273-274 AC
The forge became Kaelen's second home after his mother died.
He rose before dawn each day, when the castle was still dark and the only sounds were the distant calls of guards changing shift and the soft crackle of banked fires. He dressed in the plain clothes he preferred, thick wool and leather that could withstand sparks and heat, and made his way to the corner of the yard where Harry Stone already had the fires burning.
They worked in companionable silence, the way old friends did. Harry had long since stopped questioning where Kaelen's knowledge came from. He simply accepted that the boy knew things, saw things, understood things that no child should. In return, Kaelen accepted that Harry would never betray him, never sell his secrets, never look at him with fear.
It was the closest thing to peace Kaelen had found since Lyarra's death.
"The iron from the Rills is better," Kaelen said one morning, examining a fresh bar. "Lower sulfur content. See the color? That pale grey instead of reddish. We need to source more from there."
Harry grunted. "The Rills are Ryswell lands. Lord Ryswell charges triple what the Glovers ask."
"Then we pay triple. Quality matters more than cost." Kaelen set the bar down. "The steel we make from this will be worth ten times what we pay for the ore."
Harry shook his head but made a note. He had learned to trust Kaelen's instincts.
The experiments continued. Different ores, different temperatures, different quenching methods. Water from the hot springs. Water from the cold streams. Oil from rendered animal fat. Each combination produced slightly different results, and Kaelen recorded them all in a leather notebook he kept hidden in his chamber.
He was looking for something specific. A steel that would hold an edge better than anything in Westeros. A steel that would flex without breaking, that would withstand the cold of northern winters without becoming brittle. A steel that would give his soldiers an advantage when the time came.
He did not know when that time would come. He only knew it would.
Rickard Stark watched his second son with a mixture of pride and unease.
The boy was ten years old now, and already he had accomplished more than most men did in a lifetime. The glassworks alone had doubled Winterfell's income. The agricultural improvements had filled the granaries. And now this obsession with steel, this endless hammering and testing and recording.
"He works too hard," Rickard told Ned one evening, watching Kaelen cross the yard toward the forge, his white hair bright against the grey stone.
Ned, eleven years old and already serious beyond his years, nodded. "He misses Mother."
"Yes." Rickard sighed. "We all do. But Kaelen... he feels things differently. Deeper. He always has."
"Should I talk to him?"
Rickard looked at his third son. Ned was steady, reliable, the kind of boy who would grow into a man others trusted. But Kaelen was something else entirely.
"Just be his brother," Rickard said. "That is all any of you need to be."
The first breakthrough came on a cold morning in late autumn.
Kaelen had been experimenting with quenching in warm oil, a technique he remembered from his previous life. The theory was simple: oil cooled more slowly than water, allowing the steel's internal structure to form more evenly. The result should be a blade that was both harder and more flexible.
He had tried a dozen times with mixed results. But this morning, when Harry pulled the blade from the oil and held it up to the light, something was different.
The surface was smooth, almost glossy. The edge, when Kaelen tested it against a scrap of leather, sliced through like it was nothing.
"Try it," Kaelen said, his voice carefully calm.
Harry took the blade and tested it against a piece of iron bar. The blade bit deep, leaving a groove. He tested it against another blade from the forge. The other blade snapped.
Harry stared at the weapon in his hands. "What did we do?"
Kaelen took the blade, examining it closely. "The oil. And the temperature. We need to record everything. Exactly. The ore source, the firing time, the quench temperature. Every variable."
Harry nodded, already reaching for the notebook they kept. His hands were shaking slightly.
"This is it, isn't it? This is what you have been looking for."
Kaelen allowed himself a small smile. "This is the beginning."
Word spread quickly through Winterfell.
The guards talked about it in their quarters. The servants whispered about it in the halls. The lords who happened to be visiting asked to see the blade, to test it for themselves, to verify that the rumors were true.
Kaelen let them. He had nothing to hide, not about this. Let them see. Let them spread the word. The more the North knew about Wolf Steel, the more they would want it. The more they would need the Starks to provide it.
Rickard summoned him that evening to his solar. The fire burned high, and his father's face was unreadable in the flickering light.
"The lords are talking," Rickard said. "They want to know where this steel came from. They want to know if we can make more."
"We can." Kaelen stood straight, his white hair catching the firelight. "We need to build a proper forge. A larger one. We need to train more smiths. We need to secure the best ore sources before anyone else realizes their value."
Rickard nodded slowly. "And after that?"
"After that, we sell it. To our lords first, at fair prices. To the South later, at premium prices. We use the gold to build roads, to train soldiers, to make the North strong."
"Strong for what?"
Kaelen met his father's eyes. "For whatever comes."
Rickard was silent for a long moment. Then he gestured to the chair across from him.
"Sit down, son. Tell me everything."
For the first time, Kaelen told his father the truth. Not all of it. Not about his memories, his previous life, the ten billion years he carried in his skull. But about his plans. His fears. His vision for the North.
He talked until the fire burned low and the candles guttered out. And when he was done, Rickard reached across and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You are ten years old," Rickard said quietly. "Ten years old, and you think like a king."
"I do not want to be a king."
"No. I know." Rickard squeezed his shoulder. "You want to protect. That is different. That is better." He paused. "I will give you what you need. The forge, the men, the gold. But you must promise me something."
"What?"
"Do not forget to live. Do not become so focused on protecting everyone that you forget to be happy." Rickard's grey eyes were soft in the darkness. "Your mother would want that."
Kaelen felt something crack inside him, that cold place where he had locked away his grief. He nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Good." Rickard stood. "Now go to bed. Tomorrow, we build."