Author's Note:
Heys guys, before the chapter I just wanted to say that I wish to encourage you all to comment and give me your feedback whether on the chapter or throughout the chapters themselves. Most authors will try and push for more Power Stones but I moreso care about engaging with yall as readers and hearing what you guys think of my story, so please feel free to comment!
[Winterfell, 3rd moon, 296AC]
The bells of Winterfell tolled in the windless morning, each deep chime echoing off the snow-dusted towers and halls of the great Northern seat. Lord Yohn Royce, clad in a weatherworn cloak of russet wool lined with bronze embroidery, stood beneath the shadow of a broken pine, eyes trained on the preparations below. Wagons were loaded, horses fed, leathers bound tight. The retainers of House Royce were diligent and quiet, their movements shaped by the rhythm of travel. They had lingered in Winterfell long enough, nearly a moon's turn. The time to return to the Vale approached, and his mind was already halfway to Runestone.
The cold had a different taste here, harsher and older. It clung to the bones. Yet Ysilla insisted on remaining, pleading to stay until she and young Robb Stark reached their majority. She was enamored with the North, its godswood, and its wolves, especially one wolf, young Robb. And Waymar, gods help him, had sworn himself to Alaric Stark without a second blink, following being deemed worthy of being of service to Winterfell. The boy had always sought something more than knights and courtship; perhaps he had found it.
Yohn exhaled through his beard and motioned to his captain to adjust the wagon lashings when the sound of boots crunching in the frost made him glance over his shoulder.
Alaric Stark approached.
The young Lord of Winterfell walked with the bearing of an older man, it also didn't hurt that he was taller than everyone else, standing around the same height as the Demon of the Trident, his steps measured, his expression calm, though his pale grey eyes were alight with the sharpness of thought. He wore no heavy furs today, only dark leathers beneath a mantle of black wool clasped with a brooch shaped like a snarling direwolf. A curious glint of steel-gray, something ancient and cold, seemed to follow him even in the morning's pale light.
"Lord Royce," Alaric said, voice low but steady. "Might I steal a moment of your time? In private."
Yohn arched a brow. "Of course. A walk, then?"
"Aye," said Alaric. "To the godswood, if you'd follow."
Yohn gave a nod, cast a final look at his men, and turned to follow the Northern lord toward the heart of Winterfell.
The godswood was quiet save for the rustling of leaves, though there was no wind. The ancient heart tree loomed ahead, its face carved in solemn witness of untold ages. They walked along the banks of the steaming hot springs that laced the grove, stepping over roots that writhed like veins through the earth.
"I imagine you're eager to be off," Alaric said as they walked.
"I am. Winterfell is welcoming enough, but Runestone waits. My eldest son will expect me soon, and so will the Vale."
Alaric gave a knowing nod. "I do not begrudge your haste. Though if I may, I hoped to ask something of you before you leave."
"Oh?"
"You may not recall, but we met once before. Long ago. You were at King's Landing, shortly after the Rebellion."
Yohn frowned, stroking the silver threads in his beard. "That was years ago. You were but a boy then, three, mayhap?"
Alaric's lips twitched into a thin smile. "Aye. But I remember. I saw you and your armor, bronze chased with runes of the First Men. I told you something then."
Yohn paused beneath the pale red leaves. "You said the runes were wrong."
"I did," Alaric replied, and his voice lowered like a passing wind through old stones. "And they were."
Yohn narrowed his eyes, not in anger, but wary curiosity. "You were a child."
"True. But I've read the tomes from the first men, whole scripts of runes." Alaric turned toward the heart tree. "What I told you was no mere child's fancy. Your runes were carved with pride, but they held no power. No protection. They were for show."
The Lord of Runestone stiffened slightly. "And what of it?"
Alaric reached into a satchel slung at his hip and withdrew a bundle wrapped in black cloth. He unwrapped it slowly, revealing a new cuirass, bronze, darker than any Yohn had seen, the surface etched with deep-cut runes that gleamed faintly even in the shade.
"I asked you to remain, not merely for hospitality," Alaric continued, "but to grant you a gift, and a chance to make those runes true. To awaken what sleeps in them."
Yohn looked at the armor with skeptical reverence. "And what would that require?"
"Your permission, nothing more. The bronze was forged here, in the hot forges under Winterfell, with ore drawn from the ancient hills of the North. I carved the runes myself, correctly, this time. Let me finish the last strokes in your presence. That is all."
Yohn said nothing, but his silence was not denial. Slowly, he gave a nod. "Very well, lad. Show me."
They knelt before the heart tree. Alaric laid the armor on a slab of moss-covered stone, drawing forth a small chisel carved from obsidian and a thin knife of silvered steel.
The boy's hands moved with solemn purpose. Each stroke of the blade into the bronze was as precise as a maester's script, and with each completed symbol, a faint shimmer pulsed in the metal. It began slowly, subtle glints, almost tricks of the eye. But then—
Alaric's breath caught. His eyes, pale and grey, began to glow faintly. Not with fire, but with cold light, like starlight through frost.
The final rune was carved with a single, slow motion. As the chisel scraped across the armor's surface, the sound rang like a bell. A strange hush fell across the godswood.
Then, with a sudden tremor, the earth beneath them shifted. The trees groaned. The heart tree's eyes wept fresh sap, and a low whisper ran through the air, like a voice without a tongue.
The runes on the cuirass glowed red. Not bright, but deep and steady, like embers nestled beneath snow. Yohn stared in stunned silence.
"What in the seven—" he began.
"Not the Seven," Alaric said softly. "The Old. The runes of the First Men. Blood and bronze. Life and death."
Yohn swallowed. His hand reached toward the armor, but before he touched it, he looked to Alaric. "What does it do?"
"It protects," Alaric said. "Cuts will close. Blows will soften. Your strength may wane, but your body will endure beyond the breaking point."
Yohn Royce, a man not easily moved, stared down at the runes and felt, for a moment, as if he stood at the edge of something far older than the Vale, older than the Eyrie, older than the first stone set at Runestone's base.
[Later that night]
That night, the Great Hall was full.
Lords, ladies, children, and retainers filled the long tables as roast boar and honeyed carrots were passed along. The hearthfires crackled bright, and the direwolves lay sprawled near the hall's back wall, eyes gleaming. Lord Yohn Royce sat near the high table, his children flanking him. Waymar listened with quiet attention. Ysilla laughed beside Robb Stark, cheeks pink with affection.
Upon the dais, Alaric Stark sat beside Lady Catelyn and her husband, Ned, expression calm but reserved. The young lord looked toward him and lifted a goblet of hot spiced wine and raised his voice.
"Lord Royce," he said, "might you share what you discovered today?"
Yohn chuckled, rising with a thrum of pride. He removed his leather glove and took the blade of his knife, sliding it across his palm. Gasps rippled through the room, but the wound, shallow and red, sealed itself almost before the first drop of blood fell.
"My lord," he said, addressing the crowd, "this armor is no simple smith's work. It is a gift of old blood and older knowledge. My wounds heal. The blows I take fall lighter. I do not know if it is sorcery or something older still, but I have seen it with my own eyes."
Murmurs ran through the hall like rats in the wall. Even the guards exchanged glances.
Alaric sipped his wine and added, "The bronze is harder than steel. And the enchantment within dulls the force of impact. A mace to the chest will not shatter your ribs. An arrow may pierce, but the wound will mend itself before poison can do its work."
A clatter broke the hush, Septa Mordane had risen so quickly that her goblet had spilled. Her face was white as milk, her eyes wide.
"This… this is witchcraft," she hissed.
All turned to her.
Alaric looked up slowly, calmly. "It is the magic of the First Men, Septa. Not the flames of R'hllor, not the sorcery of Valyria. This is our blood. The old blood. The blood of the North."
The Septa's voice rose, shrill. "You are meddling with demons! This is unholy! Unnatural! You would bring curses down upon this house!"
Catelyn Stark's mouth opened, uncertain, but Yohn Royce's eyes narrowed. "Septa," he said coolly, "you forget yourself."
"I forget nothing!" she cried. "This boy, this creature, he defiles the gods with his madness! Lady Catelyn, you must bind him before the Seven strike this place down!"
At that, a low growl filled the hall.
Cinder and Tempest rose from their place by the hearth, circling the Septa, hackles raised. Their teeth bared, and the hall tensed.
"Enough," Alaric said, his voice like a blade drawn in silence.
But the Septa would not be cowed. "You are a demon!" she screamed, pointing. "A demon cloaked in the skin of a Stark! I will not abide in a house that consorts with monsters!"
The room had gone still.
Lady Catelyn Stark half-rose, confusion and shame on her face.
Alaric stood, face like stone. "Septa Mordane, you insult me. You insult my house. You forget your place, and you forget the North."
"I remember the gods!" she cried.
"You remember the wrong ones," he replied.
Then, to the guards: "Take her to her quarters. She is not to leave until she is escorted from the North."
The Septa began to scream, but the guards seized her arms. The direwolves stalked behind them, silent shadows. She spat, kicked, wept, but none spoke for her.
Yohn Royce watched the whole affair with solemn eyes. When the last echoes of her voice faded into the stone, he turned to Alaric.
"You're no demon, lad."
Alaric looked to him. "I know."
Yohn nodded once. "But you're not merely a lord either."
"No," Alaric said. "I suppose not."
[The Next Day, gates of Winterfell]
The sky above Winterfell had softened to a steel-gray hue, the sun veiled by thin clouds that threatened light snow. At the gates, horses were saddled, packs lashed, and the men of House Royce prepared to depart. The new cuirass, burnished bronze now glowing faintly beneath Yohn's fur-lined cloak, caught a glint of the morning light. It was subtle, but those who had heard the tale in the hall last night looked at it with something approaching reverence.
Alaric stood beside the gatehouse, clad again in black and grey, a heavy mantle pulled over his shoulders. His direwolves flanked him, Tempest's pale eyes fixed on the horizon, while Cinder paced restlessly at his side.
Lord Yohn Royce approached, leading his horse by the reins. Behind him rode Waymar and Ysilla, both wrapped tightly for the long ride eastward.
"You've my thanks, Lord Stark," Yohn said, halting in front of Alaric. "For the hospitality, for the gift… and for the reminder."
Alaric's brow arched slightly. "Reminder?"
"That there are truths older than steel. Older than crowns and courts." Yohn paused. "The Vale has grown soft, in some ways. We remember the Andals and their gods… but we forget the mountain roots beneath our stone. You've reminded me."
"I hope that memory serves you well," Alaric said. "There may come a time when men must choose which blood to follow."
Yohn inclined his head. "If that time comes, Runestone will not turn its back on the North. You have my word."
Turning toward Ser Torrhen Yohn continued, "A do make sure my nephew here doesnt create any trouble for you." Lord Yohn said with a smirk as he embraced Ser Torrhen, the older stark grunting at his comment.
With a couple of more goodbyes from Lord Royce to his children, Waymar staying in the service of Alaric, and Ysilla deciding to ward there as well, Yohn and his party were off back to the Vale.