Two days of swift travel on his hoverboard brought Alaric Stark back to Winterfell, the board's runes humming as it skimmed over snow-dusted plains and frozen rivers.
The North thrived—its canal fueling trade, the Broken Tower training magical recruits, and Alaric's inventions like two-way mirrors and gliding carts reshaping daily life.
At Winterfell's gates, guards bowed, their eyes wide at his swift return. Alaric dismounted, slinging the hoverboard across his back. He made straight for the king's solar, where King Torrhen Stark sat behind the oaken desk, parchments scattered, *Stormdancer* leaning nearby.
Torrhen looked up, his grey eyes lighting with surprise. "Alaric! Back so soon? Sit, brother, tell me everything. What happened in those frozen wastes?"
Alaric settled into a chair, his light furs rustling, the Night King's ice sword—sealed in its ironwood box—set on the table. "Torrhen, it's done. I slew the Night King. His energy pulsed like a storm in the True North. I chased him three days, through blizzards and ice, and pierced his heart with my dragonglass sword. The cold deepened for a day after—snows heavier, winds sharper—but now it's easing. The Long Night's threat is gone."
Torrhen's eyes widened, then he burst into laughter, slapping the desk. "Slain the Night King? Alaric, you jest! That's a mummer's tale—old gods' vengeance, not a man's blade. You've been gone a moon, and you return with this folly?"
Alaric's smile was steady. He opened the box, revealing the Night King's sword—fully ice-forged, its blade shimmering blue, radiating bone-chilling cold that frosted the air.
Torrhen reached for it, but recoiled, his fingers numbing. "Gods… It's real. That chill—it pierces to the marrow. So it is all true then. The Night King, dead by your hand. The North—Westeros—owes you more than words. Thank you, Alaric. From the bottom of my heart, thank you."
Alaric nodded, sealing the box. "It was necessary. The cold's lifting—the land beyond the Wall can thrive now. But I've more news. I met the Three-Eyed Raven, an ancient greenseer in the Haunted Forest. He confirmed the Night King's death freed him, and he passed on. I buried him beneath his weirwood. The Children of the Forest—twenty of them, led by Leaf—joined me. They're kin to the old gods, wise in ways we've forgotten."
Torrhen's brow furrowed. "Children of the Forest? Legends made flesh. And you've allied with them?"
Alaric continued. "Yes, and the giants—Wor-Tun-Dah-Meg's tribe, a hundred strong, including children. I bested their king in combat, earned their respect. Free folk clans challenged me, too. I defeated their chieftains, subdued them with strength and magic. They've sworn to my terms—no killing or stealing within our walls. In return, I've built a kingdom at the Fist of the First Men—walls, houses, a weirwood heart. It's a start—order beyond the Wall, to end their raids south."
Torrhen leaned back, his voice awed. "A kingdom beyond the Wall? Giants, Children, free folk under one banner? Alaric, you've tamed the wilds. What do you need from me? Name it."
Alaric's tone grew practical. "Supplies, brother. Poultry for breeding—chickens, ducks, buffalo, ox, cows, and geese. Horses for riding and work. Send word for farmers, craftsmen, blacksmiths—those seeking a new life, temporary or permanent. They'll teach the free folk to farm, forge, build. And ships—send a few from Bear Island, through the Gorge, up the river to the Fist."
Torrhen nodded, his voice resolute. "Done. I'll send ravens to Umber, Karstark, Glover—all lords—for poultry and horses. Craftsmen too—smiths from White Harbor, farmers from the Rills. Ships from Mormont at Bear Island. Three moons, and they'll be yours. You've ended a threat older than the Wall, Alaric. The North stands with you."
Alaric smiled, clasping Torrhen's arm. "Thanks, brother. I'll rest here a while, then return north." He left the solar, his steps light, and sought his nephew Edric in the yard. The boy, now seven, trained with guards, his wooden sword clashing against shields, his grey eyes fierce.
Spotting Alaric, Edric dropped his sword and ran, hugging him tightly. "Uncle Alaric! You're back! I missed you—tell me of beyond the Wall!"
Alaric laughed, ruffling Edric's dark hair, lifting him with ease. "Missed you too, little wolf. You've grown—sharpening your fangs in the yard, eh?"
Edric growled playfully, baring his teeth. "Rawr! I'm a dire wolf now! The guards say I'm quick as one."
Alaric set him down, his voice warm. "Good. How's your magic training? Can you wield ice yet?"
Edric's eyes lit up, his hands glowing faintly blue as he conjured a small ice shard, spinning it in his palm. "See? I can make ice now, Uncle! And I'm learning runic letters—Jory says I'm fast!"
Alaric nodded, impressed. "Well done, Edric. Keep at it. When you can craft an ice sculpture—detailed as a real wolf, every fur and fang—I'll gift you something special. Deal?"
Edric's face beamed, his voice eager. "Deal! I'll practice every day!"
Alaric ruffled his hair again, smiling. "Good lad. Now, back to the yard—show those guards what a Stark can do." Edric nodded, running off, his laughter echoing. Alaric watched, his heart full, the North's future bright in the boy's eyes.