The great hall of Moat Cailin, its cemented walls unscarred by Aegon Targaryen's failed conquest, hummed with the voices of the North's lords the day after peace was sealed. King Torrhen Stark sat at the head of the oaken table. Brandon Snow leaned back, *Frostbite* across his lap. Alaric Stark stood near a map of the North. Lords Harlon Umber, Torren Karstark, Ryman Bolton, Bennard Glover, Fenric Reed, Rodrik Dustin, and Godric Manderly filled the hall, their banners—chained giant, black sun, flayed man, mailed fist, lizard-lion, axe, and merman—hanging proudly.
The lords, tankards of "Stark's Fire" whiskey in hand, buzzed with plans for the future, their spirits high after humbling the dragonlord.
Lord Harlon Umber, a towering figure with a Winter Steel greatsword propped against his chair, leaned forward, his voice a rumble. "Prince Alaric, that titan of yours—four hundred meters tall, with a thousand hands snatching dragons like flies! I've fought wildlings and Ironborn, seen your wolves and lamps, but this? It's like the old gods themselves rose from the earth! Tell us, lad, what magic wrought that marvel? I'd hear the tale from your lips, not tavern songs."
Lord Torren Karstark, his greying beard bristling, nodded vigorously, his tankard sloshing. "Aye, Umber's right, Prince Alaric. Your crops saved my smallfolk, your windmills grind my grain, your roads brought me here in days, not weeks. But that wooden giant? It's beyond mortal craft! I saw it cage Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes as if they were sparrows. What sorcery is this? Is it runes, potions, or something older? Speak plain, my prince—I'd know the heart of it."
Alaric, hands clasped behind his back, smiled, his eyes glinting with guarded knowledge. "My lords, your faith humbles me. That titan is born of magic I've crafted, drawing on the earth's own energy. It's not just runes or potions, though they help. I weave the life of the land—trees, stone, air—through my circuits, shaping it into wood that moves like flesh. The titan's size, four hundred meters, comes from years of training, honing my will to channel that power. It's a gift of the gods, I honor the old ones for that."
Lord Harlon Umber's eyes widened, his voice awed. "Nature's energy? You make it sound like you're kin to the weirwoods, Alaric! That's no small feat—summoning a giant taller than the Wall! Can we learn this magic? I've no circuits, no potions, but if I could swing a sword with half that power, I'd crush any southron fool who looks north!"
Lord Bennard Glover nodded, his voice hopeful. "My men at Deepwood Motte train with your Winter Steel, Alaric, but magic like yours? That's a dream! Can Glover lads learn to summon even a smaller titan, or call fire like King Torrhen? Tell us, my prince—can the North share this strength?"
Lord Rodrik Dustin grinned, raising his tankard. "Teach us, Alaric! Your titan's a bloody marvel! If Dustin men could summon even a ten-meter giant, we'd scare the southrons witless! Is it potions, training, or both? I'd have Barrowton's sons ready to fight dragons!"
Alaric raised a hand, his smile broadening. "My lords, you can learn magic—your sons, your men, all who are willing. The potion I gave Torrhen and Brandon awakened their circuits, channels for magic. I can craft more, teach reinforcement to strengthen blades or bodies, projection to conjure weapons, even basic chakra techniques. But titans? That's years of training, focus, and power most won't reach. I'll share the basics at the next harvest festival in Winterfell, when we gather to feast and plan. There, I'll awaken circuits for those who swear loyalty and show you the first steps. Until then, hone your skills with Winter Steel and trust in our strength."
The lords nodded, their faces alight with anticipation. Lord Harlon Umber boomed, "Winterfell's festival, eh? I'll be there, Alaric, with my sons! We'll learn your tricks and make the North a nightmare for any foe!"
Lord Torren Karstark raised his tankard. "To the festival, then! My lads will be ready, Alaric. Teach us, and Karhold will stand stronger than ever!"
Lord Bennard Glover grinned, "I'll bring my best men, Prince Alaric. The old gods know we'll need magic to keep the South in check!"
The talk shifted to the titan, still towering over the Neck. Brandon leaned forward, his voice gruff but proud. "That wooden giant's a warning to the South, my lords. Leave it standing, let it loom over Moat Cailin. Aegon's lords—Lannister, Tyrell, Tully—will see it from miles off, a reminder the North's always watching. Let them whisper of it in their soft southron halls, fearing our wrath."
Lord Harlon Umber roared, slamming his tankard down. "Aye, Brandon! Let it stand, the Guardian of the North! Every southron caravan passing the Neck will see it and piss themselves! It's our banner now, taller than any castle!"
Lord Torren Karstark grinned, his eyes gleaming. "Guardian of the North, I like that! Let Aegon's heirs look north and tremble. That titan's proof we broke their dragons. It'll keep the South honest, mark my words!"
Lord Bennard Glover laughed, raising his cup. "Guardian, eh? My men already call it Alaric's Sentinel! Leave it there, Brandon—it's a better wall than the Neck's swamps!"
Lord Fenric Reed nodded, his voice calm. "The Guardian of the North suits it. My crannogmen will weave tales of it, keeping the South wary. It's a wise choice, Lord Brandon."
Lord Rodrik Dustin bellowed, "Aye, let it watch the South! Barrowton's smallfolk will sing of the Guardian, scaring southron brats for generations!"
Lord Godric Manderly chuckled, his voice hearty. "Guardian of the North! My sailors will spread its tale to Braavos, making Aegon's lords sweat. Keep it standing, Lord Brandon!"
Alaric, studying the map, spoke, his voice thoughtful. "My lords, we've secured peace, but let's build for the future. I propose a canal, linking the Sunset Sea to the Narrow Sea, extending the White Knife River east. I can summon another titan—smaller, but strong—to dig it. With a canal, ships could sail from Bear Island to White Harbor in half the time, bypassing the southron coasts. The western North—Flint's Finger, the Rills, Sea Dragon Point—would bloom with trade, ports, and wealth. Essosi merchants would flock to us, cutting out Tyrell and Lannister middlemen. What say you?"
Lord Ryman Bolton's eyes gleamed, his voice smooth. "A canal would shift power, Prince Alaric. The South relies on sea routes we'd bypass. It's a strategic masterstroke. House Bolton supports it, provided we share the tolls."
Lord Fenric Reed spoke softly, his tone approving. "The Neck's marshes would gain, Prince Alaric. A canal means trade for my folk, easier travel. Your titan digging it? I trust your magic. House Reed agrees."
Lord Rodrik Dustin raised his tankard, laughing. "A canal? Barrowton's close enough to profit! Ships from Yi Ti to my markets? Dig it, Alaric, and let's make the South jealous!"
Lord Godric Manderly clapped, his voice exuberant. "Brilliant, Prince Alaric! White Harbor's the east's jewel, but a canal would make us the North's heart! Ships from Braavos to Bear Island, gold flowing like rivers! Manderly's all in—dig that canal!"
Torrhen nodded, his voice commanding. "It's settled. Alaric, dig the canal. How long?"
Alaric smiled, his hands tracing the map. "I'll stay at Moat Cailin, summon a wooden golem—not a titan, but strong enough. A week's work, and the White Knife will reach the Narrow Sea. I'll fortify the banks with stone, ensure it lasts."
Lord Godric Manderly raised his tankard, grinning. "A week? Dig, my prince, and we'll sail to riches!"
The lords cheered, clinking tankards. Torrhen stood, raising his own. "The war's done, my lords. Return home, tend your lands, and prepare for the harvest festival. Alaric will stay, finish the canal. The North's unbowed, and we'll grow stronger yet. For the North!"
"For the North!" The hall shook with their shout, united in victory and ambition.
The lords dispersed, mustering their men for the march home, their banners high. Alaric remained at Moat Cailin, his wolves at his side.
Over six days, he summoned a thirty-meter wooden golem, its arms tireless, digging a wide channel from the White Knife to the Narrow Sea. Stone, shaped by chakra, lined the banks, creating a sturdy canal. On the seventh day, water flowed, clear and swift, linking west to east. Alaric, satisfied, rode his horse-sized wolf back to Winterfell, the Guardian of the North towering behind, a sentinel for a realm reborn.
In the South, Aegon Targaryen, first of his name, nursed the wounds to his pride within the crude wooden walls of the Aegonfort, his nascent capital at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush.
The North's defiance, led by King Torrhen Stark and sealed by Alaric Stark's four-hundred-meter wooden titan, had humbled him. The secret magical contract, binding Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys to peace with the North, stung like a lash.
His conquest—Riverlands, Stormlands, Reach, Westerlands, and Vale secured—felt incomplete. Dorne, the last unbowed kingdom, beckoned, its sun-scorched defiance a challenge to his crown.
Alaric's warning at Moat Cailin echoed in his mind: "Don't war with Dorne. They'll burn before they bend… they'll abandon their castles, kill your men in their sleep." Aegon scoffed, his Valyrian pride flaring. "A Stark's caution? I am fire and blood. Dorne will kneel or burn."
He met with Princess Meria Martell, the aged but iron-willed ruler of Dorne, at Sunspear. Flanked by Visenya, her braid tight and *Dark Sister* at her hip, and Rhaenys, silver hair flowing, Aegon demanded fealty.
Meria, her yellowed eyes unyielding, sat on her cushioned throne, a gnarled hand gripping a cane. "Targaryen, your dragons burned Harrenhal, humbled Lannister, but Dorne is not like them. We bend to no foreign king. Take your crown and leave, or find sand in your boots and blood on your blades."
Aegon's violet eyes flashed, his ruby crown glinting. "You mistake me for a beggar, old woman. I am Aegon, King of Westeros. Bend the knee, or Balerion's fire will turn Sunspear to ash."
Meria's laugh was dry as desert wind. "Fire? We are the sun's children, boy. Burn our halls, and we'll strike from the dunes. Dorne kneels to none but itself. Go home, dragonlord, before you choke on our thorns."
Furious, Aegon stormed out, Visenya's hand on her sword, Rhaenys's face tight with unease. "She's fearless, Aegon," Rhaenys murmured. "Alaric's warning—"
"Enough!" Aegon snapped, mounting Balerion. "Dorne will learn what Harrenhal learned. We march."
The Targaryen host—forty thousand strong, with Reach knights, Riverlands archers, Stormlanders, and Valyrian spears—invaded Dorne, Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes darkening the sky.
The Dornish did not meet them in open battle. Meria evacuated Sunspear, Planky Town, and the shadow city, her people melting into the Red Mountains and the deserts of Dorne. Aegon burned empty palaces, their sandstone walls blackening, but found no armies to crush.
Dornish guerillas struck at night, poisoning wells, slitting throats, and vanishing into caves. Scorpions—bolts tipped with venom—flew from hidden perches, felling knights.
At Hellholt, House Uller's stronghold, disaster struck. A scorpion bolt pierced Meraxes' eye, the silver dragon's scream echoing as she crashed, crushing Rhaenys beneath her. Rider and dragon died in the sands, their blood soaking the dunes.
Aegon, atop Balerion, roared in grief, his crown askew. "Rhaenys! My heart!"
Visenya, on Vhagar, her face a mask, drew *Dark Sister*. "Burn them, Aegon. Burn every dune, every village!"
Balerion's fire turned Hellholt to slag, Vhagar's flames razed Lemonwood's groves, but the Dornish fought on, unbowed. Meria, from a mountain hideout, sent a raven: "Dorne will never kneel. Bury your sister, dragonlord, and leave."
Aegon, mad with loss, burned more—Starfall, Yronwood, the Tor—but Dorne's people struck back, ambushing supply trains, poisoning streams. His army withered, morale crumbling.
Lord Loren Lannister, golden armor dust-streaked, muttered, "This is no war, it's a quagmire."
Lord Garlan Tyrell, green cloak tattered, said, "The Stark was right—Dorne's unbreakable."
Lord Osric Tully, fish sigil dull, whispered, "We lose men to shadows, not swords."
In Winterfell, Alaric, crafting runed spears in his workshop, received a raven from a crannogman spy in Dorne. Reading of Rhaenys's death and Dorne's defiance, he shook his head, his eyes darkening. "Aegon, you fool. I warned you—Dorne loves its rulers, not their castles. You burned their homes, lost your sister, and gained nothing but ash." He tossed the parchment into the fire, his wolves growling softly. "Pride's a poor king, Torrhen," he murmured, though alone. "The South bleeds, and we grow stronger."
At Moat Cailin, the Guardian of the North—Alaric's titan—stood watch, its thousand hands a warning. The canal, dug in a week by Alaric's wooden golem, now carried ships from the Sunset Sea to the Narrow Sea, enriching White Harbor and the western coast. In Dorne, Aegon's war faltered, his dream of conquest crumbling as Meria's laughter echoed from the sands.