After a week of rest in Sunspear, basking in the gratitude of Dorne's lords and smallfolk for his orchards, Prince Alaric Stark prepared to return to the North. Princess Deria Martell would accompany him to Winterfell to continue her training.
The Water Gardens, gifted to Alaric by Princess Meria Martell, stood as a testament to their alliance, a castle to be built south of Sunspear.
Alaric, Deria, and a retinue of ten Martell spearmen boarded a Northern trade ship at Planky Town, laden with Dornish sand, lemons, and wine, bound for White Harbor.
After a moon at sea, the ship docked at White Harbor, its white stone walls gleaming under a crisp autumn sky.
Lord Godric Manderly, round and jovial, his merman sigil glinting on his doublet, welcomed them at the quay with a hundred knights, their banners snapping in the wind. "Prince Alaric!" Godric boomed, clapping Alaric's shoulder. "You've made legends in Dorne, lad—trees from sand! And Princess Deria Martell, welcome to the North! White Harbor honors you both with a feast tonight!"
Alaric bowed, his light furs suited for the North's chill, his eyes warm. "Lord Godric, your hospitality's as grand as your city. We're grateful."
Deria, in orange silks layered with a fur cloak, curtsied, her dark curls catching the breeze. "Lord Manderly, White Harbor's beauty rivals Sunspear's tales. I thank you for your welcome."
The feast filled New Castle's hall, tables groaning with roasted cod, venison, and "Stark's Fire" whiskey.
Bards sang of Alaric's titan and Dorne's orchards, while Deria charmed the Manderly knights with tales of sand steeds.
After two days of rest, Alaric, Deria, and their retinue—now joined by ten Manderly riders—set out for Winterfell, Alaric's horse pacing beside Deria's horse, his eagles soaring above.
The cemented Northern roads, Alaric's innovation, sped their journey through frost-kissed forests.
At Winterfell's gates, King Torrhen Stark, twenty-five, stood tall, his iron crown glinting, *Stormdancer* at his hip. Beside him was Queen Maege Stark, née Mormont, her cloak warm around her pregnant form, and their son, Edric, two name days old, clutching her hand, his grey eyes bright.
The castle's grey walls rose stark against the snow, direwolf banners fluttering. Alaric dismounted his horse and moved towards his family.
Torrhen strode forward, embracing Alaric fiercely. "Brother! You're back, and Dorne sings your name! How fare you, Alaric? The journey was long—any troubles?"
Alaric grinned, returning the hug, his voice warm. "I'm well, brother—better for seeing you. The sea was kind, Dorne kinder. Their smallfolk call me 'God of the North,' but I'm just glad to feed them. And you—Winterfell's thriving, I see."
Maege stepped forward, her smile broad, her hand on her swollen belly. "Alaric, you rogue, planting trees in deserts? The North's proud of you."
Alaric kissed her cheek, his tone playful. "Maege, you're glowing—another Stark on the way? You and Torrhen waste no time."
Edric tugged Alaric's fur, giggling. "Uncle 'Laric! Up!" Alaric laughed, scooping the boy into his arms, tossing him gently into the air.
Edric squealed, his laughter echoing, as Alaric caught him, ruffling his dark hair. "You're getting heavy, little wolf. Been eating all of Winterfell's pies?"
Torrhen cleared his throat, his eyes flicking to Deria, who stood gracefully by her horse, her Martell guards behind. "Alaric, you've forgotten someone. Introduce your guest—she's far from home."
Alaric flushed, setting Edric down, and gestured to Deria. "My apologies. King Torrhen Stark, Queen Maege Stark, this is Princess Deria Martell, granddaughter of Princess Meria. She's come to learn from us, strengthen our alliance. Princess Deria, my brother, King Torrhen Stark, his wife, Queen Maege Stark, and their son, Prince Edric Stark."
Deria curtsied, her voice smooth. "King Torrhen Stark, Queen Maege Stark, Prince Edric Stark, it's an honor. The North's beauty humbles me, and Alaric's tales of Winterfell pale beside the truth. I'm here to learn, to bind Dorne and North closer."
Torrhen nodded, his smile welcoming. "Princess Deria Martell, Welcome to Winterfell. A servant will fetch salt and bread—guest right is granted." A servant hurried forward, presenting a tray of bread and salt, which Deria took, sealing her welcome.
Maege gestured to her ladies-in-waiting. "Show Princess to her quarters. Ensure her comfort."
Deria bowed, her eyes lingering on Alaric. "Thank you, Queen Maege." The ladies led her away, her silks a splash of color against Winterfell's stone. Torrhen clapped Alaric's shoulder. "Rest today, brother. We'll talk of Dorne tomorrow—every detail. You've earned a night's peace."
Alaric nodded, his voice tired but content. "Aye, Torrhen. I'll rest, then feast." He made his way to his chambers, the familiar stone walls soothing.
After bathing, washing off the road's dust, he donned a grey tunic with a direwolf sigil. Night fell, and he joined the feast in Winterfell's great hall, where guards raised tankards, toasting his return. "To Alaric, Dorne's savior!" as bards sang of the Guardian of the North.
After the feast, Alaric slipped through Winterfell's darkened halls, his steps quiet, driven by the pull of Deria's smile. He reached her chamber door, knocking softly.
After a moment, it opened, Deria standing there, her silks replaced by a lighter gown, her dark curls loose, eyes gleaming in the torchlight.
Without a word, she stepped forward, kissing him fiercely, her hands tangling in his furs. Alaric reciprocated, his heart racing, returning her passion with equal fire. He stepped inside, closing the door behind them, the night sealing their unspoken bond.