On the first day of the Conclave, Aldric dropped a stone into the stagnant pond of Westerosi theology: he declared that Anshe and the Seven were one and the same—a single sun refracted into seven colors. He laid the blame for this "forgotten truth" squarely at the feet of the High Septons in King's Landing, accusing them of hiding the Sun's majesty to better serve the boy-king Joffrey.
Aldric felt no guilt. The "colorful" gossip he'd gathered from John and the other monks about the corruption of the Great Sept of Baelor painted a picture that made his accusations feel like simple observations.
Despite their grievances with the Church, the monks were skeptical. Aldric spent the day bridging the gap between faith and reason, using his photographic memory to weave threads of biology, physics, and philosophy into his sermons. He spoke of the sun as the engine of life, the source of the rain, and the heat in the blood.
He wasn't alone. A few quick-witted brothers, moved by the "Prism Miracle," took the stage to bear witness. They told stories of the Light mending flesh where prayers had failed. Aldric watched them with a wary eye, wondering if the Sparrow had planted them to bolster his words.
"Do you trust your truth so little, Lightbringer?" the Sparrow whispered with a thin smile. "Truth has a weight of its own. I needed no actors, save for Rolf."
Naturally, there was dissent. A few brothers tried to argue using the Seven-Pointed Star, but their rebuttals were hollow. They were men of the fields, not the Citadel. They could quote a line, but they couldn't explain why a crystal shattered a white beam into a rainbow. Against the tangible miracle of the Light, their "dead" parchment stood no chance.
By the second day, the crowd had swelled to nearly three hundred—refugees, guests, and soldiers alike. The Great Hall could no longer hold them. People hauled benches and timber into the courtyard, raising a makeshift stage under the open sky.
Aldric leaped onto the platform. "Brothers! People of the Seven! I tell you truly: blessed are those who walk with the Sun, for not only shall you inherit the heavens, but you shall claim the earth beneath your feet!"
He used the framework of The Great Compact—a theory of social governance from his homeland—to explain why the lords in their high castles had no natural right to rule.
Aldric argued that sovereignty belongs to the people, not to a bloodline. He used the election of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and the selection of the High Septon as evidence that men could choose their own leaders. "Even a poor election," Aldric bellowed, "is better than the roll of the dice that is hereditary birth!"
The question burned through the camp that night: If the lords are not fit to rule, then who is?
On the third day, Aldric provided the answer. He analyzed the history of his homeland, simplifying its long cycles into four stages: the Age of Tribes, the Age of Lords, the Age of Great Houses, and the Age of the Word. He concluded that for the war-torn Westeros of today, the only stable path was The Sovereignty of the Faith.
In his vision, a purified Church would become the skeleton of the state. He proposed a separation of sword and scroll: a Central Army for the realm, local militias for the hamlets, and a government divided into Civil, Legal, and Treasury offices.
Some protested. "Even Aegon the Conqueror needed the lords to rule! How can a monk collect taxes?"
Aldric countered with a simple truth. "Which lord knows every face in the furthest thorp? A lord sits in his hall; a Brother of the Seven walks the road. The Faith is already in the heart of every village. We do not need the lords to reach the people; the lords need us."
He described a system where the "Learned"—the men of the Word—guided the land, with a "High Sovereign" acting as the ultimate arbiter. If the first two days were about ideals, the third day was about the promise of power. In a world where monks were forbidden to wed or hold land, the idea of common-born men rising through merit to govern the realm was an intoxicating draught.
"Do you believe him?" Duncan asked, sitting by a cooking fire with Roger Hughes. "Is Aldric truly a prince from a far land? How can a sellsword know the inner workings of a kingdom?"
"I don't care where he came from," Roger replied, staring into the flames. "He is the only man I've met who looks at a peasant and sees a man instead of a tool."
By the fourth day, the peasants were no longer just listeners; they were believers. They didn't understand all of Aldric's political theory, but they understood the image he painted: a world where a Lannister soldier wouldn't break down their door, and a lord wouldn't take seventy percent of their grain to pay for a silk doublet.
Aldric's topic for the fourth day was the most dangerous: "Who is worthy to hold the leash of power?"
"Power is a nectar more sweet than any Arbor gold," Aldric said, his voice carrying to the edges of the courtyard. "But it is a poison that rots the soul. I have seen high-minded men turn into the very monsters they once hated the moment they tasted the right of high justice."
He argued that an organization only falls when its people fall. To ensure the "New Faith" remained pure, he introduced the concept of the Sunwalker as the ultimate check.
"The Sun-Spark is not just a gift of healing," Aldric explained. "It is a filter. The Light only awakens in those whose hearts are aligned with the Pillars of Grace. In our new order, the scribes may be many, but the rulers—the men who decide policy and lead the host—must be Sunwalkers."
He made it clear: if a leader's faith collapsed, if they turned to greed or cruelty, the Light would leave them. And when the Light left, their power would be stripped away.
The courtyard became a boiling cauldron of fervor. The soldiers who had failed their first anointing realized now exactly what they had lost—not just a magic trick, but a seat at the table of the future. The strangers who had never seen the rite began hounding the Sunwalkers, begging to know how they, too, could earn the Spark.
The monastery was no longer a refuge; it was a forge. And the shape taking form on the anvil was a revolution.