The morning after the feast in Winterfell's great hall, Alaric Stark strode into King Torrhen Stark's solar, the stone walls warmed by a crackling hearth and illuminated by Alaric's magic lamps.
Torrhen sat behind the oaken desk, his iron crown resting beside *Stormdancer*, its lightning runes faintly glowing.
Torrhen leaned back, a tankard of "Stark's Fire" whiskey in hand, his grey eyes keen. "Alaric, you've returned a legend—Dorne's smallfolk call you 'God of the North' for your orchards. Tell me of your deeds there, the deals with Meria Martell, and this talk of Dornishmen coming to train with us."
Alaric settled into a chair, his light furs rustling, his eyes steady. "Torrhen, Dorne was starving, crippled by Aegon's war, their ports fading because of our canal. I traveled with Deria Martell, planting orchards across their holdfasts—Hellholt, Yronwood, Starfall, and smaller villages. Thousands of lemon, orange, and fig trees, grown with magic. Their smallfolk eat now, their lords name me 'Messenger of the Old Gods.' With Meria, I secured a trade deal: their fine sand for our glassmaking, our grain, timber, and healers to aid their recovery. It's exclusive—Dorne's sand comes only to us; our goods flow first to their ports. The contract's sworn, binding for ten years. As for their men, Meria agreed to send knights and women to train in our magic once their conflict with Aegon fully ends. They'll sign contracts like Deria's, ensuring their magic never turns against the North."
Torrhen nodded, stroking his beard, his voice impressed. "You've bought an ally, Alaric. Feeding Dorne's people, binding them with trade—it's a masterstroke. Aegon's reeling, and you've ensured Dorne looks to us, not him. Their knights training here? That strengthens us both. How stands their war?"
Alaric's expression darkened. "Aegon's withdrawn, his army battered. Rhaenys and Meraxes fell at Hellholt, and Dorne's spears bled him dry. Meria's unbowed, but peace is fragile. They'll send men when it holds, likely in a year or two."
Torrhen sipped his whiskey, his tone thoughtful. "Well done, brother. Here, the North thrives. Brandon's fortified Moat Cailin, the Winter Wolves are sharper than ever. Our trade with Braavos booms—your glass and paper fetch fortunes. The canal's doubled our ships, and your crops and windmills feed the smallfolk. But whispers of your magic grow—lords crave more, with the harvest festival nearing. What's your next step?"
Alaric leaned forward, his voice resolute. "I need a tower in Winterfell, Torrhen—a dedicated space to teach magic to our people. Not just lords' heirs, but anyone with potential: potions, enchanting, smithing, magic. I'll start with basics, like I've taught Deria, and build from there. Can you arrange it?"
Torrhen's eyes gleamed, his voice firm. "Consider it done. The Broken Tower's yours—empty, strong, near the godswood. I'll have it fitted with forges, tables, whatever you need. Are your apprentices—Jory, Hal, Tommen—ready to teach others? You trained them before Dorne."
Alaric nodded, his smile confident. "Before I left, I taught them everything I could: potion-making, enchanting runes, crafting Winter Steel, smithing runed blades. They've had six moons to refine their skills. I'll check their progress today, but they're close—Jory's potions are stable, Hal's runes hold magic, Tommen's blades rival *Frostbite*. They'll need three more moons to be ready to teach, but they're nearly there."
Torrhen raised his tankard, his voice approving. "Three moons, then. If they're ready, I'll send word across the North—Winterfell, Last Hearth, Karhold, every hold—for those eager to train. Men, boys, anyone willing. Should we include women?"
Alaric's eyes lit up, his voice earnest. "Aye, women too. Talent hides in unexpected places—a crofter's daughter could wield magic like Deria's water magic. Bar them, and we lose half our potential."
Torrhen chuckled, nodding. "Clever, Alaric. I'll call for women as well—let's find those hidden gems. The North's changing, thanks to you." His smirk widened, his tone playful. "Now, about this Dornish princess. Deria's a spark, and I saw her eyes at the feast. You two are… enjoying yourselves, eh?"
Alaric rolled his eyes, a faint flush on his cheeks. "Torrhen, it's just a bit of fun—nothing serious. Deria's bold, Dornish through and through. We're enjoying the moment, no more. No betrothals, no promises."
Torrhen's grin held, his voice half-serious. "Fun, is it? Dornish fire burns hot, brother—mind you don't get scorched. She's a princess, you're a Stark. Meria might hope for more than 'fun' if Deria's heart strays. Keep your head clear."
Alaric nodded, his tone light but firm. "I'll be careful, Torrhen. Deria knows it's no vow—she's as free as I am. Don't fret."
Torrhen clapped his shoulder, his voice warm. "Good enough. Now, go see your apprentices. I'll draft the recruitment order. Rest today, but tomorrow, we plan the festival."
Alaric stood, bowing slightly. "Aye, Torrhen. I'll see you at supper." He left the solar, his steps purposeful, and headed to the forge-yard near the Broken Tower, where his apprentices worked. Jory stirred a glowing potion, its scent sharp but controlled. Hal etched runes on a Winter Steel blade, their glow steady. Tommen hammered a sword, sparks flying, its edge keen. Alaric observed, his eyes keen. Jory's potion held without flaring—excellent. Hal's runes bound magic tightly—impressive. Tommen's blade sang, nearly matching *Stormdancer*'s quality. "Acceptable," Alaric said, "but three moons more to master teaching."
He tested their knowledge, offering corrections. "Jory, ease up on the weirwood sap—too much risks instability. Hal, tighten your rune loops for durability. Tommen, temper longer for a flexible edge." They nodded, eager, their skills honed over six moons. Satisfied, Alaric returned to his chambers, his thoughts on Deria, the festival, and a North awakening to magic.