Free folk clans had gathered near the southern archway, drawn by tales of the "god-tree" and whispers of a man who grew forests and felled giants. Hundreds clustered, their breaths fogging the air, spears and clubs ready, eyes wary but intrigued.
Alaric Stark stood atop the wall's ramparts, Leaf and the Children of the Forest at his side, Wor-Tun-Dah-Meg and the ten giants behind, their massive forms casting long shadows.
Alaric's eyes scanned the crowd below. Tribe chieftains—scarred warriors with bone armor, painted faces, and fierce stares—stepped forward from their groups, their subordinates murmuring.
Alaric amplified his voice with chakra, his words booming like thunder in the Old Tongue. "Free folk! I am Alaric Stark! I stand before you not as a conqueror, but as one who seeks unity. For too long, you've raided south, driven by hunger and cold, clashing with my kin beyond the Wall. I want all free folk unified under one banner—respected and feared, strong as the giants, wise as the Children. Look behind me: the giants and Children of the Forest stand with me, not kneeling, but as equals. I won't ask you to kneel either. All I ask is this: if you join my kingdom, don't kill your neighbors here, don't steal from those who share these walls. In return, I'll ensure no child dies of hunger or cold. I'll grow food in this frost, build homes that defy the wind, and make us prosperous beyond your dreams. This kingdom isn't for conquest or my battles—I can fight those alone. It's for you, for life, for a future where the free folk thrive, not survive."
The chieftains exchanged glances, their subordinates whispering furiously. An aged leader, his bronze axe gleaming, stepped forward, his voice gruff. "Unity? Prosper? Pretty words, Stark. Why believe a kneeler from south of the Wall? You come with pretty words, but we've heard southron promises before—they break like ice in spring. What makes you different?"
Alaric's smile was steady, his voice resonant. "Look at the weirwood tree behind these walls. I grew it in an hour, from seed to sentinel, with my magic. If I can raise a god-tree in frozen soil, do you think I can't grow orchards of apples, barley fields in snow? Ask the giants—I defeated their king, not with tricks, but strength. He stands with me now, not as a slave, but a brother."
The chieftains turned to Wor-Tun-Dah-Meg, who grunted, his massive voice rumbling. "Stark speaks true. He threw me like a child. His magic's real—trees from nothing, strength of twenty giants."
A Hornfoot chieftain, her feet blackened, scowled. "Magic? We've seen wargs and skinchangers, but this? And why trust you won't make us kneel later, Stark? Southrons always do."
Alaric shook his head, his tone earnest. "I swear, no kneeling. The Children don't kneel—they guide me. The giants don't—they build with me. If you doubt, test me. I'll fight for leadership of your tribes. If I win, your people join my banner—not as subjects, but kin. If you win, I'll leave, or serve as you see fit."
Murmurs rose, the chieftains debating. A cave people leader, his face painted with coal, nodded. "He swears bold. But let him prove it before the gods. Swear on the weirwood, Stark—no tricks, no lies."
Alaric's voice carried. "Agreed. Come to the godswood within these walls. I'll swear before the old gods."
The chieftains, after a tense huddle, approached the archway, twenty tribesmen trailing, spears lowered but ready.
Alaric descended, leading them through the gateway to the inner circle, where the weirwood's red leaves rustled like whispers. The tree's carved face watched, its presence heavy.
At the weirwood's base, Alaric placed a hand on the bark, his voice solemn in the Old Tongue. "Before the old gods, the weirwood that bears witness, I, Alaric Stark, swear: I seek no kneeling, no conquest. Join my kingdom, and I'll bring prosperity—no hunger, no cold. Harm none within these walls, steal not from kin, and we'll stand united. If I lead, it's for all free folk, not my wars. Break my word, and may the gods strike me down."
The air hummed, the weirwood's leaves shivering as if accepting the oath. The chieftains nodded, their skepticism easing. The Thenn leader grunted. "The gods heard. We'll bring our tribes here, Stark. Fight before all, so there's no doubt. Win, and we join. Lose, and you're ours."
Alaric's grin was sharp. "Bring them. I'll fight fair, before your people and mine. No future discontent—the gods witness that too."
The chieftains departed, vanishing into the treelines to summon their clans. Alaric turned to Leaf and Wor-Tun-Dah-Meg, his voice steady. "It begins. Prepare—the free folk come."
The clans arrived by dusk—hundreds of wildlings flooding the clearing, their furs ragged, their eyes fierce but curious. The chieftains gathered at the godswood, their tribes watching as Alaric faced each leader in turn. Fights erupted—axes clashing, spears thrusting—but Alaric was untouchable, his strikes precise, subduing without killing.
One by one, the chieftains yielded, their tribes swearing to the terms. By nightfall, the free folk stood united under Alaric's banner, the weirwood's red eyes approving.