword out of his own gut. Blood sprayed. The recruits gasped.
Aldric raised his hand. Flash of Light.
Golden energy knit the flesh together. In seconds, the wound was gone.
"I took a sword to the gut," Aldric said calmly, wiping the blood away. "He took a dagger to the throat. I spent a hundred mana. He spent his life. That is the trade."
The recruits stared, wide-eyed.
"Moo," Aldric pointed to the Wildling recruit. "You had a question?"
Moo swallowed hard. "Commander... if we can heal, why not just outlast them? Why trade hits?"
"Because war is not a duel," Aldric said. "Mana is finite. Time is finite. If you drag out a fight, you give the enemy time to find your weakness. Or time to kill your non-magical friends. You spend your health to buy time. You spend your mana to buy victory. Burst them down. Move to the next."
For the rest of the morning, the forest rang with the sounds of brutal sparring. Aldric forced them to practice "trading"—taking a calculated hit to land a killing blow.
High in a tree overlooking the clearing, Ser Marq Piper and Lord Karyl Vance watched in horror.
"Seven Hells," Piper whispered. "Is madness a requirement for this magic?"
They watched the Sunwalkers tear into each other, healing, and tearing again. It was efficient. It was terrifying.
They slid down the tree and retreated to their tents.
"Did you hear his speech?" Piper asked, pouring himself a cup of wine to steady his nerves. "Equality. Brotherhood."
"I heard," Vance said grimly.
"A peasant's son equal to a lord?" Piper scoffed. "If this faith spreads, the Lannisters will be the least of our problems. The smallfolk will rise."
"What do we do?" Vance asked. "Stab him in the back during the ambush?"
"No," Piper said, shaking his head. "We need him. Harwin sides with him. If we turn on him now, we die. Besides... if even one of them survives to tell the tale, our honor is gone."
He downed the wine.
"We work with him. For now. If he survives the war... well, we can worry about the peasant revolution then. Or maybe we can 'guide' him. Kings need legitimacy. If he wants to play prophet, maybe we can help him... refine his doctrine."
"Until then," Vance muttered, "we pray he points that madness at Tywin."
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