Thus, before the gathered smiths and apprentices of the workshop, Gendry—the boy they called "The Bull"—was formally named a disciple of Aldric.
Aldric looked at his new student, soot-stained and wide-eyed. "A disciple of mine cannot merely be a mortal smith, Gendry. You must become a Sunwalker. For the coming weeks, you leave the forge behind. Pack your belongings and hand your duties to the others. Tomorrow morning, you move to the barracks to begin your foundation."
Gendry blinked. "Military training, Lightbringer?"
"During the day, you will harden your body alongside the other warriors," Aldric commanded. "At night, you will attend the night-school to learn letters and sums. I have tasked Maester Brand with establishing a Literacy Corps at the monastery. You will join his classes by my order."
Maester Brand was a man whose luck had been forged in a cold tower. He had served House Green of Leafy Hall until Gregor Clegane arrived. The Mountain's task was slaughter, not governance; Brand had survived by hiding in a crawlspace for three days, emerging to a hall of corpses. In his flight toward Oldtown, he had encountered a traveling Sunwalker and, drawn by the miracle of the Light, eventually sought refuge at St. Maur's.
In a noble house, a Maester was a healer and a tutor. Aldric had no need for a doctor, and he preferred his own counsel to an advisor's. Thus, he had put the man to work teaching the Golden Dawn's officers the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic up to a hundred—enough to read orders and tally supply wagons.
Hammering was Gendry's strength; ink was his enemy. "But Lightbringer—"
Aldric's brow twitched. Gendry corrected himself instantly. "Teacher. I want to be a smith. Learning to read feels like time I could spend at the anvil."
"Lad," Aldric explained with patient authority, "you have the hands of a master, but a master-smith is more than a man who hits iron. You must learn to identify ore, to smelt complex alloys, and to design weapons that do not yet exist. You cannot expect me to whisper instructions in your ear forever. Memory is a sieve; ink is a stone. When you can read and write, you can record my lessons and study them until they are part of your soul. Only then will you surpass me."
Recalling his years of silent labor in Tobho Mott's shop, Gendry realized the truth in his teacher's words. He bowed his head. "I understand, Teacher."
Aldric's decision to move Gendry to the barracks was born of necessity. While he had been perfecting the Light-Forged Steel, the political landscape had shifted. The women and smallfolk of House Ward had arrived at the monastery, fleeing their scorched manor.
According to Ser Tucker, Tywin Lannister had broken the siege of King's Landing and the Lion's strength was at its zenith. The Westermen would soon march along the Kingsroad toward Riverrun to clear the path between the capital and Casterly Rock. House Ward lay directly in the path of that storm.
With the Ward soldiers integrated into his ranks, Aldric's host had swelled to four hundred men—the equivalent of forty Swan Wing squads. They were supported by sixty heavy cavalry provided by the lords and at least one Sunwalker per ten-man unit. On the western shore of the Gods Eye, this was now a force that could challenge even the Mountain or the Mummers.
The seven lords of the St. Maur's Alliance had staked everything on this gamble. If this joint task force failed, they would be forced to sell their castles and become common sellswords to survive.
As the alliance leaders arrived at the monastery to report on the remaining four holdout houses, they found a place transformed. The smallfolk had been moved to the outer villages, the warriors to the Smith's Hamlet barracks, and the craftsmen to the industrial hub of the Blacksmith's Reach.
While the other lords requested comfortable quarters within the monastery walls, Ser Dean Blount and Karlo Schmidt insisted on staying in the barracks. Even if they had to sleep in tents, they wanted to see how the Lightbringer turned peasants into killers.
What they saw shocked them to their marrow.
Aldric's method was simple and terrifying: he allowed the men to spar with live steel. He commanded them to control their blows enough to avoid immediate death, but beyond that, there were no rules.
Dean was a veteran of the Rebellion; Karlo had patrolled the roughest alleys of the capital. They knew that a peasant levy was usually meat for the grinder because they lacked the years of training and the expensive mail of a knight. Most died in the first charge. Those who survived became veterans only after their wounds had turned to scars.
In Aldric's camp, three days of training produced a man who had already faced death a dozen times. With the Sunwalkers standing by to cast Solar Radiance, a man could be gutted in the morning and back in the ranks by noon. It was a factory for tempered warriors.
"Only you could train men like this without a mutiny, Aldric," Karlo said, watching the blood-stained dirt of the muster field.
"I am careful," Aldric replied, joining them at the fence. "I forbid the taking of limbs. So long as the body stays in one piece, the Light can make it whole. It keeps them from being broken men in the future."
"Does it not make them hesitant in a real battle?" Dean asked.
"No," Aldric said. "If anything, it makes them fearless. Without the Light, a puncture is a death sentence. Here, they learn the limits of their skin. Besides, the enemy are men too. If we can defeat them without butchering them, their strength becomes our strength. Mercy is a long-term investment."
Karlo watched a squad drill, his eyes full of a new, sharp hunger. "Can my men join this? Officially?"
"I have assigned every Sunwalker I have to the existing squads," Aldric noted. "If your men join, they must be integrated. I cannot spare a Sunwalker to act as a private healer for your personal guard."
Karlo hesitated. His guards were his kin, his elite. To break them up was to lose his immediate power base. He shook his head with a touch of regret. "To split them would be to lose the heart of my house. Perhaps we will stick to the 'observation' for now."
Aldric smiled. "Fair enough. But know this: Sunwalkers are not made by training. They are chosen by the Light based on their devotion to the Word of Anshe. It is a slow harvest. In four months, I have found only sixty souls out of a thousand."
Karlo leaned against a post. "I've listened to your evening lectures. Your ideas are... dangerous, Aldric. Few high-born men would support a world without noble blood."
Aldric's eyes turned cold, reflecting the steel of the forge. "Let them not support it. The wheel of history rolls forward; it will crush those who stand in its path. Once those who refuse the Sun are swept into the dust, their opinions will matter very little."
He paused, his voice softening. "But a noble who accepts the Dawn is a friend of the Order. And in the future I am building, my friends will always have a place at the table."
Karlo felt a chill. It was the promise he had been looking for—the guarantee that he wouldn't be discarded once the war was won.
"Speaking of friends," Aldric said, snapping Karlo out of his thoughts. "I have gifts for you."
He gestured to Gendry, who was standing nearby. "Gendry, bring the blades."
While experimenting with the Light-Forged Steel, Aldric and Gendry had produced two blades that reached the "Valyrian" standard. Aldric had originally intended them for Jon and Kevin, but he knew the value of a political bribe.
He handed a rippled, shimmering longsword to each man. "These are Light-Forged Steel, born of the same craft as the Valyrian blades of old. They are my handiwork. Let them be the witness of our friendship."
Dean gripped his sword, his face pale with awe. "I truly believe you are the Seven's chosen, Aldric. No one in this world could forge a miracle like this."
Karlo flicked the blade with his finger, listening to the long, melodic hum. "Does it have a name, Commander?"
"Not yet," Aldric said.
"My house sigil is an axe in a stump," Karlo grinned, the weight of the sword making him feel like a giant. "I'll call mine Timber-Splinter."
Aldric nodded. "If you prefer an axe, Karlo, I can forge you one when the time is right."
"No," Karlo said, his fingers tightening on the hilt. "The sword is perfect."
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