274 AC
The first concrete came six months later.
Kaelen had been experimenting with different mixtures of lime, sand, and volcanic ash. He remembered the Roman formula from his previous life, but he did not have access to the specific pozzolana they had used. He needed a substitute.
The answer came from Dragonmount, the volcanic island to the east. Trade ships occasionally brought ash from the mountain, used by glassmakers in Myr and Tyrosh. Kaelen obtained a sample and began testing.
The first batch cracked. The second crumbled. The third, mixed with crushed stone from the northern rivers, set hard as rock.
Harry stared at the grey block in disbelief. "What is this?"
"Concrete." Kaelen ran his hand over the smooth surface. "With this, we can build roads that do not turn to mud. Walls that do not crumble. Foundations that last for centuries."
Harry laughed, that surprised laugh that Kaelen had come to love. "You are going to change the world, little lord."
"I am going to try."
The road they built first was a small one, connecting Winterfell to the nearest village. It was only a mile long, barely wide enough for two carts to pass. But it was straight and smooth and solid, and when the spring rains came, it did not turn to mud.
The villagers walked on it in wonder. The farmers drove their carts on it without getting stuck. The children ran on it, laughing, their bare feet slapping against the warm grey stone.
Kaelen watched from a distance, Harry at his side.
"They will talk about this for generations," Harry said. "The white haired lord who built roads that last forever."
"Not forever. Nothing lasts forever." Kaelen's eyes were distant. "But long enough."
Long enough for what? He did not say. But Harry saw the way he looked north, and understood.
Rickard came to see the road himself.
He walked its length, testing the surface with his boot, running his hand along the edge. When he returned to where Kaelen waited, his expression was unreadable.
"This changes everything," Rickard said quietly.
"I know."
"Trade will be faster. Armies will move faster. The North will be bound together as never before."
"Yes."
Rickard looked at his son for a long moment. "You know that the South will notice. They will see what you are building here. They will ask questions."
"Let them." Kaelen met his father's eyes. "By the time they understand, it will be too late to stop it."
Rickard nodded slowly. Then he did something he had rarely done since Lyarra's death. He pulled Kaelen into a rough embrace.
"Your mother would be proud," he said, his voice thick. "I am proud."
Kaelen stood still in his father's arms, feeling the warmth of it, the solidity. For a moment, just a moment, he let himself believe that everything would be all right.
That night, Kaelen visited the crypts.
He stood before his mother's grave, the stone cold beneath his hand. The torchlight flickered, casting dancing shadows on the ancient walls.
"I am building something," he whispered. "Something that will last. Something that will protect them. Brandon and Ned and Benjen. And the children I will have someday. And their children after that."
The crypt was silent. The stone was cold. But Kaelen felt, or imagined he felt, a warmth that had not been there before.
"I miss you," he said. "Every day."
He stayed until the torch burned low, then made his way back to the world above. The snow was falling, soft and silent, and for a moment he let himself imagine that it was his mother's hand, brushing against his cheek.
Then he straightened his shoulders and walked toward the forge. There was work to do.
Brandon was waiting with a blade in his hands.
It was longer than the others, heavier, designed for a man's hand rather than a boy's. The steel was dark, almost black, with a rippling pattern along the blade that caught the firelight.
"I found it in the forge," Brandon said. "Harry said it was for me."
Kaelen nodded. "Wolf Steel. The first one I made specifically for someone."
Brandon lifted the blade carefully, testing its weight. It balanced perfectly in his hand, as if it had been made for him.
"Kaelen..." His voice was rough. "This is..."
"You will need it. When the time comes."
Brandon looked at him, questions in his eyes. But he did not ask. He simply nodded and placed a hand on Kaelen's shoulder.
"Whatever comes," Brandon said. "We face it together."
Kaelen looked at his brother. At the blade in his hands. At the snow falling beyond the window.
"Yes," he said. "Together."
From the Journal of Maester Walys, 274 AC
I have sent four letters to the Citadel. I have received no response.
The boy builds roads now. Roads of a material I have never seen, harder than stone, smoother than packed earth. He talks of connecting the entire North, of making trade flow like water, of moving armies faster than any enemy can anticipate.
He is ten years old.
The Winter Guard now numbers two hundred. They move like a single creature. They fight with a precision that makes my blood cold. And they look at the boy with something like worship.
I do not know what he is. I do not know where his knowledge comes from. But I know that if something is not done, he will transform the North into something the realm cannot control.
The Citadel must act.
They must.
Before it is too late.
In his chamber, Kaelen Stark lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Beside him, Brandon snored softly, the Wolf Steel blade propped against the wall within easy reach.
Kaelen thought about the road. About the forge. About the Guard. About all the things he had built, all the things he still needed to build.
He thought about the maester, and the letters that flew south, and the enemies he could not yet see.
He thought about his mother, and the promise he had made to himself in the crypts.
And he thought about the future. About the long winter waiting in the dark. About the things that had no name but that he remembered from another life.
He closed his eyes.
There was work to do tomorrow.
There was always work to do.