Four moons had passed since Alaric Stark's meeting with King Torrhen Stark in Winterfell's solar. The Broken Tower, once a crumbling relic, now stood renovated, its stone walls reinforced with Alaric's cement, its chambers fitted with forges, tables, and shelves for magical training.
Alaric's apprentices—Jory, Hal, and Tommen—had honed their skills, now ready to teach potions, runes, smithing, and magic to recruits.
Alaric, ever diligent, had spent the moons composing tomes on magic: *Treatise on magic control*, *Runes of the First Men*, *Potions for Awakening*, and *Winter Steel Smithing*. Bound in leather, their pages etched with glowing runes, these books lined the Broken Tower's shelves, a legacy for future generations.
Winterfell buzzed with preparations for the harvest festival, its courtyards alive with banners, musicians, and carts of grain, apples, and smoked fish.
The great hall brimmed with Northern lords—Harlon Umber, Torren Karstark, Halys Bolton, Bennard Glover, Fenric Reed, Rodrik Dustin, and Godric Manderly—their sigils of chained giant, black sun, flayed man, mailed fist, lizard-lion, axe, and merman bright against the stone walls.
Tankards of "Stark's Fire" whiskey and Braavosi wine flowed, tables groaned with roasted boar, venison, and honeyed root vegetables, and laughter filled the air as lords swapped tales of hunts and battles.
At the high table sat Torrhen Stark in the center, his bronze crown glinting. To his left sat Queen Maege Stark, her bear sigil cloak warm, her pregnant belly round.
Beside her was Princess Deria Martell, her orange silks a vibrant contrast, her dark curls catching the torchlight.
To Torrhen's right sat Alaric, his eyes bright, his light furs embroidered with a direwolf. Beside Alaric was Brandon Snow, his rugged face softened by whiskey.
The hall's din quieted as Torrhen stood, raising his tankard, his voice commanding. "Lords of the North, kin and allies, I thank you for gathering at Winterfell's harvest festival. Our fields yield plenty, our granaries brim, and our people thrive. The canal, Alaric's gift, has doubled our trade—ships sail from Bear Island to White Harbor, carrying glass, paper, and whiskey to Braavos and beyond. Our coffers overflow, our roads bind us, and the South envies our strength!"
The lords roared, pounding tables, their tankards raised. "To the canal!" bellowed Harlon Umber, his greatsword clanging. "To the North!" shouted Godric Manderly, his merman sigil glinting. The hall echoed with cheers, the air thick with pride.
Torrhen raised a hand, his voice steady. "There's more, my lords. Alaric's magic—his titan, his trees, his wolves—has made us legends. Now, we open the Broken Tower to train any Northerner who seeks to wield such power. Men, women, highborn or smallfolk—all may learn potions, runes, smithing, and chakra. But there are conditions, binding as iron, to protect our realm. These terms will be discussed privately with you, my lords, tomorrow in the solar. Swear to them, and your heirs, your kin, may join the North's awakening."
The hall erupted again, lords cheering, their eyes alight with ambition. "Magic for all!" roared Rodrik Dustin, his axe sigil bold.
"The North rises!" cried Fenric Reed, his voice soft but fervent. Halys Bolton's thin smile gleamed, his voice low. "A new era, Your Grace."
The lords stood, raising their cups, shouting, "King in the North! King in the North!" The chant shook the rafters, direwolf banners swaying as bards struck up a lively tune.
Torrhen sat, his smile broad, and leaned toward Alaric, his voice low. "You've lit a fire, brother. They're hungry for your magic. Tomorrow, we'll bind them tight."
Alaric nodded, his voice quiet. "The contracts will hold them, Torrhen. Loyalty to the North, no magic against us. Deria's seen it work—she's proof."
Deria, overhearing, smiled, her water orb shimmering in her palm under the table. "Your lords are eager, Alaric. Like my people, they'll learn, grow stronger."
Maege chuckled, patting her belly. "You've brought fire to our snows, Deria. You will never see a festival like this."
Brandon raised his tankard, grinning. "To Alaric's madness—trees in Dorne, magic in Winterfell. The South'll quake when we're done."
The feast continued, lords jovially trading tales, their cheers mingling with music. Alaric's eyes met Deria's, a spark passing between them, their bond a quiet warmth amid the hall's roar. The North, united and ambitious, celebrated a future forged in magic and steel.
Kings Landing
In the shadowed hall of the Aegonfort, the crude wooden fortress at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, Aegon Targaryen paced before a roaring hearth, his ruby-encrusted crown glinting, his violet eyes burning with fury.
The news from Dorne—Alaric Stark's orchards blooming in barren sands, feeding Meria Martell's people, and the exclusive trade deal binding North and Dorne—had reached him through spies and merchants.
His conquests—Riverlands, Stormlands, Reach, Westerlands, and Vale—felt hollow, the North's defiance at Moat Cailin and Dorne's unyielding spears mocking his dream of a unified Westeros. The magical contract sworn with Alaric's titan, binding him to peace with the North, chafed like iron.
Balerion, the Black Dread, stirred in the fort's yard, his roars echoing Aegon's rage. Visenya Targaryen, her braid tight, *Dark Sister* at her hip, stood by a table strewn with maps and tomes, her amethyst eyes calm but piercing.
Aegon slammed a fist on the table, maps scattering. "Alaric Stark mocks me! Trees in Dorne's deserts, trade with Meria—our enemies grow bold, Visenya! The North's canal saps our ports, their glass and whiskey flood Braavos, and now they ally with those sand-addled scorpions! I should burn Winterfell, contract or no!"
Visenya's voice was steel, cutting through his fury. "Control yourself, Aegon. Rage won't undo Alaric's deeds or Meria's defiance. The Starks' magic binds us—attack the North, and that titan at Moat Cailin will crush Balerion again. Dorne's bled us enough; Rhaenys and Meraxes are lost. Consolidate what we hold—Riverlands, Reach, Stormlands, Westerlands, Vale. Strengthen our lords, tax the trade routes, build our armies. Only then can we look to further conquest."
Aegon's jaw tightened, but he nodded, his voice low. "You're right, sister. The North's untouchable for now, that cursed titan a wall we can't breach. Dorne's thorns are too sharp. I'll not strike yet—but I'll prepare the next generation to reclaim what's ours. Our sons, our knights, will be ready when the contract weakens. Tell me, Visenya, how fares your search for fire magic? We need power to match Alaric's sorcery."
Visenya's lips curved faintly, her hand resting on a dragon-embossed tome from Dragonstone. "I've scoured the Valyrian records in Dragonstone's vaults, brother—ancient scrolls, blood-stained tomes. I've found rituals, old and perilous, to enhance the body beyond mortal limits. They are painful but potent. Those who endure them will wield the strength of ten men—faster, tougher, unyielding. Our soldiers could become weapons to rival Stark's apprentices."
Aegon's eyes gleamed, his voice eager. "Ten men's strength? That's a start, Visenya. We'll forge an army to dwarf Alaric's magic. Select our best—Stormlander knights, Westerland swordsmen, Reach spearmen. Put them through brutal training first—break their bodies, hone their minds. Only the strongest will endure the ritual. Begin with a small cohort, test its worth."
Visenya nodded, her braid swaying, her tone resolute. "I'll choose fifty men—loyal, iron-willed, from Harrenhal's garrison and Storm's End. They'll train until they drop, then face the ritual. It'll burn their blood, remake their bones. Many may die, but those who survive will be our edge."
Aegon paused, his gaze piercing. "Will you undergo it, Visenya? Will you test this fire magic yourself?"
Visenya's eyes met his, unflinching. "I will, Aegon. If I'm to lead this army, I'll bear its power first. *Dark Sister* will sing all the louder for it."
Aegon's smile was grim, his voice firm. "And I'll join you. If we're to face Alaric's titan or Meria's spears, we must be more than human. I'll endure the pain—Balerion's fire runs in my veins. We'll forge a legacy to crush our foes, even if it takes a generation."
Visenya inclined her head, her voice steady. "So be it, brother. I'll prepare the rituals, gather the dragon's blood, and ready the men. We'll build a force to rival the North's magic and Dorne's defiance. For now, we hold, we strengthen, we wait."
Aegon nodded, his rage cooling to resolve, his eyes fixed on the hearth's flames. "For now, we wait. But when the time comes, the North and Dorne will kneel—or burn." Outside, Balerion's roar shook the Aegonfort, a promise of fire to come.