The calendar year was 40 AC—forty years since the Conqueror landed on the shores of Westeros. In the North, it had been an era of magical refinement, political fortification, and the forging of two new dynasties.
Alaric Stark, though now two decades older, appeared timeless, his green eyes sharp and clear. Edric Stark, a man of thirty-six, was the product of Alaric's ultimate vision. Edric was a magnificent study in controlled power. His movements, honed by years of fighting Alaric's most formidable guards without pause, were flawless.
His aura, once just the raw chill of Ice Magic, now flowed with the refined complexity of a true polymath. He had not only mastered the chilling discipline of Ice Magic, pushing its density and lethality to a point where he could spontaneously form a shield capable of resisting Balerion's breath, but he had also mastered its counterparts.
He commanded Projection Magic with precision. His deep study of Enchantment meant his armor and weapons were always subtly bolstered by protective runes, and his knowledge of the magical theory in Alaric's extensive library covered everything.
While Alaric had focused on forging the perfect heir, the Winter Kingdom itself had matured into the very definition of a self-sustaining, independent nation-state—a monumental technological and magical achievement beyond the Wall.
In the early years, Alaric had relied on imports and resource manipulation, but two decades later, the kingdom was an unbreakable fortress of innovation. The perpetual cold was countered by an immense network of geothermal heat runes carved directly into the mountain bedrock, channeling the earth's warmth throughout the massive fortress and the surrounding villages.
The Godswood, anchored by the giant weirwood, was now a massive, magically controlled agricultural zone. Using advanced and specialized runic enhancement, the kingdom produced a bounty of fortified, nutrient-rich crops that could sustain the entire population, including the immense direwolves and mammoths.
The population of the Free Folk, Giants, and even the reclusive Children of the Forest lived in a state of unprecedented prosperity and order. The magical contract with the South was the shield; the self-sufficiency was the heart. The Winter Kingdom was no longer dependent on any outside force, making it impervious to siege or starvation.
The political landscape in Dorne had also shifted profoundly. In 35 AC, Prince Nymor Martell had passed away peacefully in his sleep, the last link to the Dornish War. The throne of Sunspear passed to his powerful and politically savvy daughter, Princess Deria Martell, the Ruling Princess of Dorne.
Deria, supported by Alaric's insights and her own fierce intelligence, had successfully secured Dorne's trade routes and independence. Crucially, she had ensured that her children, Alaric's son and daughter, were equally prepared to serve the interests of both the sun and the ice.
Ares Nymeros Martell, now a man of thirty-three, was a study in contradictions. Born under the Dornish sun, he had spent half his life in the desolate cold of Winterhold, training alongside Edric.
Alaric had trained Ares not as a politician, but as a Master Strategist and Commander for the Winter Kingdom. While Edric was the King in the North, Ares was destined to be the executor of Alaric's vision.
Training Focus:Logistics, Teleportation Network Management, and Counter-Magic Theory. He excelled at Projection Magic.
Ares would one day inherit Alaric's mantle, overseeing the entire magical infrastructure of the North and maintaining the delicate balance of power. He would rule from Winterhold, but he required a new identity, one untainted by the political ties of the South.
Nymeria Martell, five years Ares's junior, was the true heir of Sunspear. She possessed Deria's grace and Nymor's political shrewdness, amplified by Alaric's unique training.
Training Focus:Diplomacy, Statecraft, and Applied Potioneering. Alaric had ensured she understood the science behind the strength and magical strengthening potions he had provided Dorne. She could not only use the potions but also understand their chemical and magical composition, giving Dorne a unique, controlled military edge.
She was Deria's chosen heir, destined to be the Ruling Princess. Her mastery of politics ensured Dorne would remain an indispensable, unconquered ally of the North.
In King's Landing, Aegon I Targaryen was an aging ruler, his health failing, his temper shortened by the endless parade of Southron petitioners, and his heart heavy with the unavenged death of Rhaenys. He had consolidated the realm, yes, but Alaric Stark had denied him true victory.
His sons, Aenys and Maegor, were now fully grown and frighteningly competent, their powers magnified by Visenya's blood rituals. They were prepared to inherit his war against the North.
Aegon sat on the Iron Throne, its jagged edges a constant reminder of the bloodshed required to secure it. He had spent two decades waiting for the right moment, and now, he knew his time was running out.
"Visenya," Aegon commanded, looking at his remaining queen, whose face was as severe and beautiful as ever. "The preparations are complete. The maps, the supplies, the enchantments... they are all loaded onto Balerion."
Visenya stood by, her silver braid a coiled serpent. "Your search is foolish, Aegon. Alaric Stark's power does not come from lost Valyrian secrets. It is something new. You risk losing Balerion and yourself for shadows."
Aegon slowly rose, the creak of the Throne echoing his age. "I go not for war, Visenya, but for closure. If there is a weakness to Alaric's power, it lies in the ancient magic that gave us dragons. If Valyria holds one spell, one forgotten ritual that can counteract his ice or his shadow powers, then our sons will find it in my notes. If I do not return, the throne is Aenys's, but the vengeance is Maegor's burden."
He walked out onto the Red Keep's balcony. Below, Balerion the Black Dread stretched across the courtyard like a mountain of coal, waiting patiently for his final master.
"I leave the six kingdoms to you and the boys. Ensure the contract with the North is maintained, for now. Let them believe they are safe. When the knowledge is found, or when my sons have honed their blades enough, the truce ends."
Aegon mounted Balerion, the black dragon roaring a sound that hadn't shaken the city in years. With a massive beat of his wings, the Conqueror turned east, towards the smoking ruins and the mysteries of Valyria, a final, desperate gamble to secure his dynasty against the untouchable power of the North.
As Aegon flew east on his desperate quest, the political map of Westeros had settled into a wary equilibrium.
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Suggestion: What should be the knowledge Aegon acquires from the Valyrian Ruins?