Five years after his marriage to Deria Martell, Prince Alaric Stark stood at the Wall, its seven-hundred-foot ice face gleaming under a pale northern sun.
At Castle Black, Alaric presented a letter from King Torrhen Stark, granting passage. The Lord Commander, a grizzled man with a scarred face, nodded curtly. "Lift the gates!" he barked.
The iron portcullis groaned, and the tunnel's icy walls echoed as Alaric stepped through to the other side. He slung his hoverboard from his back, its magical runes glowing green, and glided effortlessly over the snow, the board humming as it skimmed the frozen plains. His furs were light, but he kept his body warm by circulating magic through his body, his eyes scanning the vast, white expanse.
Half a day later, Alaric reached the Fist of the First Men, its ancient ringfort dusted with snow. He dismounted, setting up camp with supplies—dried meat, bread, and a flask of "Stark's Fire" whiskey.
As he ate, a prickle of unease stirred his senses. Turning, he spotted a raven perched on a jagged stone, its three eyes—two black, one white—fixed on him. The bird flinched under his gaze and took flight, wings beating into the grey sky.
Alaric's lips curved. *The Three-Eyed Raven, scouting me.* Determined to find the greenseer, he finished his meal, entered sage mode—black and green lines etching his face—and reached out with his magic, sensing for magical signatures.
Two pulsed strongly: one deep in the True North, cold and malevolent, the other in the Haunted Forest, warm with ancient power. *The Night King, far north. The Three-Eyed Raven, in the forest.* He chose the latter, mounting his hoverboard and gliding toward the Haunted Forest.
Hours later, Alaric reached a clearing where a massive weirwood stood, its red leaves stark against the snow, its carved face solemn.
As he approached, a small figure emerged from a burrow at the tree's base—a Child of the Forest, her skin dappled like a fawn, eyes large and golden. "I am Leaf," she said, her voice like rustling leaves. "Who are you, man of the south?"
Alaric bowed, his voice calm. "Alaric Stark, Prince of the North. I seek the Three-Eyed Raven."
Leaf studied him, then nodded. "Come." She led him into the burrow, a maze of roots and earth, to a cavern where an old man sat, his withered body entwined with weirwood roots, keeping him alive. His eyes, milky yet piercing, fixed on Alaric. "You are an anomaly, Alaric Stark," the Three-Eyed Raven said, his voice a dry whisper. "Your magic reshapes the world. Why come beyond the Wall?"
Alaric smiled, meeting his gaze. "To forge a kingdom for the wildlings, give them a way of life—order, not chaos. And to meet you, Greenseer."
The Raven nods.
Alaric asks, " How old is this body?"
Three-eyed raven answers. "Approximately three hundred years.
Alaric asks, "How many more years can you sustain?"
Three-eyed raven says, "The roots sustain me, perhaps for two hundred more. Then I must find a new vessel. And you, Stark—what's your endgame?"
"To protect the North and my family," Alaric said. "But I'd know yours, Raven. What drives you?"
The Raven's eyes gleamed. "To ensure the Night King does not win the Long Night to come. His ice threatens all life."
Alaric's voice grew firm. "If I kill the Night King now, will you leave this body, your purpose done?"
The Raven's eyes widened, and Leaf, nearby, gasped. The other Children, hidden in shadows, stirred.
"You'd face the Night King alone?" Leaf asked, her voice sharp. "In his domain, he's the world's mightiest. No man can challenge him there."
Alaric's smile was confident, his sage-eyes bright. "I've caged dragons, grown forests in deserts. I trust my strength—anywhere, anyplace."
The Raven, who had warged ravens to witness Alaric's battle with Aegon's dragons, nodded slowly. "I saw you bind Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes. Your power is vast. If you can slay the Night King, I'd leave this body gladly, my task complete."
Leaf's eyes darted to the Raven, then back to Alaric. Seeing the greenseer's acceptance, she held her tongue, though her unease lingered. The other Children murmured but did not protest.
Alaric inclined his head. "Then wait for me, Raven, Leaf. I'll return with good news." He exited the cavern, his hoverboard humming as he emerged into the snow. Mounting it, he turned north, toward the True North's icy heart, where the Night King's magical signature pulsed like a frozen star. His wolf loped beside him, his eagles soared above, and Alaric's resolve burned—ready to face the greatest threat Westeros had ever known.