A/N: There are a few changes in the first chapter. The change is I moved the timeline by 10 years, so Aegon Conquest starts in 15 years.
Third Person POV
15 BC - Winterfell
For a month after receiving his memories and powers, Alaric Stark kept a low profile. He spent his days dazzling Maester Moren with his newfound intelligence, answering questions on history and mathematics with a precision that left the old man stroking his chain in bewilderment. In the courtyard, he honed his swordsmanship, his strikes growing sharper, though he still couldn't best his brothers, Torrhen and Brandon. The Library of Knowledge and Hashirama Senju's vitality pulsed within him, but he held back, biding his time, learning the rhythms of this world.
Now, at eleven years old, Alaric stood before his father's solar in Winterfell, his heart steady but his mind racing with plans. He glanced at the guard, a grizzled man in Stark livery. "Please tell my father I'm here to speak with him."
The guard nodded, his chainmail clinking as he stepped inside. Moments later, he returned. "His Grace grants you to enter, Prince Alaric."
Alaric pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the solar. King Artos Stark sat behind a broad desk, his iron-grey beard catching the light from a narrow window. Parchments and maps lay scattered before him, the weight of ruling the North etched in his face. He looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Alaric, what brings you here?"
Alaric met his father's gaze, unflinching. "Father, I've been thinking about the North's strength. We spend most of our gold on food from the Reach and the Riverlands. Every winter, we're at their mercy, dependent on their harvests. I have an idea to grow more food here, in our own lands, to make us stronger, less reliant on southerners."
Artos leaned back, his fingers drumming on the desk. His expression shifted from skepticism to curiosity, noting the fire in his youngest son's eyes. "You're serious, aren't you? Very well, lad, let's hear this idea of yours. What's in that head of yours that you think can change the North's fortunes?"
Alaric stepped closer, his voice steady. "It's called the four-crop rotation method, Father. Instead of planting the same crop year after year, or leaving fields fallow, we rotate four types—wheat, turnips, barley, and clover—over four years. Wheat feeds us, turnips feed livestock through winter, barley's for bread, and clover restores the soil's strength. It's a cycle that keeps the land fertile and yields more food. I came up with this idea."
Artos's brows rose, his hand pausing mid-drum. "An idea, you say? Maester Moren's been singing your praises, saying you're sharper than most lads twice your age. But reading's one thing, Alaric. Farming's another. Are you certain this method will work in our harsh northern soil? Winters here aren't kind, and our growing season's short."
Alaric nodded, his confidence bolstered by the vast knowledge at his disposal. "I'm certain, Father. But if you're skeptical, let's test it first. Try it on a small plot—say, an acres near Winterfell. Compare the yield to land farmed the old way. If it fails, we lose little. If it succeeds, we could feed more of our people, maybe even sell surplus south. It's a step toward making the North self-sufficient."
Artos stroked his beard, his eyes narrowing as he weighed the proposal. After a long silence, he nodded. "There's sense in that, Alaric. A trial costs us little, and if it works… well, it could change things. I'll speak to the stewards and see it done. But tell me, is there more? You've got that look—like you're holding another card."
Alaric grinned, reaching into his tunic to produce a folded sheet of parchment. He spread it on the desk, revealing detailed sketches of farming tools—a seed drill, a new plow design, a horse-drawn hoe. "These, Father. They're tools to make farming easier, faster. The seed drill plants seeds in neat rows, saving time and seed. The plow cuts deeper, turns soil better. The hoe uproots weeds without backbreaking labor. I'd like you to commission our blacksmith to craft them."
Artos leaned forward, tracing a finger over the blueprints. "Gods, boy, where did you learn this? These look like something out of a southern maester's fever dream. What are they, exactly? Explain them to me."
Alaric pointed to each sketch, his voice animated. "The seed drill here—it's a box on wheels with tubes that drop seeds into the ground at even depths. No more scattering by hand. The plow's got a curved blade, stronger than our old ones, and it's easier for oxen to pull. The hoe's got a long handle and a sharp edge, so men can weed standing up, not bent over all day. They're simple, Father, but they'll save time and grow more crops."
Artos sat back, his expression a mix of pride and wariness. "You've thought this through, haven't you? But there's one more thing, I wager. Out with it, Alaric. What else do you want?"
Alaric straightened, his voice firm. "I want to learn blacksmithing, Father. I want to work with our blacksmith, Martyn, to make these tools myself and… invent other things. I've got ideas, things that could help the North, but I need to understand metal, how it's shaped, how it holds strength. I can't just draw pictures—I need to know the craft."
Artos frowned, his fingers tapping the desk again. "Blacksmithing? You're a prince, Alaric, not a smith's apprentice. Why dirty your hands with hammer and tongs? You've got duties—swordplay, riding, learning to rule. Why this, of all things?"
Alaric met his father's eyes, unflinching. "Because I want to build, Father. Not just swing a sword or sit in council. I want to make things that strengthen the North—tools, weapons, maybe more. I can't do that if I don't know how metal works. Let me learn from Martyn. I'll still train, still study, but this is something I need to do. For the North, and for myself."
Artos sighed, rubbing his temple. "You're a stubborn one, aren't you? Like your mother, gods help me. Very well. I'll speak to Martyn. You'll learn from him, and you'll be there when he forges these tools of yours. But mark me, Alaric—if this distracts you from your duties, I'll have you back in the yard swinging a sword till your arms fall off."
Alaric's face lit up. "Thank you, Father. I won't let you down." He bowed and left the solar, his steps light with triumph.
In the courtyard, he found Torrhen and Brandon sparring, their practice swords clacking. Torrhen grinned as Alaric approached, wiping sweat from his brow. "Look who's finally out of the library! Come to get another thrashing, little brother?"
Alaric snorted, grabbing a blunted sword. "Keep dreaming, Torrhen. One day, I'll have you flat on your back, begging for mercy."
Brandon chuckled, adjusting his stance. "Bold words, Alaric. Let's see if you've improved, or if you're still swinging like a drunk shepherd."
They sparred, Alaric's movements sharper than a month ago, though Torrhen's skill and Brandon's strength still outmatched him. "Not bad," Torrhen teased, parrying a strike. "But you're still slow as a cart mule!"
"Slow?" Alaric retorted, ducking a swing. "I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security!"
The next day, Alaric sought out Martyn in the blacksmith's forge, the air thick with the tang of charcoal and molten iron. Martyn, a burly man with soot-streaked arms, looked up from his anvil. "Prince Alaric? Your father says you're to learn the craft. Never thought I'd have a Stark in my forge, but here we are. Ready to sweat, lad?"
Alaric nodded, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm ready, Martyn. Show me everything—how to heat the metal, shape it, temper it. I want to learn it all."
Martyn grunted, handing him a hammer. "We'll start simple—nails, then horseshoes. No swords till you've earned it. Let's see if you've got the grit for this."
For a year, Alaric apprenticed under Martyn, his hands growing calloused, his muscles leaner. He learned to stoke the forge, judge the metal's color, hammer iron into shape. The Library of Knowledge guided him, filling gaps in Martyn's teachings with insights from centuries of metallurgy. Meanwhile, King Artos implemented Alaric's four-crop rotation on a test plot. The yield surpassed traditional methods, and by the next planting season, Artos ordered all farmers to adopt the system. The smallfolk were skeptical, muttering about untested methods, but Artos promised compensation for any losses. Seeing no risk, they complied, and the North's fields began to thrive.
By the end of the year, Alaric's blacksmithing skill reached an intermediate level, his status panel reflecting his progress:
- **Name**: Alaric Stark
- **Age**: 11
- **Race**: First Men
- **Bloodline**: Stark
- **Swordsmanship**: Intermediate
- **Archery**: Intermediate
- **Blacksmithing**: Intermediate
- **Notification**: None
In the blacksmith's workshop, Alaric set out to craft a Damascus steel sword, drawing on the Library of Knowledge for the ancient technique. He gathered high-carbon steel and iron, layering them in a precise stack. "Martyn," he called, "watch this. I'm trying something new—a steel stronger and sharper than anything we've made."
Martyn raised an eyebrow, wiping sweat from his brow. "New, you say? You've barely mastered a decent blade, and now you're chasing legends? What's this about, lad?"
Alaric grinned, heating the stack in the forge. "It's called Winter steel. Layers of iron and steel, folded and hammered over and over. It's tough, flexible, and holds an edge like nothing else. Just watch."
He worked methodically, heating the metal to a glowing red, then hammering it flat, folding it, and repeating the process. Each fold blended the metals, creating intricate patterns. He added flux—borax from the stores—to clean the welds, ensuring the layers bonded. The forge roared, sweat dripped from Alaric's brow, and Martyn watched, his skepticism giving way to awe as the metal took shape.
"Gods be good," Martyn muttered, peering at the billet. "Look at those ripples. It's like water frozen in steel. How'd you learn this, lad? No book in Winterfell's library teaches such a thing."
Alaric shrugged, keeping his secret. "Just… something I figured out. Trial and error, you know?"
After hours of folding, forging, and shaping, Alaric quenched the blade in oil, the hiss filling the workshop. He ground the edge, polished the surface to reveal swirling patterns, and fitted a leather-wrapped handle with a wolf's head pommel and a black crossguard. Holding the longsword aloft, he admired its balance, the blade gleaming in the forge's light.
Martyn's jaw dropped. "That's a king's blade, Alaric. Can I… can I hold it? Just to feel the weight?"
Alaric laughed, handing him the sword. "Why not? You've earned a look, putting up with me all year."
Martyn took the blade reverently, turning it in his hands. "Light as a feather, strong as Valyrian steel, I'd wager. The patterns… it's a work of art. You're no apprentice anymore, lad. This is master's work. What now?"
Alaric beamed. "I say we show it to Father. Want to see his face when he lays eyes on it?"
Martyn chuckled, handing the sword back. "Aye, I wouldn't miss that for all the ale in Wintertown. Let's go, lad."
Alaric wrapped the sword in a wolf pelt and led Martyn to the king's solar. At the door, the guard nodded them through after a brief exchange. Inside, Artos sat with Torrhen and Brandon, discussing grain stores. The king looked up, his brow furrowing. "Alaric, Martyn? What's this about? I'm in the middle of matters here. If it's urgent, speak. If not, it can wait."
Alaric grinned, stepping forward. "It's urgent, Father. I've made something you need to see." He placed the pelt-wrapped sword on the desk. "Unwrap it."
Artos exchanged a glance with his sons, then peeled back the pelt. The sword gleamed, its patterned steel catching the light. Torrhen leaned forward, eyes wide. "Gods, Alaric, what *is* that?"
Brandon whistled softly. "That's no ordinary blade. Look at the ripples. It's… beautiful."
Artos lifted the sword, testing its weight. "This is your work, Alaric? Martyn, you let a boy craft something like this?"
Martyn bowed. "It's all his, Your Grace. I watched him make it—layered steel, folded a hundred times, he says. Called it Winter Steel. I've never seen something like that."
Alaric cleared his throat. "It's stronger than common steel, Father, and holds a sharper edge. Flexible, too, so it won't snap in battle. With blades like these, our men could cut through southern swords like they were butter."
Artos's eyes gleamed, a rare smile breaking through. "You've outdone yourself, lad. If we can make more… gods, when the southerners march on Moat Cailin again, we'll shatter their armies. This steel could make the North untouchable."
Torrhen clapped Alaric's shoulder. "Little brother, you're full of surprises. When did you become a smith worthy of legends?"
Brandon nodded, his usual reserve cracking. "Aye, Alaric. This is a blade for a king. Or a prince."
Alaric's chest swelled with pride. "It's just the start, Father. With this steel, and more I'll make, the North will stand stronger than ever."
Artos set the sword down, his gaze fixed on his youngest son. "You've given me much to think on, Alaric. We'll speak more of this. For now… well done, lad. Well done."