Building and Crafting in Game of Thrones

Comments and Reviews would be welcome as always. :)

First Moon of 286 AC, Winterfell:

POV: Eddard Stark

The gold arrived in quiet wagons, no fanfare nor banners—just frost-covered wheels and ledgered chests stamped with the sigils of the north. Among them, fifteen carts in total, drawn by shaggy Skagosi oxen and escorted by a retinue of silent guards in strange, blue-plated armor that gleamed like ice.

Maester Luwin stood beside him, hands clasped, as Vayon Pool broke the first seal and tallied the contents aloud.

"Ten thousand gold dragons, and two crates of raw diamonds… and six bars of that unknown alloy from Skane—cold to the touch, heavier than steel."

Ned exhaled slowly, the cold air misting around his mouth. "They said they'd send riches. They've more than kept their promise. Those gems alone will fetch a fine price in the south" he muttered.

He ran a gloved hand over one of the chests, feeling the chill through the wood. The implications rolled through his mind like a slow avalanche—one set in motion years ago when his half siblings had returned from their adventure, built a castle on an island no one wanted and spoke of ridiculous riches.

"No more delays," he said firmly. "Send word to Barrowton and Torrhen's Square. Moat Cailin's reconstruction begins with the spring thaw. Begin purchasing stone. Hire the masons."

Luwin blinked. "Already, my lord?"

"Yes," Ned said, then added more softly, "It's time for Benjen to have his own keep where he can raise his children."

Later that week, he sat in his solar surrounded by letters. Two were from Manderly and Dustin, answers to inquiries he had sent weeks ago regarding their holdings surrounding Moat Cailin.

Willem Dustin's letter was brief, as always—polite, and a bit too formal considering that Ned counted him as a good friend. He would part with his land for coin and reported some of the faith stirring up trouble in his and Howland's lands. So far the incidents were contained however.

Wyman's letter, on the other hand, was warm enough to thaw the wall.

"…As always, Winterfell's prosperity is Dreadfort's sorrow, and I toast to your ambition. Moat Cailin reborn will be a shield for the North as it was in the days of kings. I will sell the lands you require—at a modest price, of course—as my part in the dream. Perhaps someday, your House and mine will be bound not only in coin and stone, but in blood as well."

Ned smiled faintly at the boldness.

"Old Wyman never writes a word without weighing it like a cook weighs spice," he muttered.

Luwin, who had returned with warmed cider, raised a brow. "He speaks of betrothal?"

"He does. Indirectly."

"Who would he suggest? Robb?"

"Perhaps Serena, if he has patience enough to wait for his sons to give him a grandson." He set the letter aside. "Either way, I'll not agree to anything without Catelyn's counsel. But the idea… has merit."

A knock came at the door.

The steward stepped inside, bowed, and said, "The masons from Barrowton are expected at the Moat within the fortnight. They bring their own supplies and request shelter for fifty men."

"Grant it," Ned said at once. "Let them take the west hall near the smithy."

Then he stood and moved to the window. Snow blanketed the godswood beyond, but the road south shimmered with promise. Moat Cailin would rise again, and with it, the North would anchor itself anew.

And at its heart would be a truth no maester or southerner could unmake:

The so called bastards who lived had changed everything.

**Scene Break**

First Moon of 286 AC, Frostgate:

POV: Lyarra Skywalker

The letters were sealed by midmorning.

Lyarra sat beside Torrhen in the solar overlooking the eastern cliffs, the wind tugging at the heavy curtains as he signed the last of them—each bearing the Stark sigil on one half of the wax, and the Skywalker seal on the other.

"How many now?" she asked.

"Twenty-eight," Torrhen replied, rolling his wrist. "Winterfell, Moat Cailin, White Harbor, the Dreadfort, Barrowton, Torrhen's Square… All of them."

"And the South?"

"Just enough for the rest to hear. Jon Arryn, Renly Baratheon, Stannis Baratheon, Tywin Lannister, Doran Martell Mace Tyrell and Hoster Tully. Let the whispers travel on their own."

Lyarra raised an eyebrow. "Not the Freys?"

"Couldn't care less about them to be honest. They will hear in time regardless considering how many families have marriage ties with them."

She nodded. "And when they ask who Val Rayder is?"

"They'll see the name 'Rayder' and draw their own conclusions. She's one of us now—of House Rayder of Hardhome. She bent the knee like the rest. They can choke on it if they don't like it."

Lyarra gave a crooked smile. "They will. They'll call her a wildling."

"They can call her a dragon for all I care," Torrhen muttered, sealing another scroll. "She's twice the woman most lords tried to offer me. She's brave. Loyal. Sharp. And she doesn't flinch when she looks at me."

Lyarra stood and kissed his head. "You are right, she's worthy of bearing a bunch of Skywalkers."

**Scene Break**

Second Moon of 286 AC, Winterfell:

POV: Maester Luwin

The raven arrived in a steady drizzle, its feathers wet and eyes dull.

Maester Luwin dried the scroll by the hearth before breaking the seal. When he read it, he blinked once, then twice.

"Well," he said aloud, adjusting his spectacles, "that'll set the North talking."

By the next day, the news had reached Lady Dustin in Barrowton and Lord Cerwyn at the White Knife's edge. Within the week, the letter—or copies of it—were in the hands of a dozen lords and their castellans, sparking fireside mutterings in longhalls and sunless towers.

"Torrhen Snow—now Skywalker—has taken a betrothed. Val of House Rayder, sworn to him from beyond the Wall. The marriage is set for the third moon of 287."

**Scene Break**

POV: Benjen Stark

Benjen was mid-drill with the guard recruits when Maester Luwin handed him the letter. One read was enough.

He snorted, wiping sweat from his brow. "He really did it."

Luwin looked up. "You disapprove?"

Benjen shook his head. "No. I know how the wildlings are. She's probably got more spine than half the lords at Winterfell. But half the North's daughters have been offered to Torrhen in the last two years. This'll sour them."

"Will it sour you?" Luwin asked, gently.

Benjen paused. "No. I think it's perfect. Of course Torrhen would choose the one woman no lord can control."

**Scene Break**

POV: Greatjon Umber

The letter was read aloud during a feast, and the Greatjon howled with laughter, slamming his cup to the table.

"BASTARD'S GOT BALLS!" he bellowed. "A bloody wildling bride—"

His maester coughed. "It's still a wildling, my lord"

"Aye and I suppose if relations with 'em fuckers north of the wall hadn't improved lately, I would be bloody angry right now but as of now? Let the lords who offered their daughters and sisters brood in discontent." Jon Umber said with a smile.

**Scene Break**

POV: Howland Reed

The small lord of Greywater Watch read the letter in silence, candlelight flickering in his narrow eyes.

"Rayder," he murmured. "So Mance's kin bends the knee and joins the new bloodline. And the children of prophecy... begin to form their own house."

He smiled faintly, the words from the woods witch from not too long ago not forgotten.

"The world is changing but thankfully it seems for the better."

**Scene Break**

Pov: Walder Frey

Lord Walder squinted at the parchment, his lip curling.

"A wildling girl? When he could've had a Frey girl—he'd be swimming in dowries. Stupid boy."

One of his sons tried to speak.

"He's a fool! I sent two proposals—two!—and he takes some wild bitch who probably eats rats and thinks soap is magic."

He crumpled the letter. "Mark me, he'll regret it. They always do when they don't take a Frey."

**Scene Break**

POV: Jon Arryn

Jon read the letter slowly. His face betrayed nothing.

Beside him, Lysa fretted. "A wildling? Truly? Are the Northmen mad?"

Jon looked out over the Crownlands' endless sky.

"Not mad. Just tired of southern chains. He has wealth, a port, grain, and a queen of the untamed. The North may not rise with banners, but they are rising. And Torrhen Skywalker may well lead them."

**Scene Break**

POV: Wyman Manderly

Wyman sat with his son Wylis and reread the letter three times.

"He rejected every southern offer," Wylis said. "Including ours."

Wyman sighed. "Not all matches are made for coin. He wants loyalty and strength. And this Val… she brings him the wildling allegiance."

Wylis crossed his arms. "Let's hope he won't regret marrying a wildling girl."

Wyman chuckled. "Maybe. But we'll trade with him anyway. And if he sires strong sons with a woman the rest of Westeros despises? That's still a game we can play."

**Scene Break**

Third Moon of 286 AC, Winterfell

POV: Eddard Stark

Even with the large amount of coin Torrhen and Lyarra had sent the vaults were emptying faster than he liked. Sure there was still a lot of coin in them but the drain was noticeable and every Stark knew to keep a certain amount in reserve for winter.

Scrolls of expenditure littered the long table in his solar—maps of Moat Cailin, ledgers inked with precise Northern script, supply lists, and engineer requests. Nearby, Maester Luwin stood with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes flicking between numbers and Ned's expression.

"It's worse than expected," Ned murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We knew the foundations would be poor after so many years of rot, but I had hoped the stones might still be salvageable."

Luwin cleared his throat. "Some are, my lord, but most are being quarried anew. The marshes are difficult to build through even with the dry paths the Reed's helped create. Labor alone is draining the coffers—food, shelter, tools, wages…"

"And we've barely begun the outer wall," Ned said.

A silence settled. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the yard, a training sword rang against another. Robb and Jon were probably already watching, he knew those two would start using wooden swords as soon as he allowed them to. Catelyn's distant laughter—Serena's—echoed faintly, reminding him what this was all meant for: a future strong enough to last.

Still, the coin had to come from somewhere.

He dipped his quill, paused, then wrote out a letter addressed to Lyarra Skywalker, Lady and Steward of Frostgate.

Dear Lyarra,

With respect and regard for the service House Skywalker has rendered to the North, I must inform you that the continued reconstruction of Moat Cailin has strained Winterfell's treasury beyond its limits. To ensure the success of this project, which benefits all of the North—not least Skane, by securing the Neck—I find it necessary to increase the tax burden on your House, effective immediately.

This is not a punishment, nor a slight. It is a necessity.

May the gods watch over your work, as it guards all of ours. I hope you understand.

—Lord Eddard Stark

He signed it, sealed it with the direwolf sigil, and passed it to Luwin without another word.

**Scene Break**

POV: Lyarra Skywalker

The letter crackled faintly in her hand as she read it by the glow of a redstone lantern. Her expression remained unreadable through the first pass, the second, even the third.

Torrhen glanced over her shoulder. "Bad news?"

"No." She folded the parchment neatly and placed it aside. "Just expensive news."

He arched a brow. "Ned?"

She nodded. "He's raising our taxes. Moat Cailin is draining him."

Torrhen winced. "Can we afford it with our current production?"

Lyarra smirked. "We're sitting on half a dozen gold reserves, Torrhen. And that's just what the accountants know."

Alex looked up from where she was sketching improvements to the Skyport canals. "So, what, you write back and protest?"

Lyarra stood, brushing dust from her sleeves. "I'm going to the overworld."

Steve blinked. "Now?"

"We need more gold. The taxes won't hurt too much, but since we want to build a war fleet and buy unsullied and oh all the other things we want to do it's better if we had more in reserve." she said as she reached for her enchanted pickaxe. "And the best way to do that is... more gold farms."

Torrhen chuckled. "You say that like it's as simple as planting carrots."

"For us, it is, it is not?." She tossed him a compass. "Keep things orderly while I'm gone. I'll be back tomorrow."

Later that day in the nether:

The sun never rose here, not really—not in the dense clouds of the nether where Lyarra had anchored her redstone relay towers. Piglins squealed below in the biome-linked gold farm she had built months ago, but it was no longer sufficient. Efficiency was everything now.

Standing on an obsidian platform high above the world, she stared down at the automated kill zone: lots and lots of magma blocks, soulsand fires and hoppers already hard at work.

With a sigh of focus and a flick of her wrist, she opened her inventory chest and placed the first blocks of a new ring: four times larger than the last.

Gold. Endless gold. Enough to build a kingdom. Or buy one.

As the first piglins began to spawn, she whispered to herself, half-amused:

"Raise my taxes again, Ned. I dare you."

Then again... if House Skywalker paid even more in taxes, other houses would notice and they would throw even more betrothals at Lyarra's feet... well atleast they had delayed things by Torrhen making it clear that betrothals for her would not be considered until she had atleast reached ten and eight namedays.

**Scene Break**

Third Moon of 286 AC, Frostgate

POV: Torrhen Skywalker

The steward's office had been cleared of scribes and soldiers for the occasion—just the inner circle now, seated in a rough circle around the firepit that crackled beneath a wrought-iron grate. Rain beat softly against the windows. Alex was polishing her gauntlets beside Steve, while Lyarra pored over a grain ledger with narrowed eyes.

Torrhen looked up from the sealed letter in his hand.

"Scrooge McDuck," he said aloud, as if tasting the words. "Steward of Frostgate."

Across the fire, the squat, sharply dressed man in question adjusted his spectacles and gave a stiff nod.

"Aye, Lord Skywalker. After Lady Lyarra allowed my request, I've read your ledgers, walked your vaults, spoken with your miners and scribes. I know my Lady has done her best but your accounts are slightly disorganized and I have spotted multiple inaccuracies. Not enough to bother you know but in the future? It could spell disaster."

"Inaccuracies? Disaster?" Lyarra's tone sharpened.

"Not by me," Scrooge said smoothly, "but by anyone else who spots the holes. You need a steward who's not afraid to say no to a lord and hells no to a merchant. That's me."

Steve leaned forward, squinting. "Didn't you try to bribe someone in White Harbour half a year ago?"

"I tried," Scrooge said proudly. "He accepted."

Torrhen couldn't help the amused breath that escaped him. "Very well. You'll be our steward. You've earned that much with what you recovered from that fledgling smuggling ring at Skyport."

Scrooge smiled, a predator's grin that didn't quite fit his size. "Excellent. In that case, I have one small—very small—personal request."

Torrhen raised a brow. "Which is?"

The McDuck reached into his coat and unfurled a parchment. It was a design—an elaborate cubic vault, with reinforced stone walls, bronze piping, and a deep basin filled not with water, but coins.

"A swimming pool," Scrooge said. "Filled with coin. Strictly for personal use. I won't take a copper of yours—I'll swim in the reserve hoard. Keeps my senses sharp. Makes me feel young."

Alex snorted. "You want to swim in gold?"

"I've done it before," Scrooge said indignantly. "Great for the joints."

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Torrhen leaned back in his seat and rubbed a hand over his jaw. What sort of magic was involved to slowly make the villagers he had named for fun exactly like the characters he had named them after?

"You realize how absurd this sounds, right?"

"Absurd is building a merchant port on a cursed island," Scrooge shot back. "Absurd is letting a wildling princess and a dornish princess live in the same tower. Compared to that? I just want to do a backstroke through commerce."

Torrhen shook his head with a soft laugh. "Fine. You can have your coin pool. But let this be understood—the gold remains property of the Skywalkers. You swim in it. You do not spend it. You do not lend it. You do not... bottle it."

Scrooge placed one feathered hand on his chest. "You have my word."

"You've also got a schedule," Lyarra said, rising. "Five bells tomorrow, you're meeting with the grain quartermasters. And after that, you're letting your brother Dagobert take the reins of the mint."

Scrooge stood proudly and gave a formal bow. "You won't regret this. Mark my words—by the time I'm done, you'll be rolling in gold."

"We already are," Torrhen murmured.

"Then I'll show you how to dive in it," Scrooge said, and marched off, already muttering about vault ratios and temperature insulation.

As the door closed behind him, Alex looked to Torrhen. "He's insane."

"Possibly," Torrhen said.

"But useful," Lyarra added.

Torrhen smiled. "Very but then again all of the faithful are."

**Scene Break**