The air in the heart of Winterfell's Godswood was thick with the scent of pine and old magic. The ancient weirwood, its face a silent, bleeding sentinel, stood watch over a strange new artifact.
Alaric Stark, stripped down to simple leather work clothes, wiped sweat from his brow. Before him, nestled near the pool, was a massive ring of intricately carved stone and glowing silver-tracery—his first Teleportation Gate in the traditional North.
He spoke the final command in the Old Tongue, and the silver lines pulsed once, humming with contained cosmic energy. "Perfect," he murmured, pulling the sealing lever. The link to Winterhold, his fortress in the Winter Kingdom, was established.
Leaving the quiet of the Godswood, Alaric made his way to the Great Hall, where his elder brother, Torrhen Stark, the King in the North, waited. Torrhen was seated by the massive hearth, his expression a mix of pride and apprehension.
"Brother," Torrhen greeted him, standing to embrace him warmly. "Hope the construction is successful."
Alaric grinned, taking a seat. "Aye, Torrhen. The gate is finished. It's a flawless link between Winterfell and my castle."
Torrhen leaned forward, his gaze intense. "And how does it work, precisely? I will not have my people stepping into the void by accident."
"It requires two things: a key, and permission. I hold the master key. To activate a link, a command must be issued at both gates simultaneously. No one accidentally strolls into Winterhold, or anywhere else for that matter. It is the safest travel in the world."
Torrhen nodded slowly, processing the concept of instant transit. "Then you have exceeded yourself, brother. But if you can build two... can you build a third? Connect this gate to Moat Cailin." He gestured toward the south. "That Fort is the neck of the North's defense. If we can move men and supplies there instantly, the South can never hope to breach our borders again."
Alaric's smile widened. " Consider it done. But I have a price for the King in the North, and it is the training of his heir."
Torrhen blinked. "My son, Edric? Aren't the master-at-arms and all the magical tutors in Winterfell enough to teach him the ways of a King?"
"Enough for a good soldier, yes," Alaric conceded, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "But not enough for a future King in this new world. He must learn more than the blade and feeble magic. He needs discipline to handle the power he cannot yet imagine. Send him to Winterhold, and I will see to his true education."
A look of deep consideration crossed Torrhen's face, then he clapped his hands once. "If anyone can prepare him for the world you are building, it is you. I agree. Send word when you wish him to join you."
Alaric rose. "I must leave now. Moat Cailin and Dorne still await their rings. I will return when all three are operational.
The journey south on his hoverboard was a blur of speed and scenery, until the muddy, forbidding ground of Moat Cailin came into view. The fortress was now stationed with armed men twenty-four hours a day, looking towards the south, but the walls held steady under the command of Brandon Snow.
"Alaric! By the Old Gods, how long has it been since we last saw each other?" Brandon stared up as Alaric slowed to a silent stop, feet touching the mud.
"One year," Alaric laughed, embracing the weary-looking man. "I'm here to build something that will make your watch far easier: a gate to Winterfell."
It took two weeks of tireless construction, pulling stone and wood from the surrounding bog and weaving the magical circuitry. Finally, the gate stood tall and dry amidst the sludge, a silent promise of swift defense.
After demonstrating the dual-permission activation process to Brandon, Alaric offered a nod of farewell. "Guard it well. It is your key to immediate reinforcements."
The transition from the cold mud of the Neck to the sun-drenched beauty of the Water Gardens was jarring, yet welcome. Alaric arrived without ceremony, striding through the courtyards until he found his family.
Prince Nymor Martell, the reigning ruler of Dorne, was there, stiff and wary.
But Alaric only had eyes for his wife, Princess Deria Martell, who rushed to meet him, her smile as bright as the Dornish sun. Their seven-year-old son, Ares Nymeros Martell, with his mother's dark eyes and a powerful, silent energy that spoke of his father's blood, stood near his grandfather, holding the hand of his two-year-old sister, Nymeria Martell.
"Alaric," Deria said, her voice full of warmth. "Your travels never cease."
"The world is a very big place, my love," Alaric replied, kissing her before turning to Prince Nymor. "Prince Nymor. I have a proposal that will make my visits and our communication far more frequent and secure."
Alaric explained the Teleportation Gate, detailing the secure nature of the two-way portal. Nymor, ever cautious of Northern influence, looked unconvinced.
"This is madness, Alaric," Nymor stated flatly. "A gate that connects our most private sanctuary to your cold northern fortresses? It is a colossal security risk. What is to stop your entire army from simply… appearing?"
"The contract we signed, Prince Nymor," Alaric answered calmly. "And the fact that it requires a Dornish key to open from the other side, just as my other gates do. And frankly," he paused, giving a meaningful look to his wife, "it is the only way I can ensure I see my wife and children more than twice a year."
Deria stepped forward, resting a hand on her father's arm. "Father, this is not a threat. This is a gift. A direct, private channel to the only man who can hold back the dragons of Westeros."
Deria's conviction, paired with the implied political benefit of instant access to the King of the Winter Kingdom, was enough. Nymor sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders. "Very well, Alaric. But if so much as a snowflake lands on my prized lemon tree, I will hold you personally accountable."
With the Prince's reluctant agreement, Alaric got to work, transforming the space near the cooling pools into the third major waypoint of his new, connected world.