The crisp autumn winds of the North carried the scent of pine and impending snow as Alaric Stark lingered in Winterfell for three weeks longer than planned.
The first two weeks were a balm to his soul, spent with his family in the warmth of the castle's great hall and solar. His wife, Deria Martell, her dark curls framing a face radiant, welcomed him with open arms each evening, their shared chambers filled with laughter and whispered plans for their family.
Their son, Ares Nymeros Martell, now four and brimming with energy, clung to Alaric like a shadow, demanding stories of giants and the weirwood tree that "touched the stars." "Tell me again, Father," Ares would beg, his eyes wide, "how you threw the giant king like a snowball!"
Alaric would chuckle, lifting the boy onto his shoulders, recounting the tale with exaggerated gestures, the boy's giggles echoing through the halls. Deria watched with a soft smile, her Rhoynar water magic now a gentle art she used to conjure shimmering orbs for Ares to chase. "Our next child will hear these stories from birth," she teased, her voice warm. "You've given them a legacy, Alaric."
The days blurred into family routines: mornings in the godswood in the water garden, which he planted after it finished construction, where Alaric taught Ares basic magic control, the boy's small hands forming tiny ice shards that melted in the sun
Yet duty called. In the third week, Alaric spent clarifying doubts for his students in the Broken Tower. Apprentices Jory, Hal, and Tommen, now masters in their own right, had taken on recruits.
Finally, Alaric prepared to return beyond the Wall. He bid farewell to Deria and Ares in their chambers, Ares hugging his legs. "Come back soon, Father. I'll practice my ice!" Deria kissed him. "Be safe, my wolf. The North needs you whole." Torrhen clasped his arm at the gates. "Safe travels, brother. Your kingdom awaits." Alaric nodded, mounting his hoverboard, its runes humming as he glided north, eagles soaring above, the journey swift under clear skies.
Two days later, Alaric arrived at the Fist of the First Men, the kingdom's walls standing firm, the seven-hundred-meter weirwood tree a red-crowned giant. Free folk had swelled to thousands, their longhouses within the ten-kilometer outer wall, smoke rising from hearths.
Giants lumbered through the gates, their children playing with wildling youths, while the twenty Children of the Forest tended the mini-forest around the weirwood, their songs weaving through the air.
Leaf greeted him at the archway, her golden eyes bright. "You've returned, Stark. The free folk grow restless—they need your guidance."
Alaric nodded, his voice steady. "Call the council. We've much to discuss." That night, around the weirwood's base, the council gathered: Leaf, Wor-Tun-Dah-Meg, and other Chiefs.
Alaric spoke of his trade deals with the North and Dorne—grain, timber, horses, poultry arriving in three moons. "Ships from Bear Island will sail through the Gorge, up the river to our gates. Craftsmen, farmers, blacksmiths—willing souls from the North to teach you. We'll breed animals, forge tools, build a thriving realm."
Magar grunted, his bronze axe gleaming. "Good, more food means more stronger warriors."
Wor-Tun-Dah-Meg rumbled, "Horses for giants? We'll need big ones."
Alaric nodded, saying," I have plans for it."
The council nodded, their nights of discussion incorporating suggestions: shared hunts, rotating patrols, and communal forges.
Alaric proposed expansions. "We'll raise two more walls around the existing ones. The middle ring for raising mammoths, horses, poultry—vast pastures to breed and feed. The outer ring for fighters—barracks, training grounds, watchtowers to guard our borders."
The council debated, Magar suggesting archery ranges, Leaf proposing groves for the Children. After hours, they agreed, incorporating all.
Alaric suggested runes on the outer walls for temperature regulation—mild warmth to ease winters.
The free folk bristled, Magar snarling, "Cold hardens us, Stark! We're forged in frost—take that, and we weaken!"
The Hornfoot chieftain nodded, "Aye, we're not soft southrons!"
Alaric compromised: "Then shelters for poultry and horses—controlled warmth so they survive, adapt gradually to our climate. Your warriors stay hardened, but our beasts thrive." The free folk grunted, debating briefly, then agreed. "Fair enough," Magar said. "We'll not lose our edge."
A chieftain mentioned an iron mine in the Skirling Pass mountains, veins rich and untapped. Alaric's eyes lit. "Good. We'll mine once craftsmen from the North arrive in three moons. Proper tools, forges—we'll arm our people with steel, not bone."
The meeting ended, the council dispersing with nods of respect. Alaric watched the stars, his eyes thoughtful. The kingdom grew, but so did its challenges. Tomorrow, construction will resume.