Future Plans

Winterfell's solar, warmed by a crackling hearth where King Torrhen Stark sat behind his oaken desk, his iron crown resting on a stand. Brandon Snow sprawled in a carved chair, his rugged face thoughtful. Alaric stood by a window overlooking the snow-dusted courtyard. 

Torrhen leaned back, his grey eyes fixed on Alaric, a glass of whiskey in hand. "Alaric, we're stronger than ever, thanks to you. But we must look to the future, for House Stark and our kin. You're my brother, second in line after Edric. Which lands do you want for yourself and your descendants? Winterfell's mine, but the North's vast— Sea Dragon Point, Moat Cailin, Stony Shore. Name your seat, and it's yours."

Alaric turned from the window, his eyes calm, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Torrhen, I'm honored, truly. Your trust, Brandon's faith—it's more than enough. But I don't want lands in the North. I've been thinking… beyond the Wall. The wildlings raid our borders, driven by hunger and cold. I'd go north, tame them—not with steel, but with a better way. With my powers, I can make crops grow in frost, build shelters, teach them to thrive. They'd cease being a threat, become allies. No kneeling, no crowns—just a life where they don't need to raid our villages."

Torrhen's eyes widened, his tankard frozen mid-sip, while Brandon choked on his whiskey, coughing. "Beyond the Wall?" Brandon rasped, wiping his mouth.

"Alaric, have you lost your bloody mind? Wildlings? They're savages—thieves, murderers, worse! I've fought them, seen their raids on Umber lands. They'll die before they bend the knee, and you know it, same as every lord from Last Hearth to the Neck. You'd walk into that frozen hell with your magic and what, plant turnips? They'll spear you for sport!"

Torrhen set his tankard down, his voice measured but incredulous. "Alaric, I've seen your titan, your wolves, your canal dug in a week. You're no fool, but this? The wildlings scorn our ways, our laws. They raid because it's their blood, not just their bellies. Even if you grow food, build halls, what's to stop them turning on you? The Night's Watch holds them back, and you'd live among them? Explain yourself, brother—I'd hear the full of it."

Alaric chuckled, crossing his arms, his wolves stirring at his calm. "I know it sounds mad, brothers. The wildlings are fierce, proud, unyielding—like us, in truth. They won't bend the knee, and I won't ask them to. I'll see their lands… from my studies. Barren, yes, but not hopeless. With nature power, I can make barley grow in snow, orchards bloom in frost. I can raise wooden halls, warm as Winterfell, powered by runes. I'd show them a life where they don't starve, don't need to steal. They'd follow not a king, but a path. It's not conquest—it's change. And if they turn on me? My titan caged dragons; I can handle spears."

Brandon shook his head, grinning despite himself. "Gods, you're stubborn, Alaric. I've seen your magic. If anyone could tame wildlings, it's you. But it's a gamble, brother. They're not just hungry; they're wild as their winds. Still, after that titan, I'll not bet against you. What's your plan? Build a new North beyond the Wall?"

Alaric nodded, his voice steady. "Exactly, Brandon. A new North, allied with ours. I'd start small—a settlement, crops, warmth. Win their trust, not their fear. It'll take years, but it's worth it. The wildlings raid because they must. Give them plenty, and the raids stop. The Wall becomes a bridge, not a barrier."

Torrhen's eyes softened, his voice thoughtful. "You've always seen farther than us, Alaric. Your titan proved that. If you believe this can work, I trust you. But when would you go? The North needs you—your magic, your mind. How long before you chase this dream?"

Alaric leaned against the window, his gaze distant. "I'll leave when the North's ready to slay dragons on its own. I'm training apprentices—Jory, Hal, Tommen—to craft runed blades. At the harvest festival, I'll awaken circuits for our lords' heirs, teach them reinforcement, projection. In ten, maybe fifteen years, if all goes well, the North will have an army of mages, Winter Steel in every hand, and defenses to shame Valyria. Then I'll go beyond the Wall, knowing you're safe."

Brandon raised his tankard, his voice gruff. "Ten years, eh? You'll turn us into sorcerers by then, Alaric. Fine, I'll drink to your mad dream. But you'd better not get speared by some wildling before you build that paradise."

Torrhen nodded, his smile warm. "Fifteen years to secure the North, then north you go. I'll hold you to it, brother. Now, Brandon, what of you? You're my right hand, but I'd see you settled. Moat Cailin's a strong seat, or Sea Dragon Point, with its new trade from the canal. Which do you want for your line?"

Brandon snorted, sipping his whiskey, his eyes hard. "Lands? Titles? Not for me, Torrhen. I'm a Snow, not a Stark, and I'm content. I'll serve the North, fight its wars, train its men. No wife, no heirs—I've no taste for it. I'll wield *Frostbite* for you, and that's enough."

Torrhen leaned forward, his voice firm but kind. "I know you, Brandon—you've never sought glory or gold. But times have changed. The North's richer, stronger, thanks to Alaric's canal, his trade. The South eyes us, jealous of our whiskey, our glass, our roads. I need you at Moat Cailin, managing its defenses, until I name a permanent lord. It's the Neck's gate, our shield against southron schemes. Will you take it, for the North?"

Brandon sighed, running a hand through his hair, then nodded. "Fine, Torrhen. I'll hold Moat Cailin, drill the Winter Wolves there, keep the South at bay. But no lordship—just duty. I'll make that fortress a nightmare for any dragonlord who forgets Alaric's titan."

Torrhen clapped his shoulder, smiling. "Good man. Moat Cailin's safe in your hands. Now, the canal—it's a marvel, Alaric, but the South won't like it. They'll lose trade, ships bypassing their ports. We must tread carefully, strengthen our ties. Thoughts?"

Alaric nodded, his voice strategic. "The canal's our strength, but it's a thorn in their side. We need trade to bind them, not swords. Dorne's half-burned, bleeding from Aegon's war. If we send aid—grain, timber, healers—we'll win Meria Martell's trust. Her people love her, not their ashes. Trade with Dorne—import their sand, finer than ours, for glassmaking. It'll make our glass clearer, cheaper, and flood Essosi markets. Dorne's a partner, not a foe, if we act now."

Brandon raised an eyebrow, grinning. "Dorne? After Aegon's folly? Clever, Alaric. Meria's no fool—she'll see the sense in grain for sand. Plus, it'll irk Aegon, knowing we're cozy with his last holdout."

Torrhen stroked his beard, nodding. "Aye, it's a sharp move. Dorne's proud, like us, and they'll value aid over conquest. Alaric, will you go to Sunspear, treat with Meria? You warned Aegon, and she'll respect your foresight. Propose trade—sand for glass, grain for goodwill. Can you manage it?"

Alaric smiled, his eyes gleaming. "I'll go, Torrhen. Meria's old, but sharp as a scorpion's sting. I'll offer aid, trade, and respect—no crowns, no kneeling. Dorne's sand will make our glass the envy of Braavos, and their friendship will guard our south."

Torrhen raised his tankard, his voice warm. "To Dorne, then, and Alaric's silver tongue. Now, the harvest festival—one year hence. You'll teach our lords' heirs magic, Alaric. How do we make them sign the agreement?"

Alaric nodded, tracing invisible runes. "We will give them the offer, it is up to them if they want to sign."

Brandon chuckled, sipping his whiskey. "A leash for our lords, eh? Bolton'll squirm, but he'll sign. Umber'll boast, but his sons'll learn."

Torrhen stood, raising his tankard. "To the festival, to Dorne, to the North's future. Alaric, to Sunspear when you're ready. Brandon, to Moat Cailin. I'll rule from Winterfell, guard our home. For the North!"

"For the North!" Alaric and Brandon echoed, clinking tankards. They left the solar, Torrhen to his court, Brandon to the Winter Wolves, Alaric to his workshop, wolves trailing. The North, unbowed, looked to a future of magic, trade, and vigilance, its Guardian watching over the Neck.