A month had passed since Alaric Stark's call to the free folk, their clans gathering within the ten-kilometer walls of the new kingdom at the Fist of the First Men.
Alaric, with his sage mode and Wood Style jutsu, had spent the days building houses—sturdy longhouses for families, scaled halls for giants, and woven groves for the Children of the Forest.
Three more clans had joined during this time, their chieftains challenging Alaric to duels.
Each time, he defeated them, subduing without killing, earning respect through strength. The free folk, once wary, began to settle, their numbers swelling to thousands, drawn by the promise of food and shelter.
The first task after the clans' arrival was a forge. Alaric gathered chakra, raising a stone smithy with Earth Style, its anvil massive for giant hammers. Lacking coal, he used magical fire—chakra flames hot as dragonbreath—to heat iron scavenged from wildling raids.
The free folk gathered, their eyes wide as he ignited the forge with a gesture. "What sorcery?" a freefolk grunted, stepping back.
Alaric addressed them, his voice calm. "This fire's mine to command. It forges weapons, tools—not harm. Watch." He heated a scrap blade, hammering it into a dagger, runes glowing as he enchanted it for sharpness.
Fears lingered—the free folk whispered of the Horned Lord's claim: "Sorcery is a sword without a hilt." Some edged away, muttering of uncontrolled doom.
Alaric demonstrated, shaping flames into harmless orbs that danced in his palm. "See? It bends to my will, not the other way around. For the untrained, magic's dangerous, like a hiltless blade. But I've mastered it—victory over your chieftains proves that. Trust it as you trust my strength."
The whispers faded, replaced by nods. "He commands it like a thrall," a cave dweller said. Alaric nodded. "Exactly. No doom here—only tools for our kingdom."
While the forge hummed, Alaric sent scouts—giants and wildlings—to find iron veins in the Frostfangs.
That night, he called a meeting around the weirwood's base, its red leaves rustling. Chieftains—Magar, scarred and bronze-armed; a Hornfoot leader with blackened feet; cave people elders with painted faces—gathered with Leaf and Wor-Tun-Dah-Meg.
Alaric stood, his voice carrying. "We've united clans, but we need more. Wor-Tun-Dah-Meg, bring all your giants here—our kingdom grows."
Wor-Tun-Dah-Meg grunted. "Aye, Stark. My kin will come—strength for your walls."
Alaric nodded. "Good. Now, patrols—watch the borders, guard against stragglers or beasts. Hunt for food, but sustainably—my magic grows groves, but we share the land."
The chieftains debated, Magar suggesting shifts, Leaf offering wargs for scouting. After hours, they agreed—rotating patrols, shared hunts, unity under Alaric's guidance.
Next morning, Wor-Tun-Dah-Meg departed for the giants' lair with twenty kin, while Alaric glided south on his hoverboard toward Winterfell, his wolf loping beside him, his eagles overhead.
The kingdom's foundation was laid, but supplies—poultry, horses, craftsmen, blacksmiths—were needed to make it thrive.
The free folk watched him go, their respect deepening, the weirwood's eyes seeming to approve.