The past two years had been a grinding crucible for Edric Stark. Under the tutelage of his uncle, Alaric Stark, the boy's pampered life as an heir had been replaced with a relentless, Spartan routine designed to forge the ultimate Northman.
His mornings began before dawn with the pounding of his feet against the cold, hard earth. He ran ten full circuits of the middle area of the Winter Kingdom, through the forest paths and around the vast pastures where the enhanced mammoths grazed.
This wasn't merely exercise; it was training in endurance, footing, and the sheer stamina needed for a future King in the North.
After a hearty breakfast, his education shifted to the mind. He spent the mid-morning hours in Alaric's sun-drenched Solar, immersed in deep discussions on statecraft, economics, and warfare.
Alaric challenged him with scenarios involving trade negotiations with the cunning Manderlys, managing the temperamental Mountain clans of the North, and strategizing defensive measures against a potential attack by a unified Westeros.
Then came the afternoon—the fighting. Edric faced Alaric's hand-picked guards in relentless one-on-one combat. There were no breaks, only the next challenge. He fought until his muscles screamed, until his vision blurred, and until he physically could not lift his sword arm.
This grueling regime was designed to hone his body instincts to the utmost limit, forcing him to react with primal speed and cunning rather than conscious thought.
Alaric had deliberately held back on formal magic lessons, believing that the physical and mental foundations must be absolute before the floodgates of elemental power were opened.
But Edric, already blessed with the curiosity of a great mind, had not been idle. The Winterhold Library was his secret classroom. Filled with books Alaric had rapidly authored over the past five years using enchanted self-writing quills—volumes on Fire Magic, Earth Magic, Water Magic, Ice Magic, Tree Magic, Enchantment, Potioneering, Chemistry, Physics, Advanced Mathematics, War tactics, and high-level political theory—the library was a goldmine the boy devoured in the quiet evenings.
Through it all, the family connection remained. Every ten days, Alaric would flash back to Winterfell for a night to visit his Father and Mother, returning at dawn.
Torrhen and Maege also made regular, swift trips to Winterhold via the gate, ensuring their son felt neither abandoned nor alone.
This morning, however, the routine was broken. They had just finished a meal of enhanced poultry meat and savory oatcakes when Alaric turned to his nephew.
"The time for theory is over, Edric," Alaric said, his eyes alight with anticipation. "Go retrieve your hoverboard from your chambers. We have somewhere to go."
Edric nodded sharply, a jolt of excitement overriding his exhaustion from the previous day's drills. He sprinted off, returning moments later with the sleek, magical device tucked under his arm.
Out in the courtyard, Alaric hopped onto his own hoverboard, which silently rose a foot off the ground. "Follow me, and keep up."
The instruction was a test in itself. Alaric shot off, a dark, fast blur heading straight for the imposing spine of the Skirling Pass.
Edric scrambled onto his own board, pushing the hoverboard limit to stay on his uncle's tail.
The journey was a rush of wind and snow, flying over canyons and ancient forests. The crisp air whipped at Edric's face, but he was barely aware of the cold, focused entirely on matching Alaric's speed and navigating the treacherous ascent.
Fifteen breathless minutes later, they arrived. Alaric executed a smooth, effortless stop on the very peak of the tallest mountain in the Skirling Pass—a granite spire that offered a dizzying view of the entire Winter Kingdom sprawling below. The massive, 700-foot weirwood tree was visible even from this height, dominating the horizon.
Alaric stepped off his hoverboard. "Dismount, Edric. You've earned a moment of rest."
Edric dropped to the ground, his lungs burning, his legs shaky from the intense focus of the ride. He took a deep, gulping breath of the thin mountain air, feeling the raw, elemental power of the peak surrounding them.
Alaric turned, his gaze sweeping over the vast, white landscape. "For two years, we've made a weapon of your body. We've carved a fortress of logic into your mind. Up until now, you have only trained in fighting with swords and shields to hone your earthly instincts."
Alaric's grey eyes fixed on his nephew, and a deep, humming power seemed to momentarily charge the air around them. "But the greatest battles are not fought with iron, and the future King in the North must command more than men and steel. Today, your true magical training begins."
Edric, catching his breath, felt a surge of elation that eclipsed all his fatigue. He stood straighter, his voice ringing with pure eagerness. "I've studied the books, Uncle. I am ready. Tell me what to do!"