Building and Crafting in Game of Thrones

Comments and Reviews would be welcome as always. :)

I totally forgot that Elia should have looong given birth by now, my bad, soooo yeah uhm I'm just going to add it here.

Scene Break

Second Moon of 286 AC, Frostgate

POV: Elia Martell

The pregnancy had taken long, a bit too long for even Elia's experience whos pregnancies with her little Rhae and Egg hadn't been easy. And too long for the healer Hermione Granger who told her that a child normally shouldn't need so long to come out. Not that Elia hadn't known that herself, she just had deluded herself into thinking that everything was fine.

The pain came on gentle at first—like the soft lapping of sea waves against stone—but quickly surged into something deeper, older. The birthing bed was warm, the room dim with lantern light. She bit into a cloth as the healer barked soft encouragements and the midwife worked between her knees. She would have preferred a different kind of work but alas that is hardly possible when one has to give birth.

There was no screaming at first. She had done this before but gods it had been years and she had almost forgotten just how long it took.

The pain eventually overwhelmed her and the screaming came but when it did it had almost been over.

When the babe finally came, it was swift and sudden, with a final, lurching pain that took her breath away. Then came the silence. The soft, unbearable silence she feared most. Her heart caught.

Until—

A cry.

Thin, but alive.

Elia let the breath leave her chest in a shudder, tears spilling before she could wipe them away.

"The babe's perfectly heatlthy. Congratulations my lady, it's a girl." the healer said, placing the tiny bundle into her arms.

A girl. Red-faced and furious, full of life and promise. The typical brown eyes and brown hair for a Stark, there was little Martell in the girl, she was all Stark. She even had light skin.

After all that work atleast she could have taken a bit more after me Elia thought with amusement, relieved that it was finally over. She'd be able to have more children but nope, never again.

Torrhen entered minutes later, breathing hard as if he'd run the length of the keep. He paused at the threshold, unsure—then crossed the room in three long strides.

"Elia," he said, kneeling at her side. "You're all right?"

"I'm alive. She's alive." Her voice was ragged with emotion.

His gaze dropped to the infant, now nursing weakly beneath the wool blanket.

"She's beautiful," he said, voice soft. "Truly."

Elia looked down, stroking the dark curls just beginning to show on the newborn's scalp. "I've been thinking about a name. I remembered what you said to me that night. You told me names from your world. Strange ones."

Torrhen blinked. "I did?"

"Yes," she said with a ghost of a smile. "One of them stuck with me. Padme."

He stared for a beat, surprised. "You want to name her that?"

"It's lovely on the tongue," she said. "Soft, but strong. It doesn't belong to anyone in Dorne. Or Westeros. It's hers. Entirely."

Torrhen reached out slowly, as if afraid to disturb the moment. "Then she is Padme of Frostgate. Daughter of Skywalker blood."

Elia tilted her head, watching him carefully. "Will Val object?"

"Val knows what this is. She's proud, not petty." He smiled faintly. "Besides, I think she'll like the name too."

Elia leaned her head back against the cushions, Padme curled against her chest. "It's strange. I was meant to die in the Red Keep, they told me. My children were supposed to be murdered they told me. And yet here I am. With a new child. In a castle no one had ever heard of five years ago."

"You're not a ghost," Torrhen said. "You're a woman who survived."

"And you?" she asked, sleep heavy in her eyes. "What are you?"

He considered that, then said quietly, "A builder. Of strange things. Of impossible futures."

She closed her eyes. "Then build a future for her, too."

"I will," he promised.

Outside, the sky was clear, the stars sharp and cold.

**Scene Break**

Fourth Moon of 286 AC, North of Thenntown

POV: Torrhen Skywalker

The wind off the Bay of Seals carried the tang of salt and ice. Seagulls wheeled above, cawing over the pale surf, and the grass that grew sparse among the frost-streaked dunes bent beneath the breeze. Thenntown was visible in the distance—a humble sprawl of longhouses and stone kilns nestled inbetween. Smoke rose from their chimneys like quiet prayers.

Torrhen stood with his arms crossed as Steve pointed toward the bluff above the sea.

"Here," Steve said simply. "Sturdy ground. Good view. And Alex likes the way the morning light hits the cliffs."

Alex nodded, her arms folded behind her back, blue eyes sharp. "We want our own hall. Nothing massive, just something… ours. A place to defend. A place to live."

Lyarra raised an eyebrow. "So you're not satisfied with living in Frostgate?"

Alex scoffed. "It's your castle, Lyarra. You earned it. I want a keep I built with my own hands."

Torrhen gave a quiet nod. "You helped us built ours, Then let us help you build yours."

Steve blinked. "You mean now?"

He smirked. "Why wait?"

They set to work.

**Scene Break**

It began with obsidian cornerstones, summoned from the quartett's inventory and placed like a mason laying the first holy stones of a sept. From there came blackstone and basalt, cobbled foundations and stonebricks. Walls unfolded layer by layer, textured with red netherbrick trims and polished granite veins. Windows shimmered with dyed glass; the main hall rose in cubic layers as if shaped by some divine chisel.

The Craftsons worked with them—Steve laying foundations, Alex carving battlements by hand, Lyarra weaving redstone light through the corridors, and Torrhen summoning the heavy blocks of rare stone as easily as a blacksmith hammers iron.

By dusk, the keep stood complete.

Tall and narrow like a blade thrust into the frost, its highest tower overlooked the sea and the eastern wilds beyond. Courtyards were ringed by walls bearing the dark green and black banners marked with the sigil Alex had designed herself: an ender pearl on a black background.

Later that day, Val stood silent at the edge of the courtyard, staring in awe.

"You built this," she said at last, her voice low. "In a single day."

Torrhen nodded. "We've done it before."

Her gaze swept from him to Steve, to Alex, to Lyarra—who was fiddling with a repeating lantern mechanism above the main gate.

"It wasn't magic, atleast not magic I have heard of." Val murmured. "It was more than that. You shape the world like the gods of old."

He looked away. "I don't know what I am," he said honestly. "We died once, Lyarra and I. Since then… we have done a lot of impossible things. Maybe the old gods indeed gave us another chance, who knows?"

Val didn't press. Instead, she bent her knee, placing a hand over her chest. "Whatever you are… I serve you freely, Torrhen Skywalker. May you give me as many children as you please."

Torrhen blinked. "Val, you already swore to me at Hardhome. That was enough."

But then Steve dropped to one knee beside her, and Alex followed suit.

"In the name of House Craftson," Steve said, "we swear ourselves to be your loyal vassals."

Torrhen exhaled. "Why now?"

Steve looked up at him, eyes honest beneath his helm. "Because I'm tired of lords and games. Tired of bending words and weighing offers. I just want to build. To live. You're the only one who will ever let us do that freely."

"And I want my own bannermen," Alex added. "Faithful are good, but I want more. People who'll stand with me when the cold winds rise. And they will rise, right?"

Torrhen nodded slowly. "Sooner than they know."

She smirked. "Then we'll be ready."

Later that night, seated at a firepit in Enderbane Hall's new hall, Torrhen added the names to a fresh parchment:

The Bannermen of House Skywalker, by the start of the Seventh Moon of 286 AC:

House Stane of Driftwood Hall

House Magnar of Kingshouse

House Rayder of Hardhome

House Magnar of Snowfort

House Craftson of Enderbane Hall

The names felt solid now. Like foundations. And behind them were real people: proud, stubborn, loyal, dangerous. No banners sewn by accident.

He looked across the room to where Steve was leaning back in a new stone chair, Alex sharpening her sword, and Val quietly staring at the sea from the balcony.

They were building something far greater than a hall.

They were building a future.

**Scene Break**

Fourth Moon of 286 AC, Hardhome

POV: Steve Craftson

The sea wind at Hardhome was a living thing—sharp and salt-laced, tugging at cloaks and braids alike. Steve adjusted the clasp of his shoulder guard as he and Alex strode up the slope toward the new stone hall that now overlooked the growing port.

Hardhome was no longer a graveyard of bones and shipwrecks. It breathed again—stone buildings rising between old ruins, smoke curling from chimneys, and laughter echoing in the evening air. The banners of House Rayder fluttered in blue and black from the towers, a rising sun above jagged mountains. The free folk had made it theirs.

And now, Steve and Alex were there to make the future theirs as well.

Inside the hall, Mance Rayder greeted them with a warrior's clasp of arms and a wry smile.

"You come with smiles, no swords. That bodes well," he said.

Alex grinned. "Only fools threaten their kin for the Skywalkers are yours by marriage and they might as well be called mine."

That drew a laugh from Dalla, seated nearby with one hand on her growing belly. She rose to greet them warmly.

"You've brought good weather with you," she said. "Even the gulls are quiet today."

Steve nodded to her respectfully. "We bring more than weather."

Within the hour, they sat around the central hearth, mead and broth warming their hands, as the agreement was laid bare.

"A marriage pact between your child and ours," Alex said. "We have built a castle north of Thenntown and have already a pact with our liege and will soon make one with the Thenns aswell. "

Mance leaned back, face unreadable. "And if the children choose otherwise?"

"Then they do," Steve said simply. "We won't force a bond. But we'll raise them knowing they have the option, and knowing peace is worth preserving."

Dalla exchanged a glance with Mance, then nodded. "You'll have our support. You will need people to live in that castle, no? God's know how you have built one that fast again but people you cannot create from nothing. We will send servants to your hall. Good folk. Not just hands, but hearts. They'll build with you, not just labor."

"And some of our kin will go too," Mance added. "Clanspeople who want more than just endless wandering."

Steve smiled. "We'll welcome them."

As they left two days later—ships loaded with wildling servants, woodworkers, and even a couple of bone-thin scribes—Alex glanced back at Dalla and smiled faintly.

"Did you notice?" she murmured.

Steve followed her gaze.

"She's pregnant aswell."

Alex nodded. "The free folk keep growing. So must we."

**Scene Break**

Seventh Moon of 286 AC, Enderbane Hall

POV: Alex Craftson

The first village west of Enderbane Hall was more a ring of hides and stones than a true settlement. Its people—broad-shouldered, wary-eyed, and cloaked in layered pelts—watched warily as Steve raised a hand in peace.

"We're not lords," he called out. "We've come to speak, not rule."

A grizzled man with braided beard and a knife the length of Alex's forearm stepped forward. "You come from Hardhome?"

"From Frostgate," Alex said. "And from Hardhome, yes. With offers."

In the days that followed, Steve and Alex visited six settlements scattered along the icy ridges and wooded glens west and north of Enderbane Hall. Some were warm to the idea—especially younger clanspeople who had seen trade pass them by and food grow scarce. Others were less trusting, citing the old ways, the old gods, and a deep suspicion of anything built from stone.

"You build keeps," one elder woman said. "And keeps mean kings. And kings mean chains."

Alex met her gaze squarely. "We build homes. What you do in them is yours. But you'll have walls, fire, and enough grain to keep your children from starving come the snows."

In the end, three of the clans sent representatives to settle near Enderbane Hall, swearing neither fealty nor rebellion, but cooperation. They brought tents, sleds, and goat herds, and began raising simple homes alongside the fortress Alex and Steve had built just days before.

On the eighth night, Alex sat beside Steve atop the high ridge above the hall, watching fires glow in the dark below.

"We'll need more grain," she muttered.

"We'll ask Lyarra."

She smirked. "We'll tell Lyarra."

He smiled. "She's going to suggest a whole new district for them."

"I hope so," Alex said. "Because this—this might just be how we save the free folk."

**Scene Break**

Fifth Moon of 286 AC, Casterly Rock

POV: Torrhen Skywalker

Taking a ship from Hardhome he had made his way towards White Harbour and ridden immediately towards Seaguard. From there on he had taken a ship towards Lannisport as soon as possible, for time was running out for what he wanted to do.

Or rather the things he wanted to do. He didn't know when but soon Tyrion would stumble upon an unfortunate young girl who would fall in love with him and experience one of the worst things a human could experience because of that. He had an idea that might get him not only Tyrion's trust but his allegiance aswell.

His official reason of course was to make a fat amount of coin by selling a netherite sword to House Lannister.

The sword gleamed like nothing born of this world, because it wasn't.

Even sheathed, the weight of it commanded attention—dark as night, yet faintly glowing with deep crimson veins like ancient embers trapped in black stone. Torrhen watched it catch the torchlight as it was presented to Lord Tywin Lannister atop the high dais in the audience chamber of Casterly Rock.

"It is called Netherite," Torrhen said calmly. "Forged from fire and death."

Tywin regarded the blade with that same cold, dispassionate intensity he used on banners, debts, and sons. He did not touch it, not yet. Instead, he studied Torrhen.

"It looks like Valyrian steel."

"It behaves like it," Torrhen said. "Harder than any steel I've ever tested. Immune to rust, burns hotter than wildfire if reforged. You'll never need to sharpen it, and it'll never break."

Tywin's brow twitched. "You brought it to me, not to the Citadel or the Iron Bank."

"I brought it to the man who would both appreciate its value and afford its cost."

The silence stretched.

Finally, Tywin lifted the blade. Even he looked faintly surprised by the balance and lightness. He sliced the air once.

"What's your price?" he asked without looking up.

Torrhen didn't blink. "Three hundred thousand dragons. Ten crates of gold. No barter. No delay."

Varys might have smirked. Littlefinger might have laughed. But Tywin only nodded once.

"It's not Valyrian Steel but I suppose it comes close. Done."

**Scene Break**

POV: Torrhen Skywalker

He found the boy where he suspected he would: tucked between two leaning towers of books, lost in the ink-smudged margins of a Valyrian grammar.

"So what brings the miracle bastard to a disgraced dward like me?" asked the young boy with a smirk after the initial introductions had been made.

"Besides just pure interest? That I will explain later" Torrhen said solemnly.

An uncomfortable silence held between them for a few seconds.

"Did you know half these scribes translated it wrong?" Tyrion asked without looking up, showing him a page of the book he was reading.

Torrhen leaned against the pillar and grinned. "And here I thought I was the only one who read for fun."

Tyrion looked up and blinked. "Ah I just remembered, you were here to sell a sword to my father, no?"."

"Among other things."

"Come to gloat about your sale? Or see if I'd translate your next weapon manual?"

"Neither. I'm here for the books." Torrhen stepped forward. "I like learning things most people ignore."

Tyrion gave a mock bow. "Then allow me to show you the best-kept secret in all of Casterly Rock: the bottom shelf on the third row—history texts banned in Oldtown."

"Lead the way."

**Scene Break**

POV: Tyrion Lannister

Torrhen was leaving.

It wasn't fair, of course. Tyrion had only known him three days, and yet the departure stung more than it should have. In those three days they had argued over Freehold succession laws, debated the nature of magical metallurgy, and nearly come to blows over the ethics of ancient blood rituals.

It was the most alive Tyrion had felt in years.

"You should stay," he said as they walked the outer corridor toward the Skywalker retinue preparing outside the western gate.

"I can't. Frostgate needs me. Lyarra would murder me if I let Scrooge redesign the tax code without supervision."

Tyrion tried to laugh but couldn't quite.

"You're different," he said instead. "Not just clever. Strange. Like you already know things you shouldn't."

Torrhen paused.

"I do."

Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "Like during the war? My uncle Gerion said you warned your brother of my father's intentions. Said you knew what the mountain's orders war"

Torrhen smiled faintly. "Perhaps, did he get that from your lord father?"

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Most likely though I wonder what you make with the knowledge that it was indeed my father who gave the orders."

"Nothing for I have always known" Torrhen said causing Tyrion to nod in acceptance.

Torrhen took a step closer. His voice lowered.

"Listen to me, Tyrion. Soon—very soon—you'll meet someone. Someone who sees you as you are. Who laughs at your wit without cruelty. Who loves you. Truly."

Tyrion stiffened. "That's… kind. But—"

"But Tywin will do everything he can to ruin it," Torrhen said bluntly. "When that moment comes, don't listen to him. Not even if he sounds like he's trying to protect you."

Tyrion said nothing for a long time.

"Is this prophecy?" he asked at last, bitterly.

"Perhaps but it's also just… a truth I know too well." Torrhen offered a small leather-bound volume. "Here. Something to remember me by."

Tyrion took it. A treatise on pre-Valyrian Essosi city-states. He swallowed hard. "You're really leaving?"

"For now."

"I hope you're wrong. About my father, I mean."

"I hope I am too," Torrhen said but Tyrion knew that Torrhen had believed every single word he had said.

They clasped wrists—one tall and sun-browned, the other short and ink-stained.

And then Torrhen turned, his cloak billowing in the sea breeze.

Tyrion stood there long after he'd gone, the wind coming from a nearby window flipping the pages of the book in his hand.

**Scene Break**