It was hard for Alaric Stark to believe that three years had passed since he founded the kingdom beyond the Wall, a realm he and his council had named Winter Kingdom.
The Fist of the First Men, once a barren hill ringed by ancient stones, had transformed into a thriving stronghold. The seven-hundred-meter weirwood tree stood as its heart, its red canopy a beacon visible for leagues, drawing free folk from the Haunted Forest to the Frostfangs.
The concentric walls—stone barriers thick as two carts abreast, with towers and archways—enclosed vast pastures for mammoths and horses in the middle ring, and barracks for fighters in the outer.
Rivers bordered three sides, mountains the fourth, making the kingdom a natural fortress. Alaric's magic had woven wood, stone, and hope into a new era, the North's innovations like gliding carts and two-way mirrors echoing even here.
The mines had opened within the first year, iron veins in the Skirling Pass yielding ore that rang under hammers in the forges Alaric had built with Earth Style jutsu.
Craftsmen from the North—fifty blacksmiths, farmers, and masons who had answered Torrhen's call—had settled, their skills turning raw metal into tools and weapons.
Alaric, ever the teacher, gathered the free folk who wanted to learn the craft around the forge one crisp morning, the air thick with the scent of molten iron. He told them to learn under the smiths present in the forge.
The free folk, rugged in furs and painted skins. Then started to learn the craft under the smiths. Once the swords and armour are prepared. Fighters diverged—some craved full plate, heavy suits runed for endurance, turning them into walking fortresses. Others, like Alaric, preferred mobility: bracers, gauntlets, and metal foot coverings, allowing swift strikes in battle.
Alaric withheld runes for making special weapons, testing loyalty first.
With the clans unified, Alaric turned to expansion. Scouts reported a group led by Arvyn, five hundred strong, less skilled in battle, raiding the edges of the kingdom. "An opportunity," Alaric said to his council—chieftains, Leaf, and Wor-Tun-Dah-Meg, around the weirwood's base. "We'll test our fighters and grow our numbers."
The council agreed, But Before the march, Alaric gathered his warriors—free folk, giants, Children armed with runic spears. "We fight for our kingdom," he proclaimed. "But when we win, no harming the defeated. No stealing women, no burning tents, and no pillaging. They're people, like us. Break this, and you answer to me."
Anger rippled—free folk glared, fists clenched. "That's our way!" a freefolk shouted. "Raid and take!" Murmurs grew, spears shifting. Alaric's voice cut through, amplified by chakra. "Your way led to hunger, raids south, endless death. My way brings food, shelter, and strength. You've seen my magic—orchards in snow, walls from earth. Trust me, or leave. But follow, and we build better."
Grumbles lingered, but the promise of Alaric's provisions—grain from the North, homes that defied cold—swayed them. "Fine, Stark," a Hornfoot muttered. "But if they fight dirty…"
The battle was a rout. Alaric's force—eight hundred free folk in runed armor, twenty giants wielding tree-trunk clubs, fifty Children with warg-scouted paths—overwhelmed Arvyn's ragtag band.
Spears shattered against runed shields, axes bounced off enhanced greaves. Alaric led from the front, his sword cutting through foes like wind through leaves. His side lost only five, and Alaric healed seven wounded with healing magic, chakra mending flesh before stunned eyes. "He heals like the gods," a free folk warrior whispered, loyalty blooming.
Arvyn's survivors—now a hundred fighters, two hundred non-combatants—surrendered, huddled in their camp's center. Alaric approached, his voice firm. "Join us—thrive in Winter Kingdom, with food, homes, safety. Or go your way, survive as you can. Choose."
Many eyed Alaric's warriors—their gleaming weapons, full bellies—and joined, persuaded by the quality of runed blades and the promise of plenty. Arvyn knelt, his voice broken. "We yield, Stark. Your way's stronger."
Magar, the former chieftain, approached Alaric that night by the fire. "You spared them, Stark—no pillage, no rape. I grumbled, but… it's right. Builds loyalty, not fear. Good call."
Alaric nodded, his eyes warm. "We're building a kingdom, Magar—not a raid camp. Strength through unity."
In the following months, Alaric assimilated the remaining free folk clans, including the disciplined Thenns, defeating their leaders in fair combat, his chakra-enhanced prowess unmatched.
Cannibal clans, however, met no mercy—Alaric slew them to a man, their twisted ways a threat to his vision. He passed a law against cannibalism, enforced by council decree: "Eat your kin, and face the weirwood's justice." The clans grumbled but obeyed, the weirwood's red eyes a constant reminder.
Winter Kingdom was ruled by a council: experts in hunting (a Hornfoot chieftain), farming (a former wildling with green thumbs), mining (a Thenn forge-master), fishing (a river clan elder), and more, including Leaf for ancient lore and Wor-Tun-Dah-Meg for giant affairs. Major chieftains had seats, ensuring voices were heard.
The Children of the Forest's numbers grew, new births—a handful of dappled infants—attributed to the giant weirwood's magic. "The Night King siphoned magic on this side of the wall, which is required for procreation."
Leaf explained one night by the fire. "Your tree restores it—magic flows freely now."
The planet's weather stabilized, seasons cycling in one-year increments: spring's thaw, summer's bloom, autumn's harvest, winter's bite. Free folk marveled at milder colds, but still, there is a summer cold present. We can say that beyond the wall, it is modern-day Russia.
Alaric called a council meeting around the weirwood's base, the red leaves rustling like whispers. "We've unified the clans," he said. "Now, we protect."
Alaric turned to the chieftains. "Patrols—guard our borders, scout threats."
Magar grunted. "Patrols in shifts—Thenns on the east, Hornfoots west." Leaf added, "Wargs for scouting—eyes in the sky." After discussion, they agreed: rotating patrols, shared hunts, unity under the weirwood.