Building and Crafting in Game of Thrones

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Sixth Moon of 285 AC, Frostgate:

POV: Lyarra Skywalker

The delegations had arrived over the past two weeks with the last one setting foot on Skane just this morning, sails bearing the giant, the merman, the flayed man, and the sun of Karhold. Four lords of the North—four old houses—stepping through the great outer gates of Frostgate for the first time.

Lyarra greeted them in the central courtyard, flanked by two dozen Diamond Guard. The soldiers stood motionless, silent in their shimmering armor. The morning sun caught each of them in full, casting rainbows across the stone.

Lord Wyman Manderly's mouth hung open.

Rickard Karstark muttered a curse under his breath.

Roose Bolton's eyes narrowed behind his thin lips.

And Greatjon Umber simply let out a loud, "Seven bloody hells, girl. You planning to blind us with that armor?"

Lyarra smiled, not unkindly. "Only if I must."

The lords had come at last to see the fabled Frostgate for themselves, curiosity piqued by tales drifting from Skagos and the Wall alike. They expected a keep, perhaps the size of Deepwood Motte. What they found was a fortress as strange as it was impregnable—walls smoother than ice and towers shaped with impossible precision.

Most importantly it included not only a gigantic central tower that was on top of a large central hall which in turn had three story tall living quarters growing in all four directions and an inner wall around it. A small village rose between the inner and outer wall and the castle even had it's own well allowing Frostgate to house plenty of smallfolk.

Lyarra proudly showed them the courtyard where multiple faithful trained hard under the watchful eyes of Bronn and Thoros and would eventually form the defense of Frostgate. Talking to these men and women Rickard Karstark and Wyman Manderly had quickly found out that these were no ordinary men and women.

"Are they… sick?" Lord Karstark asked quietly as they passed through the second ring of the gate, where the armory and barracks stood. "They hardly ever blink even if you speak to them for more than a minute."

"They are disciplined," Lyarra replied. "They eat and sleep only as much as they must, they do not stray."

Roose gave her a calculating glance. "They are not Skagosi."

"No they are from the Craftson's homeland" she said. "But they are as loyal as they can be."

"Ahh yes, I would very much like to meet your companions... and the new Lord Skywalker aswell for that matter" said Wyman Manderly.

When they reached the upper keep, she dismissed all but two of the guards, then opened the doors to her private solar. The air inside was cool and dry, the walls covered in rich tapestries—maps of the North, the Wall, and one stranger map she never let them look at too long.

On her desk sat a single object: a diamond the size of a clenched fist. Perfectly cut. Cold to the touch. It was a calculated show of wealth, a promise for better pastures to Rickard, Wyman and Greatjon and a warning towards Roose.

Lord Wyman swayed slightly on his feet once he got a look at the gem on Lyarra's desk. "Is that…?"

"Pure diamond," Lyarra said, watching them carefully.

The silence was thick and full of things unsaid. You could count the amount of times such jewelry appeared in the north a year on one hand and have one to spare and that's not even talking about pure diamonds.

"But that's impossible," Rickard Karstark said, stunned. "Even a fraction of this stone would be worth more than my yearly expenses."

Greatjon Umber barked a laugh. "You're mining the godsdamned sky now?"

"No thankfully we did not have to go that far. Our diamonds make for quite the sturdy armor though." Lyarra replied simply.

Rickard tilted his head incredulously, "You mean to tell me that the armor the guards were wearing is made out of pure diamond??"

She gave no answer. It wasn't of course, after being brought through the portal the diamond armor became some sort of diamond/steel alloy but with it's melting temperature, durability and resistance against attacks a lot higher than regular steel and with it's bright blue colour they decided to still call it diamond armor. 

Manderly spoke slowly, choosing his words like a man walking a tightrope. "You must understand, my lady, that possession of such wealth—even if held with noble intent—will shake the realm. The Vale would go to war for half this stone."

"Then it is good," she said, "that it does not belong to the Vale. My brother and I would be pleased however if the knowledge about this didn't spread too far. Let some of these gems eventually be payed as taxes to my brother and the income from them in turn serve the whole north."

"Where do your loyalties lie, Lady Lyarra?" Roose asked after a moment of silence, too calmly. "Do we have to fear another Greystark rebellion?"

Lyarra stepped closer, diamond gleaming behind her like the light of a star. "My loyalty is to Winterfell," she said. "And my brother. As it has always been. And do I have to remind you that it was the Boltons the Greystarks were following into rebellion?"

The Umber cracked his knuckles. "Good answer."

The moment broke as servants entered with wine and smoked trout. The lords sat, visibly rattled, even Wyman.

By midmeal, the topic shifted—as it always did when power was displayed—to marriage.

Ugh.

Lyarra, politely, smiled at them all.

"My brother will decide whom I marry," she said, as she always did. "Until then, I serve his interests."

Roose did not offer a name. He was no fool and must have sensed that with such wealth Lyarra's ambitions for a husband could likely have changed to a son of a great house.

He excused himself early, claiming a message awaited at the harbor. But as he passed the Diamond Guards again, he gave them a long, wary glance. And when he turned back to look at Lyarra once more, something cold passed behind his eyes.

A promise.

A curse.

She watched him go in silence.

**Scene Break**

pov Roose Bolton

Roose frowned. He was trying to see the pieces, fit the board together. But the board had changed. Her wealth, her warriors, her fortress—none could have come from the known world. So where did these things originate? He unfortunately had no answer to that.

He saw now that his strategy of patiently cultivating resentment and alliance was crumbling. Lord Dustin who was a loyal companion of Lord Stark had failed to die in the rebellion, his death would have left behind a resentful wife who was Roose's goodsister. But with Willem Dustin surviving, House Dustin had slipped through his grasp.

Lord Eddard Stark had sadly proved himself to be a competent and even worse popular warden of the north which meant that even houses with no deep loyalty to House Stark (unlike Houses Mormont, Cerwyn, Umber, Glover and Manderly) and who might have accepted Roose's plans (like Houses Karstark, Hornwood, Tallhart, Locke, Woolfield and the Flints) would side with the Starks immediately should he try something.

Lord Ryswell, while more than open to... a change of leadership in the north, was too cautious and wouldn't act without numbers not that Roose ever would act himself if he wasn't sure of victory. And now the bastard daughter of Rickard Stark held a sword of diamond over the North's heart—and seemed to have a close relationship with her half-brother, Eddard.

He saw it now—power had changed hands and worse, it was slipping away even more into the hands of House Stark. It seemed like Roose had to resign himself to preparing his heir to continue House Bolton's scheming. He was not getting any younger and House Stark's future seemed secure as long as Eddard Stark, Willem Dustin, Howland Reed and Torrhen Skywalker were still alive.

**Scene Break**

Sixth Moon of 285 AC, Skyport:

POV: Lyarra Skywalker

The morning sun glinted off slate rooftops and stone walls as carts creaked through Skyport's second ring, escorted by lines of armed Faithful. Atop the outer ramparts, guards in polished chainmail watched the harbor with practiced vigilance, bows slung across their backs.

Lyarra stood on the stone-paved causeway above the harbor gates, her cloak catching in the salt wind. Below her, the docks bustled—cranes lifting crates, dockhands shouting orders, and oxen pulling wagons laden with goods.

The first convoy to Skagos had finally been assembled.

Sixty carts of wheat. Fourteen of carrots. Thirty of potatoes. Twenty small wagons of steel tools and farm implements. And ten heavily guarded shipment of weapons—half a dozen swords, twice as many axes, and a handful of steel-tipped spears.

Not enough to arm a kingdom, but enough to fortify a foothold.

"Make sure the crates marked in green are loaded first," she said, nodding to Mace, who stood beside her in full armor. "Those are the weapons. They go to the fortress before the food reaches the towns."

He scratched his beard, nodding. "Aye. The soldiers on Skane will be pleased. They've been using pickaxes as spears for weeks."

Lyarra's gaze lingered on the crates. Some bore markings she remembered carving herself. She recalled late nights with Alex and the others, packing bundles, counting stacks of overworld-grown vegetables, labeling everything with charcoal.

"It's not enough," she muttered. "Not yet. But it's a start."

Mace followed her eyes. "You've done more in six moons than most lords do in six years. This port was a ruin when we landed. Now look at it."

She didn't answer right away.

Instead, she watched as a sleek, narrow ship—a longboat with white sails and a reinforced hull—eased into the harbor's eastern dock. The Northwind, the first of their rebuilt Skagosi merchant ships.

The crew, half of them former islanders and half Faithful, disembarked quickly and began loading cargo with practiced precision.

Lyarra took a slow breath. "Skane will be fed. Thenntown will be fed. The Thenns will not starve before winter ends."

Another wagon rumbled past, and she caught sight of two children peeking from behind sacks of potatoes, eyes wide. Refugees from the Wolfswood. They smiled when she met their gaze. She smiled back—and then stiffened as she saw the faint blue tint in one of their fingers.

"Have the healers seen them?" she asked sharply.

Mace turned, frowned, then whistled to a nearby guard. "Get one of the witches, preferably Healer Granger. Tell her we may have another case of the shivers"

The soldier jogged off.

Lyarra exhaled. The children were small. One couldn't have been older than five. And already winter's mark was creeping into their blood.

She turned toward the harbor again.

"It has to be enough," she whispered.

**Scene Break**

Seventh Moon of 285 AC, The Citadel in Oldtown:

POV: Archmaester Vaellyn

The air in the Scribe's Dome was dry, perfumed faintly by old vellum and ink. Candles guttered in their sconces as twelve Archmaesters sat around the long oval table of polished black oak. The Conclave had convened for a special discussion—one prompted by the arrival of a raven from the North.

Archmaester Vaellyn tapped the table with a brass stylus, the end carved into the shape of a tower. "Let us speak plainly. This Frostgate—this... structure—did not exist two moons ago or rather it could not have. Now we receive increasingly frequent reports from Eastwatch and even traders in White Harbor claiming a castle has risen from Skane's icy bones. Built with speed that defies common engineering."

Archmaester Benedict, the silver-and-gold ring of Philosophy heavy on his neck, sniffed. "The ravens say it's defensible. Multi-leveled. Built in concentric tiers with underground access to the coast. That would take decades, even with a full host of royal engineers and a mine at their disposal."

"And yet," said Archmaester Orwyle, keeper of Ravens and Codes, "it stands. The Night's Watch confirms it. They say the Snow twins—the so-called Skywalkers—are behind it."

"And still no raven requesting a maester," added Vaellyn with a scowl. "By tradition, lords send for us. That is how the order persists—through invitation and trust."

"They are northerners," offered a dry voice. Archmaester Gormon had entered silently, leaning against the stone doorframe in a thick black cloak, his ring of different materials glinting in the low light. "But more than that, they are something else entirely. You've all read the reports. They have not only the Skagosi as their bannermen but multiple wildling clan chiefs who themselves lead thousands of wildlings. If those animals were ever let south..."

"Which is exactly why we must send someone," said Vaellyn. "We have a duty to investigate. If they've discovered some innovation in building or magical reinforcement, the Citadel must catalogue it."

"But without invitation?" asked Archmaester Ryam, the youngest of the Conclave and steward of the historical scrolls. "That sets precedent. We risk appearing... intrusive."

"We are intrusive," Gormon said with a thin smile. "Always have been. If not us, the Alchemists' Guild will sniff around soon enough."

A low murmur spread around the table.

"We could send a maester," Vaellyn said carefully, "not as an imposition, but as an observer. A 'gift' of Oldtown, perhaps, in recognition of their rapid rise. If they decline, so be it. But if they accept... we learn."

"And if the construction method is reproducible?" Ryam asked.

"Then perhaps lords in the south will raise towers in months instead of years," Vaellyn replied. "And perhaps we will be remembered as the ones who brought it to them."

That earned silence.

After a pause, Vaellyn sighed. "Let us put it to vote. Shall a maester be dispatched to Frostgate, under the pretense of peaceful contact and curiosity?"

Twelve chains clinked as arms were raised.

Ten in favor.

Two abstained.

"Very well," said Vaellyn. "We will select a suitable candidate."

Marwyn remained silent in the corner of an adjacent room, his ear pressed tightly to the thin wall, as the others murmured plans and names.

Eventually, he turned and left without a word. It seems like he would have to send a raven to the island of Skane.

**Scene Break**

Seventh Moon of 285 AC, Frostgate:

Pov Lyarra Skywalker

The sun had long dipped behind the horizon, leaving only a wash of purple over Skyport's rooftops. The castle was quieter at night now, but not silent. The forges still glowed in the northern sector of the inner ring. A few faithful patrolled the ring in pairs. Inside the central tower, Lyarra stood alone, looking down at the great rings of her creation, arms crossed, fingers stained faintly with ink and coal.

A letter from Oldtown was in her hands, a letter with a concerning but not surprising message. Torrhen had warned her that the Citadel would at some point try to mess with Skane's business and become more desperate the more they would grow in power and more importantly, innovate.

But they had their own healers, their own crazy administrator who was gifted with numbers and who was loyal (and whos only drawback was that he was obsessed with gold) and who she was already thinking of making the steward of Frostgate in the future, a librarian and someone who handled the newly trained ravens brought from the Magnars on Skagos.

No while the citadel must have felt like Frostgate would accept one of their spies with open arms, Skane really had no dire need for a maester. And the two maesters they would actually accept they sough to contact directly in the future.

She could hear footsteps behind her.

"You always look like you're brooding when you're up here," Nicole said lightly.

Lyarra didn't turn. "Because I usually am."

Nicole came to stand beside her, her silhouette outlined in the lamplight. Her armor was clean, polished with meticulous care. But her eyes were thoughtful.

"The others talk," she said eventually.

Lyarra raised an eyebrow. "Do they now?"

"They say the Faithful don't belong to the Skywalkers anymore." Nicole smiled faintly. "Or the Craftsons. That we belong to both."

Lyarra turned her head toward her. "I'm not sure that's a bad thing."

"It's not. Not to me." Nicole paused. "We were born with purpose the moment we entered this world. But it wasn't just you who made that possible. It wasn't just Alex or Steve either. It was… all four of you. The Faithful know it."

Silence stretched between them for a long moment.

Nicole continued. "Back in the overworld, we thought the one who pushed us through the portal was our creator. Our god, almost. But now… we've realized that whoever pushes us through, we still wake up. We still become. That… that was the hardest thing for some of them to accept. But also the most freeing."

Lyarra leaned her forearms on the stone rail. "You think Torrhen and I have become gods, too?"

"No." Nicole smiled. "But are from here and came to the overworld through the portal. It was you who showed the Craftsons how life here could be. And it was you who showed them so many things in the world that Steve and Alex had lived their entire life in."

She hesitated. "That's actually why I came. I wanted to ask you something. And I hope you'll answer."

Lyarra turned to her now, facing her fully. "Ask."

Nicole's voice dropped. "How do you know so much? The nether portals, the hidden mechanics, the mob behavior, even redstone logic. Not just how—but why it all works. You and your brother didn't just stumble into it. You're… too precise. Too prepared. Some of us wonder if you had that knowledge before you found the portal here."

Lyarra's heart thudded once, heavy.

Nicole watched her carefully. "So where does your knowledge come from?"

There was a beat.

Then Lyarra said, quietly, "I'm not going to tell you."

Nicole didn't flinch. But something in her eyes fell—expectation slipping into disappointment. "Why?"

"Because it's not just my secret," Lyarra said. "It's my brother's too. And it's… dangerous. Not in the way you think. But in the way that unspoken truths always are."

Nicole's gaze narrowed. "You're going to take it to your graves."

Lyarra nodded. "Most likely."

Nicole looked away, out over the city again. "That's a shame."

"It is." Lyarra placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. "But we're still here. You're still here. And that matters more than why."

Nicole didn't speak for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "I suppose it does."

She stepped back, brushing a curl behind her ear. "You know, even if we never learn your truth, you and Torrhen gave us something greater than knowledge."

"Oh?"

"A purpose... a future."

Lyarra smiled—tired, but genuine. "Then I suppose we're even."

Nicole turned to go. Just before the door, she looked back.

"For what it's worth, my Lady… I'd follow either of you into the End."

Then she was gone.

Lyarra stayed at the window long after, staring into the south, where the buildings of the fledgling Skyport rose like jagged shadows against the sky.

**Scene Break**