Third Person POV
2BC - Winterfell
The workshop door burst open. A guard, panting, gasped, "Prince Alaric! Your father… King Artos… he's dead. You're needed at once!"
Alaric's vial nearly slipped. He has been expecting that. His health failed him. Years of battle wounds—spear in the side at Redstone, axe to the leg at Frostmoor—took their toll.
Alaric set the vial down and ran, heart pounding, to his father's chambers. Inside, Queen Serena wept, her dark hair loose. Torrhen stood grim-faced beside his wife, Maege, a stout woman with kind eyes. Brandon Snow, stoic, leaned against the wall, while Maester Moren checked Artos's still form. Serena saw Alaric and rushed to him, sobbing into his chest. "He's gone, my boy… gone…"
Alaric held her, his throat tight. "I'm here, Mother. We'll get through this. He was proud of us, of the North." His words felt hollow, but she clung to them, her sobs softening.
Torrhen turned to Moren, his voice steady despite his red-rimmed eyes. "Maester, send ravens to every lord in the North—Umber, Bolton, Karstark, all of them. Tell them King Artos Stark is dead, and they're to come to Winterfell to pay respects and swear fealty to their new king. See it done by dawn."
Moren bowed. "At once, my lord."
The next day, Artos was laid to rest in Winterfell's crypts, his stone likeness carved with a Winter Steel sword across his chest, joining the Stark ancestors. Alaric stood silently, the torchlight flickering on his father's stern face, now eternal. Serena whispered, "He rests with the old kings now."
A moon later, the lords arrived—Umber, massive and somber; Bolton, pale and unreadable; Glover, Karstark, Dustin, Manderly, and Reed, each with retinues. In the Great Hall, they knelt before Torrhen, swearing oaths of fealty. Umber's voice boomed, "To King Torrhen Stark, my sword and strength!" Bolton's oath was curt, his eyes flicking to Alaric. After the ceremony, the lords feasted, toasting Artos's memory, then departed, their loyalty secured.
Torrhen summoned Alaric to the solar. The new king, now twenty-four, sat at Artos's desk, his crown a simple iron band. "Alaric," he began, "you've changed the North—crops, steel, windmills, roads. The lords talk of you as much as they mourn Father. But we must look forward. I've had marriage proposals—Lord Manderly offers his daughter, Lord Reed a cousin. What are your plans? The North needs you settled, strong."
Alaric shook his head, resolute. "I'm not ready to marry, Torrhen. I've more to do—plans to strengthen us against what's coming. Give me five years. I'll build more, invent more, prepare us for the storm. After that, I'll tell you my path—marriage, maybe, or something else. Trust me, brother."
Torrhen studied him, then nodded. "Five years, Alaric. You've earned that much. But don't think I'll let you dodge forever. The North needs Starks, not just inventions." He smiled faintly. "Go, do what you do best."
Alaric bowed and left, heading to the Wolfswood pens. The potion-treated direwolf had doubled in size, its shoulders level with his chest, its eyes gleaming with loyalty. He fed it, murmuring commands it obeyed instantly. In his workshop, he worked on a new potion to enhance human strength, senses, and magical potential, enabling magecraft and runework from the Library of Knowledge. "If I can make men wield magic," he thought, "the North will be unstoppable."
In the south, news of Artos's death spread. Reach and Riverlands lords, already reeling from lost grain sales to the North's self-sufficiency, schemed to exploit the transition. King Gardner, in Highgarden, snapped at his stewards, "The Starks grow too bold. We must find leverage—trade, alliances, anything!" In Dragonstone, Aegon Targaryen, first of his name, heard of Artos's death and shrugged, his violet eyes cold. "A dead wolf changes nothing," he told his sisters. "In two years, Westeros will kneel to dragons, North and all." His conquest plans churned, undeterred.
Alaric, unaware of southern plots, focused on his wolves and potions. With Torrhen as king and Aegon's shadow looming, the North needed every advantage. Alaric Stark, armed with knowledge and power beyond this world, would ensure it stood unbreakable.
----
A moon after King Artos Stark's burial, Alaric Stark stood in his workshop, the air thick with the scent of crushed herbs and alchemical fumes. His latest triumph was a potion to enhance human strength, senses, and magical potential, enabling magecraft and runework from the Library of Knowledge. After perfecting it, Alaric summoned his brothers, King Torrhen Stark and Brandon Snow, to his workshop to reveal his breakthrough.
Torrhen, crowned a moon ago, stood with his arms crossed, his iron circlet glinting. Brandon, ever stoic, leaned against a workbench. Alaric held up a vial of shimmering sapphire liquid. "Brothers, I've done it. This potion enhances the body and mind, strength, senses, and the ability to wield magic, and I've already taken it."
Torrhen raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Magic, Alaric? You're telling me you've brewed something out of a bard's tale? I've seen your crops and steel, but this… this sounds like madness."
Brandon snorted, his eyes narrowing. "Aye, crops are one thing, but magic? You're not some Valyrian sorcerer. What's this potion supposed to do, make us fly like dragons?"
Alaric grinned, undeterred. "I'll show you. I drank it a week ago. My vision's sharper—I can see a sparrow's feathers from a hundred yards, like time itself slows down. My strength's grown, and…" He raised his hands, which glowed with faint, circuit-like patterns pulsing green. With a gesture, he conjured a longsword from thin air, its blade shimmering like Ice, the Stark ancestral sword. The weapon was solid and gleaming, before dissolving in a flicker of light.
Torrhen's jaw dropped, his kingly composure shattered. "Gods be good… how? Alaric, *how*?"
Brandon stared, his usual reserve gone. "That's… that's sorcery. You made a sword from nothing! Explain yourself, little brother!"
Alaric laughed, the sound light but edged with pride. "Magic, brothers. The potion awakens something in us called mana, whatever you like. It's in our blood, First Men blood, waiting to be unlocked. Watch this." He walked to his heavy oak table, laden with books and tools, and lifted it with one hand as if it were a feather, holding it aloft before setting it down gently.
Torrhen blinked, shaking his head. "By the gods, Alaric. You're stronger than Umber now. This is real?"
Brandon stepped forward, poking the table as if it might bite. "Real as steel. Alright, I believe you. But what do we *do* with this? You can't just hand out magic like you did windmills."
Alaric nodded, his expression serious. "That's why I called you. We share this with those loyal to House Stark—our most trusted bannermen, our elite guard. But not all of it. We give them half the potion's power—enough to enhance strength and senses, maybe basic magecraft, but not the full magic I've unlocked. They'll be stronger, faster, but dependent on us for more. And I'm working on a magical contract, a binding rune to ensure loyalty. No one will betray us, especially not Lord Bolton, who looks at me like I stole his favorite chicken leg."
Torrhen burst out laughing, the tension breaking. "Gods, Alaric, that's Ryman to the bone! He's probably plotting to flay your secrets out of you."
Brandon chuckled, shaking his head. "Aye, Bolton's got that look. But giving magic to the lords? That's a risk, Alaric. Even half-strength, they could turn it against us. What if Umber decides he wants to be king?"
Alaric's eyes gleamed. "That's where the contract comes in. It'll bind them—heart and soul—to House Stark. They'll wield magic at our command, not their own ambition. Bolton won't dare cross us when his power comes from our hands. We'll make the North unassailable, ready for whatever comes."
Torrhen stroked his beard, nodding slowly. "Clever, brother. I like it. But the contract comes first—no magic to the lords until it's ready. Agreed?"
Brandon nodded. "Agreed. I don't trust Bolton further than I can throw him, and I'd rather not test that yet."
Alaric clapped his hands. "Done. Now, would you two like to try the potion? See what it's like to be more than human?"
Torrhen hesitated, glancing at Brandon. "Any drawbacks? I'm king now, Alaric. If this turns me into a toad, the North will have words."
Alaric smirked. "It'll hurt a bit when you take it—muscles and nerves rewiring themselves. After that, no drawbacks. Just power."
Brandon stepped forward, his jaw set. "I'll try it first. You're king, Torrhen. If something goes wrong, the North can't lose you. I'm just the bastard brother—no one'll riot if I sprout horns."
Torrhen sighed but nodded. "Fine, Brandon. But if you die, I'm blaming Alaric."
Alaric handed Brandon a vial, the sapphire liquid glinting. Brandon downed it in one gulp, grimacing at the bitter taste. "Tastes like old boots. I don't feel anything."
Alaric pointed to the floor. "Lie down. It'll hit soon."
Brandon raised an eyebrow but complied, stretching out on the stone. For a moment, nothing happened. Then his body twitched, a light shudder. "This isn't so bad," he said, voice steady. "You said it hurts a little?"
Alaric's grin turned sinister. "Did I say little? My mistake. Wait for it."
Brandon's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, wait—?" His words cut off as his body convulsed, muscles seizing as if trampled by a herd of oxen. He screamed, a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the workshop walls. "Alaric, you bastard!"
Torrhen lunged forward, panic in his eyes. "Alaric, what's happening? You said it was safe! Fix this, now!"
Alaric raised his hands, feigning innocence. "I thought I said it hurts like you're being flayed alive. My bad. He'll be fine, Torrhen, I swear."
"You're joking *now*?" Torrhen snapped, grabbing Alaric's collar. "If he dies, I'll have your head, brother or not!"
Brandon's screams faded, his convulsions easing. He lay still, breathing heavily, then opened his eyes. Alaric knelt beside him, grinning. "Welcome back, brother. That was for all those times you thrashed me in the yard."
Brandon's eyes blazed. "You little shit!" He lunged, but Alaric dodged, his enhanced speed a blur. Brandon scrambled up, chasing him out of the workshop into the courtyard, snatching a training sword from a rack. "Get back here, Alaric!"
Alaric laughed, weaving through the yard. "It was a joke, Brandon! No need to take it so seriously!"
The onlookers—guards, servants—gaped as the brothers tore across the courtyard at superhuman speed, their movements a blur. Brandon swung the sword, but Alaric sidestepped effortlessly. "Come on, brother, you're faster now! Use it!"
Brandon, running, didn't notice his own speed until Alaric stopped abruptly, grabbed him, and hurled him into a stone wall. The impact cracked the masonry, sending dust flying. Brandon froze, stunned, as Alaric called, "Calm down and look around!"
Brandon blinked, noticing the crowd's dropped jaws. He looked at the cracked wall, then at Alaric. "What… what am I?"
Alaric pointed to a massive log, one that took six men to lift. "Try lifting that."
Brandon approached, hesitant, then lifted the log with one hand, his face a mix of shock and awe. He dropped it, the ground shaking, and flexed his arms. "It worked. Gods, it worked."
Alaric smirked. "Of course it did. I made it."
Torrhen joined them, shaking his head. "Well, now we know it works. Alaric, make that magical contract your priority. No mistakes."
Alaric nodded. "Aye, my king."
Then the brother moved to the workshop, and Alaric presented Torrhen the potion vial.
Torrhen eyed the remaining vial. "Fine. I'll take it. But if I scream like Brandon, you're cleaning the stables for a month."
In the workshop, Torrhen drank the potion, enduring the pain with gritted teeth, guided by Alaric's instructions. As he emerged, stronger and sharper, the brothers planned their next steps.