The morning sun filtered through the narrow windows of Alaric Stark's workshop, casting long shadows across the stone floor cluttered with alchemical vials, books, and blacksmithing tools. Alaric, now twenty-three and second prince of the North, stood before his brothers, King Torrhen Stark and Brandon Snow, their faces focused. Having awakened their magic circuits with Alaric's enhancement potion a day prior, the brothers were eager to harness their new powers. Alaric, his sleeves rolled up, gestured to a wooden table. "Let's start with basic reinforcement magecraft. It strengthens your body or an object by channeling magic through your circuits. Focus on your energy—feel it like a river in your veins—then push it into, say, your arm."
Torrhen, his iron crown set aside, frowned. "A river? Alaric, you sound like a mummer. How do we know it's working?"
Brandon, rubbing his calloused hands, nodded. "Aye, little brother. I feel stronger since the potion, but this magic talk's still strange. Show us first."
Alaric grinned, his own circuits faintly glowing green under his skin. He picked up a quill, delicate and fragile. "Watch." Closing his eyes, he channeled magic into the quill, his hand steady. He pressed the quill against a steel plate, and instead of snapping, it pierced the metal with a sharp *crack*. "Reinforcement makes the weak strong. Now, try it. Start with your hands—make them tougher."
Torrhen and Brandon exchanged skeptical glances but sat cross-legged, closing their eyes. Alaric coached them, "Breathe deep. Find the energy. Push it slowly." The workshop fell silent, save for the crackle of the forge. After an hour of muttering and false starts, Torrhen growled, "This is harder than swinging a greatsword!" Brandon, more patient, managed a faint glow in his palm, but it flickered out.
Alaric clapped. "That's a start, Brandon. Keep at it. I've got experiments to run—practice till noon." He moved to his workbench, mixing potions for his new project, while Torrhen and Brandon persisted, their grumbles echoing.
Two days later, their efforts bore fruit. Torrhen, gripping a wooden sparring sword, channeled magic until it glowed faintly, then struck a training dummy, splintering it. "Gods, it worked!" he exclaimed. Brandon, reinforcing his fist, punched a stone block, cracking it without bruising his knuckles. "Not bad," he said, grinning.
On the third day, Alaric inspected their progress, nodding. "Good. Now, let's try projection magecraft—creating objects from magic. It's trickier but powerful." He picked up a plain longsword, its steel unremarkable. "You analyze an object's structure, then recreate it with magic. Start simple." He closed his eyes, circuits glowing, and projected a replica of the sword, its blade shimmering like glass. "With practice, you could project something like Ice, our ancestral blade, but that's advanced. Try with this sword first."
Torrhen scratched his beard. "Create a sword from nothing?"
Brandon hefted the longsword, studying it. "I'll try. But if I make a spoon instead, you're eating with it."
Alaric laughed. "Deal. Focus on the sword's weight, shape, edge. Picture it in your mind." He left them to practice, returning to his alchemical notes.
A week later, Torrhen and Brandon mastered basic projection. Torrhen conjured a flickering sword, crude but solid, lasting seconds before fading. Brandon's was sharper, holding form longer. "It's like forging with my mind," he said, awed. Alaric beamed. "You're getting it. Keep practicing."
He then shared his breakthrough. "Good news, brothers. The magical contract is done. It binds loyalty to House Stark, soul-deep. No betrayal, no loopholes."
Torrhen's eyes lit up. "Perfect. I propose we form an elite guard—Winter Wolves, we'll call them. Use the potion and contracts to make them unmatched. Brandon, you agree?"
Brandon nodded. "Aye. A hundred loyal, enhanced men could hold Moat Cailin against thousands. But we pick carefully."
Alaric leaned forward. "How many contracts should I prepare?"
Torrhen considered. "A hundred, for now. How long?"
"Three days," Alaric said. "I'll need to infuse each with runes."
Torrhen clapped his shoulder. "Take your time, brother. No rush. This must be perfect."
Alaric nodded, setting to work on the contracts—parchments inscribed with glowing runes, binding loyalty through magic. Three days later, he handed them to Torrhen, who turned to Brandon. "Pick the men, Brandon. Loyal, skilled, no weak links. Prepare them for the potion trial."
Brandon saluted. "I'll have the Winter Wolves ready, my king."
While Torrhen and Brandon organized, Alaric returned to his forge, smithing a black longsword, light enough for one hand. By midday, he finished inscribing runes along its blade, drawn from the Library of Knowledge—symbols for lightning and sharpness. Channeling magic, the sword crackled with electric arcs. He tested it on a training dummy, slicing it clean in half, the cut edges charred with burn marks. Examining the precision, Alaric smiled, satisfied, and set the blade aside. He began forging another, his hammer ringing with purpose.
Later, Alaric checked his wolf pens. The potion-treated wolves, once ordinary, now stood horse-sized, their fur sleek, eyes gleaming with loyalty. He ran a hand over one's flank, grinning. "If regular wolves grow this big, what'll direwolves become?" The thought sent a shiver of excitement through him. "Giants," he whispered.
That night, Alaric Stark, Torrhen Stark, and Brandon Snow, in his workshop, the air thick with the scent of molten metal and alchemical herbs. His latest creations lay on a workbench: two black longswords, each inscribed with glowing runes from the Library of Knowledge.
Alaric lifted the first sword, its lightning runes crackling. "This one channels lightning. Strike with it, and it burns as it cuts." He handed it to Torrhen, then picked up the second. "This has healing runes. It mends its wielder's wounds in battle, drawing on their magic circuits."
Torrhen's eyes widened, his iron crown glinting in the firelight. "Gods, Alaric, you forged these today? Lightning and healing? This is beyond Valyrian steel."
Brandon, gripping the healing sword, ran a finger along its edge, awestruck. "A sword that heals? A moon ago, I'd have called you a madman. Now… show us."
Alaric led them to Winterfell's courtyard, lit by torches and dusted with frost. Alaric set up a straw dummy reinforced with iron bands. "Torrhen, try the lightning sword."
Torrhen, circuits faintly glowing from the enhancement potion, swung the sword. A bolt of lightning arced from the blade, slicing the dummy in half with a thunderous *crack*. The cut edges smoldered, charred black. The crowd gasped, stepping back. Torrhen stared at the blade, gobsmacked. "By the gods… it's like wielding a lightining."
Alaric grinned, handing Brandon a dagger. "Cut yourself—lightly. Test the healing sword."
Brandon hesitated, then nicked his forearm, blood welling. He gripped the healing sword, channeling magic as Alaric instructed. The green runes flared, and the cut sealed, leaving unblemished skin. Brandon's jaw dropped. "It works. Gods, it *works*."
Torrhen handed the lightning sword back, shaking his head. "Alaric, what else can you make? This is… unreal."
Alaric leaned against a post, eyes gleaming. "Plenty, brothers. I can forge swords that don't cut unless the wielder wills it—safe to touch, deadly on command. Swords that radiate heat to melt armor or cold to freeze flesh. Blades that sharpen with every drop of enemy blood, growing deadlier in battle. I'm not limited to swords—maces, spears, axes, all inscribed with runes. I can make bows that fire indestructible arrows with enhanced power, or arrows that explode with fire, ice, wind, or water. Even arrows that seek their target, no matter the distance or cover. The Library—er, my studies—hold countless designs. I've written books on it, stored here." He gestured to a shelf of leather-bound tomes. "With time, you two could learn to make them, using your magic."
Torrhen stared at the books, then at Alaric. "Books? You've written *books* on magical weapons? A moon ago, I'd have thrown you in the crypts for raving. Now… I believe every word."
Brandon, still clutching the healing sword, laughed. "You're a bloody sorcerer, Alaric. What's next, flying ships? Dragons of our own?"
Alaric chuckled. "Give me time, Brandon. I'll make us untouchable."
Torrhen nodded, his kingly demeanor returning. "Keep at it, brother. Arm our Winter Wolves with basic indestructible swords. The North will need every edge with the South stirring."
Brandon set the sword down, his expression serious. "Aye, and keep those books safe. If Bolton gets wind of this, he'll flay you for the pages."
Alaric smirked. "Let him try. My circuits are faster than his knives."
The brothers laughed, the tension easing. Alaric returned to his workbench, planning more runic weapons, while Torrhen and Brandon practiced reinforcement, their circuits glowing. Outside, the North thrived—windmills spinning, roads bustling, fields lush with crops.