A year and a half had passed since Alaric Stark demonstrated magic to his brothers. Torrhen and his wife Maege, a steadfast woman of House Mormont, had welcomed a son, Edric, now one, whose giggles brought warmth to Winterfell's stone halls. The North had flourished under Alaric's innovations, its trade with Essos booming like never before. Soap, shampoo, glass, paper, whiskey, vodka, gin, rum, furs, and timber filled merchant ships bound for Braavos, Pentos, Lys, and even distant Volantis. Braavosi traders, marveling at the clarity of Northern glass and the crispness of Alaric's paper, dubbed the North "the new Valyria of trade," while "Stark's Fire" whiskey fetched gold wolves in Essosi markets. Lord Wyman Manderly, overseeing White Harbor's bustling port, boasted at a feast, "Prince Alaric's goods outshine Dornish wines and Tyroshi dyes combined!" The smallfolk, enriched by new markets, sang of their "Roadmaker," while lords like Umber, Karstark, and Glover grew wealthier, their coffers swollen with trade gold. Lord Ryman Bolton, however, watched Alaric with his pale, unreadable eyes, his silence louder than Umber's roars.
Alaric's crafting had reached new heights. For Torrhen, he forged *Stormdancer*, a longsword inscribed with lightning and healing runes, its blade crackling with electric arcs and mending its wielder's wounds in battle. Torrhen, testing it in the courtyard, cleaved an iron-bound dummy with a thunderclap, then healed a sparring cut on his arm, grinning as he named the blade. For Brandon, Alaric crafted *Frostbite*, etched with ice runes and runes that sharpened the edge with every drop of enemy blood, freezing foes and growing deadlier with each kill. Brandon, slicing a boar in half, its blood frosting the blade, laughed, "This'll make Boltons weep for their flaying knives!" Alaric gifted both brothers bows runed for indestructibility and enhanced arrow power, their shots piercing steel plates at a hundred yards with ease. He taught Martyn, his trusted blacksmith, to inscribe indestructibility runes, arming the Winter Wolves—House Stark's elite guard, bound by magical contracts—with unbreakable blades. Alaric took three apprentices—young, eager smiths named Jory, Hal, and Tommen—under his wing, guiding them in runecraft within his workshop, a stone haven built by Artos. He also invented magic lamps, runed orbs that glowed without flame, now illuminating Winterfell's halls, courtyards, and even the crypts, casting a soft, otherworldly light that awed residents of the castle."
Torrhen and Brandon, their magic circuits awakened by Alaric's enhancement potion, had grown proficient in magecraft. They mastered reinforcement, strengthening their bodies and weapons, and projection, conjuring blades with enchantments of fire, ice, or lightning. Torrhen projected a spear that burned red-hot, hurling it through a training dummy, while Brandon crafted a dagger that froze its target solid. Their skill, paired with Alaric's runic weapons, made the Stark brothers a force unmatched in the North.
That night, the three gathered in Alaric's workshop, the air thick with the tang of molten metal and alchemical herbs. A magic lamp glowed overhead, bathing the room in steady light. Torrhen leaned on a workbench, eyeing the lamp with a calculating gaze. "These lamps, Alaric, they're a marvel. Imagine them in every holdfast, every village from Last Hearth to the Neck. We could sell them to Essos—Braavos would pay a fortune to outshine their candles. The gold could fund a standing army, maybe even a fleet to rival Manderly's."
Brandon, tossing a runed arrow between his hands, nodded. "Aye, Torrhen's right. These lamps could make us richer than the Lannisters. But we'd need to guard the craft closely. Have you thought about how to keep them ours?"
Alaric grinned. "I've got it covered, brothers. Each lamp has a locking rune—only with a key, and those with awakened circuits can make or repair them. Even if a Lyseni thief cracks one open, it'll just be a lump of glass and metal without the magic. I say we start with Braavos; their Sealord's got deep pockets and a taste for novelties. But we'll need more hands—my apprentices are good, but crafting lamps takes time. I'm thinking we train a few more, maybe from White Harbor, under strict oaths."
Torrhen stroked his beard, his kingly demeanor softened by the workshop's warmth. "That's a sound plan, Alaric. Braavos first, then Pentos. We'll need to send a trusted man to negotiate—Manderly's got a knack for trade, but I don't want him knowing the lamp's secrets. Maybe one of your apprentices, trained to show the goods, but keep their mouths shut. What do you think, Brandon?"
Brandon set the arrow down, his eyes narrowing. "I like it, but I'd send Jory, Alaric's eldest apprentice. He's loyal, not too talkative, and he's got a good head for numbers. But we should test the market small—send a dozen lamps, see what price they fetch. If Braavos bites, we scale up. And Alaric, you sure these locking runes are foolproof? I don't want some Essosi magister waving a glowing orb at us in a year, claiming he made it."
Alaric laughed. "Foolproof as Winter Steel, Brandon. The runes are tied to our type of magic. Even a Valyrian sorcerer couldn't crack them without a magic circuits. We'll start small, as you say. A dozen lamps, Jory to Braavos, and we'll have gold flowing in by spring. But we'll need to—"
A sharp knock cut him off. Torrhen straightened, his voice firm. "Come in!"
Maester Moren entered, his chain clinking, holding a sealed parchment with a grave expression. "My king, a letter arrived at dusk, bearing a three-headed dragon sigil. It came by ship from Dragonstone, marked urgent."
Torrhen's brows furrowed as he took the letter, his fingers brushing the red wax seal. "Dragonstone? What's this now? Leave us, Moren."
Moren bowed, retreating. "As you command, Your Grace."
Torrhen broke the seal, his eyes scanning the parchment. His face tightened, then cracked into a booming laugh, echoing off the workshop walls. He doubled over, clutching his sides, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "Gods be good, this is the richest jest I've ever read!"
Brandon, leaning forward, frowned, his hand on *Frostbite*'s hilt. "What's got you howling like a drunk Umber, Torrhen? Share the joke, or I'll think you've gone mad. What's in that letter?"
Alaric stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the floor, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He knew the sigil—House Targaryen—and suspected the letter's contents: Aegon's declaration of conquest. He kept quiet, letting his brothers unravel it.
Torrhen, still chuckling, handed the letter to Brandon. "Read it, brother. You'll see why I'm laughing. This dragonlord's got balls bigger than his beasts."
Brandon snatched the parchment, his eyes narrowing as he read aloud, his voice rising with disbelief: "'To all the so-called kings of Westeros, hear my word. I, Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, declare that I will be the sole king of Westeros. Bend the knee to me, or burn under my dragon fire. My will is iron, my claim is fire, and my dragons are death.'" He paused, then burst into laughter, slapping the letter against his thigh. "The audacity of this man! Proclaiming he'll rule all Westeros? He thinks he can cow us with a few lizards? Mad as a bag of cats!"
Torrhen wiped his eyes, his laughter subsiding into a grin. "Right you are, Brandon. Aegon Targaryen, a Valyrian exile, thinks he can sweep seven kingdoms with a letter? He's madder than old King Harren, building that cursed castle. Dragons or no, he's got no idea what the North's made of—our Winter Wolves, our steel, our magic. He'll choke on his own fire."
Alaric shook his head, his voice calm but edged with gravity. "Madness and genius are two sides of the same coin, brothers. If Aegon succeeds, he'll be called Aegon the Conqueror, a name to echo through centuries. If he fails, he's a fool, burned by his own ambition. But don't underestimate him. His dragon, Balerion, the Black Dread, is four hundred feet long, its fire hot enough to melt stone. His sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys, ride Vhagar and Meraxes, each a terror in its own right. Together, they can burn armies of tens of thousands to ash in hours. It all hinges on how Aegon wields them—strategy, not just fire. He's no madman, not entirely."
Torrhen's grin faded, his kingly resolve hardening. "You're right, Alaric, as much as I hate to admit it. We can't laugh this off. I always thought war would come from the Andals—Gardeners or Lannisters, jealous of our crops, our roads, our mills spinning in every village, our trade with Essos filling our coffers. I didn't expect a dragonlord from across the sea. This changes everything. I'll send the Winter Wolves to Moat Cailin to fortify it—those cement walls you built, Alaric, will hold against anything short of dragon fire. I'll also send a raven to Lord Howland Reed, warning him to ready the Neck for war. The crannogmen can harry any army that dares march north."
Brandon nodded, his hand tightening on *Frostbite*. "I'll lead the Winter Wolves myself, Torrhen. Moat Cailin's a choke point. Reed's archers and your magic, Alaric, will turn the Neck into a graveyard. But we'll need more than steel and stone. What else can you do?"
Torrhen turned to Alaric, his grey eyes piercing. "Aye, Alaric, can you make weapons to kill dragons? Something to pierce their scales, ground them, or snuff their fire? We've got *Stormdancer* and *Frostbite*, but dragons are another beast. What's in that head of yours?"
Alaric's smile was sharp, his mind already racing through the Library of Knowledge's runic arsenal. "I've got plans, brothers. Don't worry about the dragons, I will take care of it."
Torrhen clapped Alaric's shoulder, his grip firm. "That's my brother. Work your magic, Alaric—literal and otherwise. I'll send ravens to our lords tonight—Umber, Karstark, Glover, Bolton, Dustin, Manderly, Reed, all of them. They'll know of this Aegon Targaryen and his dragon threats. They swore fealty to me, and I'll call their banners if it comes to it. The North will stand united."
Brandon stood, buckling *Frostbite* to his belt. "I'll muster the Winter Wolves at dawn and ride for Moat Cailin. I'll drill them hard. We'll be ready for a siege, whether it's men or dragons. Alaric, keep those apprentices forging; we'll need every blade you can make. And Torrhen, keep Bolton on a leash—I don't trust his oath as far as I can throw him."
Torrhen nodded, his face grim. "Bolton's loyal for now, but I'll watch him. Go, Brandon, and make Moat Cailin a fortress. Alaric, you know what to do. We'll meet again when the ravens return."
The brothers parted, each to their tasks. Alaric returned to his forge, hammering a new blade, its black surface glowing with nascent fire runes. His wolves, now horse-sized and fiercely loyal, prowled their pens, their eyes glinting in the lamplight.