Building and Crafting in Game of Thrones

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Eighth Moon of 285 AC, Frostgate:

Pov: Lyarra Skywalker

The wind off the sea carried the bite of autumn, but Lyarra barely felt it as she stood atop the overlook of Frostgate's central tower, flanked by the pale glow of crystal lanterns. She watched the approaching boat long before the guards hailed it—sleek, fast, built in the style Alex had perfected over the past year. Her heart, usually so disciplined, fluttered with a strange warmth.

"They're back," she murmured.

By the time she reached the inner courtyard, the gate was already opening. Alex was first to stride through, her braid wind-tossed and eyes gleaming with excitement. Steve followed, grinning and already shrugging off his travel cloak. Torrhen came last—dusty, taller, his skin weathered by sea and sun, but his presence rooted the moment like gravity itself.

Lyarra didn't run. She didn't cry. She walked up to Torrhen and struck him in the shoulder with a closed fist—hard.

"That's for not writing in five weeks."

Torrhen chuckled and didn't flinch. "We were halfway through the ice cliffs when the raven found us. Hard to send one back when your hands are frozen stiff."

She glared. "Excuses."

Then she embraced him.

Steve and Alex joined them, arms around shoulders, old familiarity warming the air. For a few moments, the world was just the four of them again, reunited beneath the strange towers of the fortress they had built from nothing.

But not for long.

A polite cough made Lyarra glance over her shoulder. A woman stood nearby, tall and pale-haired, dressed in rich but simple furs and steel. Her stance was that of someone who didn't flinch, who didn't beg. She held herself with the confidence of one born to the wilds but educated in courts.

Val.

"Torrhen," Val said, her tone calm but firm. "Is this your sister?"

Torrhen stepped back, gently guiding Lyarra forward. "Val, this is my twin, Lyarra. Lyarra, meet Val of the Free Folk— Mance Rayder's goodsister. My betrothed."

Val's eyes scanned Lyarra briefly before nodding in silent acknowledgment. "You're not what I expected."

"I get that a lot," Lyarra replied dryly. "Welcome to Frostgate."

Then, from behind Lyarra, a woman stepped into view, her hand on a swollen belly, silk veil pulled tight against the sea air.

Elia Martell. She smiled at Torrhen and embraced him quickly before resuming her place.

Val blinked once. "And this?"

Torrhen sighed, scratching the back of his neck.

"This is Elia," he said. "She is… a friend. A guest of Frostgate. And she is carrying my child."

Lyarra braced for the storm. Steve winced. Alex visibly tensed.

But Val only raised a brow.

"Why are you all looking like I am going to call the others on you? Honestly Torrhen, you could've knocked up a dozen women before meeting me," she said evenly. "As long as your heart remains mine, and your children with them don't interfere with the futures of the children I'll have with you, I do not care. Keep them away from Skane, however. I won't have my daughters and sons entangled with bastards not of my blood, noble or not."

Lyarra let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Elia, however, looked stricken, and her hand went to her belly protectively.

Val noticed.

"I speak plainly," she added, her tone softening just a fraction. "You are not unwelcome here. I know what it means to have nowhere else. Just… understand my place."

Elia nodded. "I do. And Torrhen and I… it was a moment. Nothing more."

Val's gaze turned to Torrhen, sharp as ever. "A moment?"

Torrhen nodded. "A single night. She asked to carry my child because I gave her something that allowed her to have children again. It won't happen again."

Val paused. Then she stepped forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I would like to see just what you gave her but that was very sweet of you. See that you don't get her pregnant again however."

She turned to Lyarra next. "This keep is your seat?"

"Ours," Lyarra said, gesturing between herself and Torrhen. "But yes, I rule when he is away."

"Then I'll speak to you about the arrangements. I may be of the free folk, but I know how to handle rival wives."

"I'm not his wife," Elia said gently.

"Not yet," Val replied. "But the realm rarely waits for titles to shape expectations."

The women stood in silence for a beat, a strange tension between mutual respect and territorial instinct. Then Val turned and strode toward the keep.

Lyarra looked at Torrhen. "You know how to pick them."

"She knows her place in the world," he said. "And she's willing to make space for ours."

Alex let out a breath. "Well. That could've gone worse."

Steve grinned. "Only one death glare. New record."

Torrhen just looked at the sky, the stars blinking to life above the towers of Frostgate.

"Feels like the game's changing again," he said quietly.

Lyarra glanced sideways at him. "It always is."

**Scene Break**

Ninth Moon of 285 AC, Winterfell

POV: Eddard Stark

The cries came before the dawn.

By the time Ned reached Catelyn's chambers, the room was a flurry of motion—Maester Luwin bent low over Ned's wife, the midwife pale and muttering prayers, her hands red to the wrists. Catelyn's face was taut with pain, her fingers digging into the linen sheets as another spasm wracked her body.

"It's too soon," Luwin said quietly, without turning. "Seven hells, it's early by at least a moon."

The birthing was hard and fast. Catelyn barely had time to scream before the babe came—small, slick, and still.

For one terrible moment, there was no sound. No breath. No cry.

Ned's heart froze. The babe—his daughter—was limp in the midwife's arms, her skin tinged with blue.

Then came a soft cough. Weak. Strangled.

The girl was trying, but barely.

Catelyn, pale and spent, opened her eyes and looked toward them. "Is she…?"

"She's fighting," Luwin said, though his voice was uncertain.

Ned stepped forward before he could think better of it. From beneath his cloak he drew a small glass vial—rounded, with a red liquid shimmering faintly in the candlelight. The regeneration potion. Torrhen had given it to him months ago with a knowing look and no explanation. "Only if it's life or death," his half-brother had said.

This was both. With a gesture he sent out the midwife who looked at her lord with confusion but left without complaints after the icy look he gave her.

He knelt by the infant, tilted her mouth, and with great care poured two drops of the potion down her throat.

For a breath, nothing.

Then her limbs jerked. A gasp burst from her lips, followed by a wail that filled the chamber. Her color brightened rapidly, the blue fading from her cheeks, her skin flushing with warmth. Ned poured half of the vial's content down the infant's throat. Within minutes her tiny fingers clenched, her chest rose and fell with stronger breaths. Life had returned, whole and hungry.

Luwin stared, lips parted. Even Catelyn pushed herself up with trembling arms, tears forming in her eyes.

"She lives," Ned said softly. "She lives."

They named her Serena, after no one in particular, only for the peace they hoped she would know.

Hours later, when mother and child were resting, Ned sat beside the crib and watched the newborn sleep. Her features were still forming, but already her hair—soft and wispy—was clearly dirty blond. And her eyes, when they briefly opened, were not Stark grey or Tully blue… but a clear, crystalline sky blue unlike either of them.

A strange thing.

He rose later that day and took time in the rookery, poring through old family records and lineages. He traced both the Tullys and the Starks back five generations, noting red hair, black hair, brown… but nothing like Serena's.

Little to no blond in either branch. None that matched.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the flickering candle. A bastard ancestor? A wandering septon's blood? A fluke of the gods?

Or something else?

He glanced once more at the empty vial in his pocket. He had given the other half to Catelyn.

Best not to dwell on it, he decided. She was alive. Catelyn was smiling again. That was enough.

For now.

**Scene Break**

The birth of Serena spread quickly throughout the North and many toasts were made in her name even though many Maesters told their news that the birth shouldn't have happened for another month atleast. This prompted letters of concern to Winterfell which were answered with that the birth was indeed premature and that it was a troubled birth but that Ned's and Catelyn's new daughter was ultimately fine. Later a letter co-signed by both Ned and Catelyn was sent to Frostgate, giving Torrhen heartfelt thanks for what he had done for the Starks.

**Scene Break**

Ninth Moon of 285 AC, Skyport:

POV: Torrhen Skywalker

The wind rolled off the sea in cold, briny gusts, fluttering the sails of docked ships and setting the freshly raised banners of House Skywalker snapping in the morning light. Skyport's harbor—once barren coastline—was now a hive of organized motion. Cranes creaked, sailors shouted, carts rumbled, and the air smelled of pine tar, coal-smoke, and salted fish.

Torrhen stood on the high stone platform overlooking the lower docks, his hands folded behind his back, armor gleaming faintly in the overcast light. Beside him, Lyarra adjusted the woolen shawl wrapped over her shoulders, her eyes scanning the ships below with the same calculating precision she applied to battle plans and ledgers alike.

"The Frostmere will carry grain and rootstock to Hardhome. The Driftwind to Thenntown," Lyarra said, confirming the manifests with a scribe beside her. "Four hundred stone of wheat, two hundred barrels of potatoes, a hundred of carrots. Plus arms—swords, spears, chainmail—mostly the older sets we've replaced."

"More than enough for them to survive the next winter and defend themselves doing it," Torrhen said with a nod of approval.

Down at the docks, crates were being loaded by a mixed workforce of Skagosi, former wildlings, and a handful of Southron volunteers who had found their way to Frostgate seeking work—or purpose. The contrast in accents and attire was stark, yet the motion was smooth. Efficient. Purposeful.

"It feels strange, doesn't it?" Torrhen murmured.

Lyarra turned to him. "What does?"

He gestured at the sea. "Sending grain out of Skagos."

She smiled faintly. "Strange, yes. But not unwise. If the free folk are to stand with us when winter comes, they must live first. Not starve. Not fear."

A raven flapped down and settled on a nearby post, black eyes blinking. A message tube gleamed silver at its leg. Lyarra wordlessly accepted the letter from the arriving scribe, unrolling it with deft fingers.

"Manderly responded," she said. "He asks what our grain costs."

Torrhen snorted. "Nothing's cheap to a Manderly unless it's salted or stolen."

"He'll get a good deal," she said. "We'll undercut southern prices, flood the markets by next year. Not just White Harbor—Barrowton, even Hornwood. If we make Skane the North's granary, they'll depend on us."

"And fear us," Torrhen added.

She looked at him. "Is that a bad thing?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he watched the sails rise on the Frostmere and Driftwind. He could just barely make out the symbols painted onto their hulls—one a stylized tower wreathed in frost, the other a darkened flame.

"The free folk built their ports faster than I expected," he said.

Lyarra nodded. "Thenntown and Hardhome had reasons to move quickly. Winter will not wait. And they remember too well what starvation felt like."

They stood in silence for a moment, watching as the ships slipped out to sea, bearing food and steel to the edge of the world.

"You'll write to Manderly tonight?" Torrhen asked.

"I already have," Lyarra replied. "But I'll send another letter with the next ship. Ask how many thousands of stone he could store—and how quickly."

Torrhen smiled faintly. "And he'll think he's the one doing the favor."

Lyarra returned the smile, though her eyes remained focused on the sea. "Let him."

**Scene Break**

Tenth Moon of 285 AC, Frostgate:

POV: Torrhen Skywalker

The forge was quiet, save for the slow hiss of cooling metal and the rhythm of Torrhen's breath. He had been enjoying himself in the forge lately, it was way more fun than the crafting in the overworld even if that was way more efficient. It was also a way to ignore his concerns that he had altered canon way too much for little Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon to be born.

He didn't know how he would handle it, if those little brats weren't part of his life now that he had already planned to alter their fates. He would have to convince his brother and goodsister to have more children despite the almost disastrous last birth.

He stood at the anvil, wiping soot from his brow, when the door burst open without warning.

Alex.

Her braid had half-come undone, her cheeks were flushed, and she was glowing—not with effort, but joy.

"Torrhen!" she gasped, "You're going to be an uncle!"

Torrhen blinked. "What—?"

She didn't wait. She flew across the room and nearly tackled him with the hug she gave him, laughing as she squeezed him tightly. "I'm pregnant! Me! Pregnant! I didn't think it would happen so fast—I thought it might take longer, or not at all, with everything we've been through, but—"

"You're sure?" Torrhen pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

She nodded furiously. "The healer checked. Twice. No fever. No illness. Just... a very, very tiny new life."

He stared at her, processing, then laughed—a short, stunned sound. "Steve knows?"

"I told him right after," she beamed. "He was so shocked he dropped his sword in the middle of a drill. Nearly stabbed Teague in the foot."

Torrhen grinned. "Teague will survive. He's survived worse." Then, after a moment, his expression softened. "I'm happy for you, Alex. Truly. You're going to be a great mother."

She chuckled, wiping her eyes. "I hope so. I feel like I've built more houses than I've held babies."

He walked with her out onto the upper balcony of the inner ring. The skies were clear, a rare thing on Skane, and the sun's light cast golden warmth over the snow-covered roofs.

"Steve and I were talking," Alex said as they stood side by side. "If it's a boy or a girl—it doesn't matter—we want them to have real connections. Friends. People who understand all this…" She gestured vaguely toward the keep, the technology, the strangeness.

Torrhen gave a soft hum. "And?"

"And," she smiled, "if your child and ours get along, we want to betroth them. Not force it, but... keep the option open. Let them grow up knowing they have someone."

Torrhen looked over at her, surprised. Then nodded slowly. "You think that far ahead?"

"I have to," she said, eyes distant. "This world—this song we're part of—it's louder than I ever thought. We need to plant things that will grow long after we're gone."

"I suppose you're right," he murmured. Then added, "Lyarra will want to help plan everything."

"She already asked what colors the baby clothes should be." Alex laughed. "You know how she is."

Torrhen chuckled. "She's already drawing house banners, isn't she?"

"She made one with a sword and a baby rattle crossed over a pickaxe. It's terrifying."

They stood in companionable silence for a few more heartbeats.

"Then it's settled," Torrhen said. "If your child and mine take to each other—if they choose it—we'll bind their houses. No Citadel. No Faith. Just us. Like we always meant to."

Alex reached out and squeezed his hand. "Just us."