The day after the harvest festival, Winterfell's solar was crowded with the lords of the North, their sigils—chained giant, black sun, flayed man, mailed fist, lizard-lion, axe, merman—bright against fur cloaks and mail.
King Torrhen Stark sat behind his oaken desk. Alaric Stark stood to his right, his eyes calm, his light furs marked with a direwolf.
Torrhen's grey eyes swept the room, taking in Lord Harlon Umber, Torren Karstark, Halys Bolton, Bennard Glover, Fenric Reed, Rodrik Dustin, and Godric Manderly.
Before each lord sat a small wooden box, carved with direwolf motifs. "My lords," Torrhen began, his voice steady, "before we discuss the training of magic, open the boxes before you."
The lords exchanged glances, then lifted the lids. Inside each gleamed a black ring, its surface etched with faint green runes that pulsed softly.
Murmurs rippled through the room—Halys Bolton's eyes narrowed, Fenric Reed's brow rose, Harlon Umber's massive hand dwarfed the ring as he held it to the light.
Torrhen raised a hand, silencing the room. "These rings are magical, crafted by Alaric and his apprentices. They detect poison within two feet—wine, whiskey, food. If venom's near, the ring grows warm, a warning to protect you. With these, we guard against treachery. I hope you find them worthy."
Harlon Umber grunted, slipping the ring on, his voice gruff. "A fine gift, Your Grace, but I'll test it with my ale tonight."
Halys Bolton's thin smile was skeptical, his voice silky. "Poison detection? I'll see it proven, but a clever tool if true."
Godric Manderly, jovial, roared, "Aye, a king's gift! I trust it—cheers to Stark ingenuity!" The others—Karstark, Glover, Reed, Dustin—nodded, some wary, others enthusiastic, shouting, "Aye!" as they donned the rings.
Torrhen's smile was brief. "You may commission more from Alaric or his apprentices—Jory, Hal, Tommen—in time. Now, to the training of magic. The Broken Tower's ready, and Alaric's prepared to teach potions, runes, smithing, and chakra to any Northerner—man, woman, highborn, or smallfolk. But we must ensure our enemies—Southrons, Targaryens—never wield our power. I have a foolproof method."
The lords leaned forward, their eyes sharp. "Aye, tell us!" bellowed Rodrik Dustin.
Fenric Reed's voice was soft but eager. "How do we keep it ours, Your Grace?"
Torrhen produced a parchment, its edges glowing faintly blue, runes shimmering across its surface. "This is a magical contract, crafted by Alaric. Once signed, its terms bind the soul. Break them, and you forfeit your life. The contract ensures loyalty—no betraying the North, no sharing magic with outsiders. If you try, pain sears your chest. Persist, and it worsens until death claims you."
Murmurs rose, uneasy. Halys Bolton's eyes gleamed, his voice probing. "A contract that kills? Bold, Your Grace, but does it work? Can we trust it to hold?"
Torrhen's gaze was iron. "On my honor, it works, Lord Bolton. Alaric's magic bound Aegon at Moat Cailin—his titan caged dragons. This contract's no different. Test it, and you'll feel the pain yourself."
Harlon Umber laughed, slapping the table. "I'll take your word, King Torrhen! If it binds as you say, our magic's safe. Aye!"
The others nodded, their doubts easing, and a chorus of "Aye!" filled the solar.
Torrhen spread the parchment, his voice commanding. "Now, let's set the terms. The contract must protect the North, its magic, its future. Speak, my lords—what clauses should bind those we teach?"
The lords debated for two hours, voices rising and falling.
Harlon Umber demanded loyalty above all: "No traitor must wield our power!"
Fenric Reed urged secrecy: "None should teach outsiders without Stark consent."
Torren Karstark, his tone sly, suggested punishment for rebellion: "Let the contract choke any who turn on Winterfell."
Godric Manderly called for unity: "The magic's for the North's strength, not personal gain."
Torren Karstark, Bennard Glover, and Rodrik Dustin added clauses for training discipline, ensuring only the worthy learned.
Alaric spoke, his voice calm but firm. "Before you ask, know that Princess Deria Martell signed such a contract. She's sworn not to harm the North or its interests, nor share her magic—Rhoynar water techniques—with outsiders. Any Dornishmen who come to train, as Princess Meria promised, will sign stricter terms, binding them to our alliance and their own house's loyalty."
The lords fell silent, their earlier murmurs stilled. Halys Bolton's smile was thin but approving. "Well played, Prince Alaric. Dorne's bound, and so shall we be."
Torrhen nodded, summarizing the terms. "The contract's clauses are set: First, the signer will not betray the North—by word, deed, or magic. Second, they will not share magical knowledge with anyone who hasn't signed the contract, nor teach without Stark approval. Break these, and the contract's magic enforces death. Are we agreed?"
"Aye!" the lords roared, their fists pounding the table. Torrhen rolled the parchment, its runes flaring as he sealed the terms. "Tomorrow, we'll draft copies for each holdfast. Those who train in the Broken Tower—lords' heirs, smallfolk, men, women—will sign. Alaric's apprentices will oversee, and I'll send word across the North to call recruits."
Harlon Umber raised his ringed hand, grinning. "To magic, to the North! Let's see South match this!"
The lords cheered, their voices shaking the solar. Alaric met Torrhen's gaze, a shared nod passing between them. The North's future, forged in magic and loyalty, stood ready to rise.