After two grueling years of elemental and martial training, Edric Stark, now sixteen, stood opposite his uncle on the windswept summit. His body was a testament to cold discipline, his mind sharpened by the Library's knowledge. The physical lessons were complete; it was time for the true inheritance: the rules of ruling.
Alaric looked at the vast landscape stretching below and spoke, his voice carrying over the wind like a solemn vow. "You will one day be King in the North, Edric. As a Stark, never make a promise you cannot keep. Your word must be harder than the ice you command, for it is the only true currency a King owns."
He then began to catalogue the enemies of House Stark, not with hate, but with cold, strategic calculation.
"The Boltons," Alaric began, a flicker of distaste crossing his face. "Never trust a Bolton. They are carrion birds who hate the Starks for their ancient pride. Always keep a sword in hand when you speak to one, metaphorically and literally. But their ruthlessness has its use in times of war. They are a double-edged sword, Edric—handle them carefully, and be prepared to cut off the hand that holds them."
"The Targaryens have their own use for us," Alaric continued, his gaze drifting south. "They keep the South in check. Those lords—the Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Arryns—play a petty Game of Thrones where they carve power for themselves under the dragon's shadow. Let them play their games. But if they, or the Dragon King, involve the North in their petty squabbles, you must do one thing: destroy every rule they set among themselves. Smash the board to pieces and finish the game under your own terms, not theirs."
"Finally, the most dangerous of all: the Citadel," Alaric's voice dropped, tinged with genuine contempt. "Those grey rats hate magic. The North, with its Weirwoods, its First Men blood, and its openly practiced Sorcery, stands as a beacon of everything they fear and wish to extinguish. They are the invisible players in the Game of Thrones, moving pieces and undermining alliances without ever spooking anyone. That is why there are no maesters in the North, and we must ensure they never set foot in Winterfell or any of our castles. They are spies and saboteurs, nothing more."
Edric listened, absorbing the lessons of suspicion and strategy. When Alaric finished, the boy's first question was sharp.
"Uncle, if we know who our enemies are, why don't we just eliminate them and conquer them all now? Why keep the vipers alive?"
Alaric smiled, a proud, cold flash. "A wise question, King-to-be. But there must always be an enemy where you can point a sword, lest the men who follow you grow complacent and soft. Our enemies keep us sharp. You must know their strength and weaknesses before letting them loose, and always have contingency plans for war."
"Why do you think we let Aegon and his wives and their dragons go unharmed even when we had them captured? It is to keep the South destabilized and our allies alert. That is why the Several Thousand Hands statue stands at Moat Cailin; it serves as a permanent, magical warning to the South. Yet, there will always be fools who think they can win. Never forget, Edric: we are the First Men of the North, and our kingdom is the longest standing known to the world."
"As for allies, we have only one true partner: Dorne," Alaric stated. "We gave them potent magical and strengthening potions, allowing them to gain magic of their own. That investment was purely strategic. When the time comes, we will be able to attack the Targaryens on two fronts and keep their attention divided. Dorne is our anchor in the South."
"Finally, the most important rule of all for the future King in the North: Religion. We of the First Men worship the Old Gods. The Andals worship the Faith of the Seven. We allowed the Manderlys to pray to the Seven when they sought refuge in the North, and we respect that choice. But be careful when matters of faith arise. The Manderlys, for all their loyalty and wealth, will never gain the trust of northern houses because of their faith."
Alaric's expression grew serious. "Never let the Faith of the Seven set foot in Winterfell. If you allow a sept to be built in your castle, you will lose the trust of your bannermen. You will look weak, and you will introduce a political weapon into your home. Guard the Old Gods' way above all else."
Edric met his uncle's gaze and nodded solemnly. "I will follow your words, Uncle. I will not compromise the Old Ways."
Alaric's tense expression finally relaxed into a proud smile. "Good. When the time comes, it will be your responsibility to educate the next generation of Starks in these truths. Do not let the knowledge we've gathered fade."
"Aye," Edric replied, a young King, schooled by knowledge and elemental cold, ready to face the world his uncle had reshaped.