Six moons had passed since the Northern lords gathered in Winterfell's solar, swearing to protect their magical future.
The lords—Harlon Umber, Torren Karstark, Halys Bolton, Bennard Glover, Fenric Reed, Rodrik Dustin, and Godric Manderly—had agreed to take Alaric Stark's strength-enhancing potion, granting them the power of ten men, though their age and habits made learning magic itself less appealing.
Instead, they sent their heirs to the Broken Tower, where Alaric's apprentices—Jory, Hal, and Tommen—taught potions, runes, smithing, and chakra control under magical contracts binding loyalty to the North.
Alaric had paused his teleportation gate project, its runic matrix too complex for now, and turned to new creations.
In his workshop near the Broken Tower, Alaric crafted magical hoverboards from ironwood, infused with chakra runes for flight. When he first unveiled them to his brothers, Torrhen Stark and Brandon Snow, their jaws dropped.
The boards, sleek and carved with direwolf sigils, hovered a foot off the ground, glowing faintly green. "Fly like Targaryens, without dragons," Alaric grinned, demonstrating a swift loop above the courtyard.
Torrhen, his Bronze crown glinting, mounted one, wobbling before soaring, his laughter echoing. "Gods, Alaric, this is freedom!" Brandon, gripping Frostbite, sped alongside, whooping as he banked over the Wolfswood.
Alaric tested the boards himself, flying from Winterfell to Moat Cailin in six hours with one brief stop in clear weather, a journey that took days by horse. Inspired, he began designing gliding carts for winter roads, using the same magic runes to ease the transport of goods through snow, though the project was still in sketches.
Now, in his workshop, Alaric worked on a new creation: a two-way mirror, its glass framed in runed silver, meant to allow instant communication across distances. As he etched runes, the door creaked, and he sensed a presence.
Looking up, he saw Deria Martell, her orange silks vibrant, her dark curls loose. She crossed the room with a playful smile, settling onto his lap and kissing him deeply.
Alaric reciprocated, his hands finding her waist, their warmth familiar after year of closeness. After a moment, he pulled back, his eyes searching hers. "What's the matter, Deria? You're glowing more than usual."
Her smile widened, her voice soft but steady. "I missed my blood this moon, Alaric." She paused, her eyes bright. "I'm with child."
Alaric's heart leapt. He kissed her again, his voice warm. "Are you sure?"
She nodded, laughing. "Yes, I'm sure. I've felt it, and the healer confirmed it this morning."
He grinned, pulling her close. "Well, then, looks like I'm to be a father." His tone turned playful. "A little wolf or a little viper—Dorne and North in one."
Deria's eyes softened, but a flicker of worry crossed her face. "Are you happy, Alaric? You've spoken of your plans—beyond the Wall, taming wildlings, building a new North. I feared a child might hinder you."
Alaric laughed, brushing a curl from her face. "Happy? Of course I'm happy—why wouldn't I be? A child changes nothing about my plans, only adds to them. I'll adjust, make room for our little one. My dreams don't falter for family—they grow stronger." He paused, his voice serious. "In the future, I may not spend my whole life with you and the babe. My path—beyond the Wall, maybe elsewhere—will take me away at times. But I swear, I'll ensure you and our child are safe, always. Knowing that, Deria, do you still want to marry me?"
Deria's smile was radiant, her hands cupping his face. "Yes, Alaric, I'll marry you. I don't care if you travel—I'll cherish every moment we have, and I'll wait for your return. Our child will grow strong, healthy, a true Martell, with your heart and my fire. I want this, always."
Alaric's grin returned, his eyes bright. "Then it's settled. Invitations are in order. I'll send a raven to Sunspear, to Princess Meria and Prince Nymor, explaining everything—our child, our marriage. The babe should carry the Martell name, a nod to Dorne's pride, and I'll invite them to the wedding, soon as we can arrange it."
Deria nodded, her smile warm, relief in her eyes. "I hoped you'd say that. It will help in future sucessionof Dorne, Grandmother will be pleased—she's fond of you, Alaric, for feeding Dorne."
He chuckled, kissing her forehead. "Good. Let's make it quick—Winterfell's no place for a long betrothal. We'll wed in Godswood before the next moon."
She laughed, nestling against him. "Let the old gods witness our vows." They sat a moment, the workshop quiet, the two-way mirror forgotten, their future bright with promise.