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Fifth Moon of 285 AC, Hardhome:
POV: Torrhen Skywalker
The sea beyond the Wall was cruel, sharp as broken glass and loud as war drums. Wind lashed the sails as the small fleet approached Hardhome's craggy shore, and the scent of salt and smoke hung thick in the air. They had trekked along the wall and then borrowed a ship with crew at Eastwatch by the Sea. Life had improved considerably at the North and that was partially because of the Starks, and in the eyes of the Night's Watch Torrhen was still a Stark even if he didn't bear the name.
Torrhen stood at the prow beside Steve and Alex, his fur cloak flapping behind him. The town ahead had changed from the description he got about Hardhome in his past life. What was described as a ruin of half-rotting timber and haunted silence now bore crude repairs. Walls were half-built, piers extended unevenly into the sea, and tents cluttered the cliffs above like barnacles.
It was progress. Painfully slow, but progress nonetheless. Obviously someone had settled here some time ago.
"I thought it'd be worse," Steve muttered, crossing his arms. "I mean, considering this place was basically a graveyard from what you told us."
Alex grunted. "Heh looks like there's someone that's trying to pretend it's alive."
"Better than pretending to be dead," Torrhen replied, lips quirking slightly. "Come on. Let's make ourselves known."
The main meeting hall had clearly once been a temple, or maybe a great lodge. The rafters sagged, the hearth smoked badly, and the benches were mismatched planks hammered together by desperate hands.
A man sat at the head of the long table, surrounded by a mix of what seemed to be tribal chieftains, scarred hunters, and weather-bitten warriors.
"Torrhen Snow, I was told of your arrival. I am honoured to receive the so called miracle bastard and savior of maidens in my hall." he greeted, voice like gravel over ice.
It seemed like his name had spread even further north than he had expected... or maybe the wildling leader in front of him had the allegiance of one or more wargs... perhaps a bit of both.
Torrhen gave a respectful nod. "Greetings but it is Skywalker. I am Torrhen Skywalker now, Lord of Frostgate, Warden of Skane and Skagos."
Mance chuckled humorlessly. "Got quite the titles for a man who once slept was considered to be worth nothing by southern nobles like the rest of us. I am Mance Rayder, the chief of the tribes who are living here and in the surrounding areas. If you have heard my name before then know that I do not regret betraying my oaths to the Night's Watch, I should have never been a black brother." the man, Mance, said with conviction.
The man's identity surprised Torrhen a little, it seemed like the appearence of the minecraft mobs in the lands beyond the wall had a few more butterfly effects than Torrhen had thought at first.
"I do not care that you have been a black brother before becoming a wildling leader, just that you are effectively ruling this town. And you've got quite the town here," Torrhen said, gesturing to the hall and the weary faces around it. "Starving, half-rebuilt, under constant threat by monsters that shouldn't exist."
Mance's eyes narrowed. "We're surviving." But that was clearly a lie, the farms beyond the fragile walls of Hardhome were not nearly enough to feed the cramped wildlings living in the town and you could only do so much with fishing and hunting.
"For now but I doubt you are going to survive the next winter. You could be thriving however." he said.
That got their attention. Torrhen unrolled a scroll on the table, weighed it with a small ingot of gold just because he could and because it sent a message, and began laying out his offer in a calm, measured tone.
"We'll supply food—grain, salted meat, potatoes, carrots, bread. As much as you need to keep your people fed this coming winter. We'll give you armor, weapons, tools. And you won't owe us a single stag in taxes until you can support yourselves."
A few murmurs swept the hall.
"No levies either," Torrhen continued. "No war summons, no conscription. Not for ten years. And after that, if war comes, it'll be by your choice, not mine."
Mance drummed his fingers on the table. "In exchange for what?"
"For you to kneel," Torrhen said simply. "To become Lord of Hardhome and the surrounding lands, sworn to me."
The silence was immediate and tense.
Several of the chiefs bristled. One spat on the floor. But Mance didn't move. He didn't speak for a long while.
When he did, it was with a weary sort of resignation. "You offer more than most would. You speak like a Southerner, but you think like a Free Folk. If I say yes… what happens then?"
"Then you rebuild. With our help. You get peace, security, and trade. You become part of a greater realm—one that has room for kings and wildlings alike. My agreement with my brother who is the Stark of Winterfell was similiar to what I have offered you. No summons to war for the next 10 years. The Seven Kingdoms are at peace as you know and no war is in sight."
Mance looked at his people and must have remembered how most inhabitants of Hardhome were. Tired, cold, hungry. Then back at Torrhen.
"I'll think on it," he said.
Torrhen nodded. "Good."
**Scene Break**
POV: Alex Craftson
The negotiations had ended without bloodshed—always a win north of the Wall from what she had heard. The Craftsons, Torrhen, and the Honor Guard had settled into a large encampment outside the repaired palisades. Fires burned low as dusk fell.
Alex sat near the training ring, sharpening her sword as the Honor Guard sparred in pairs, their forms less laughable than before. Across the ring, Torrhen traded blows with their newest sword instructor—a grizzled ex-Thenn who hit like a hammer.
Steve appeared beside her, biting into a piece of smoked rabbit.
"You saw her too?" he asked between chews.
Alex didn't look up. "The blonde one in the fur-lined hood?"
"Yeah. Been watching him since the talks started."
"She's pretty," Alex said. "Blonde hair, strong jaw, high cheekbones. Hair like wild wheat."
Steve chuckled. "You're better at describing women than I am."
Alex smirked. "I notice things."
"She didn't take her eyes off him. Not once."
"That's what I noticed as well. Come let's find out later just who she is. Maybe Mance Rayder knows something."
Later, after sparring had ended and Torrhen had vanished into his tent to dry off, Alex approached Mance Rayder as he stood over a crude map of the coastline, marking potential fishing zones.
"Who's the girl who kept staring at Torrhen?" she asked.
Mance looked up, blinking. "hmmmm... what? The girl who kept staring at your friend... ah you mean Val?"
Steve appeared behind her. "That her name?"
"She's my wife Dalla's younger sister," Mance said. "Wild as a mountain cat. Beautiful, too. She's been asking about your lord earlier."
Alex arched an eyebrow. Steve tried (and failed) not to grin.
"She single?" Alex asked.
Mance raised a brow. "She's free folk. They're all single until they're not."
Alex glanced at Steve, who was already trying not to laugh. They exchanged a look. Mischievous. Calculating. Familiar. They thanked Mance for the information and went back to their tent.
"He did say he wants a big family one day," Steve said.
"And he's clearly into her," Alex added. "He's been staring right back."
Steve nodded solemnly. "It's our duty to support his aspirations."
That evening, as the camp settled, Alex stopped by the guards posted near Torrhen's tent.
"If a girl named Val shows up," she said casually, "let her through. No questions."
The guards blinked. "My lady?"
"You heard me."
Steve just gave them a thumbs-up from the shadows.
"Trust us," he added. "He'll thank you later."
And beneath the moons of the far north, while the wind howled over the bones of the old world, change crept quietly into the heart of Hardhome.
**Scene Break**
Fifth Moon of 285 AC, Hardhome, The Far North:
POV: Torrhen Skywalker
The chill outside Torrhen's tent had deepened after sunset, the snow falling soft and steady, muting the sounds of the sprawling wildling camp beyond. The fire crackled low, casting flickering shadows across maps of the frozen coast and sketches of possible settlements.
Steve had joked earlier that Torrhen might be visited tonight.
Torrhen hadn't thought much of it—until the flap of his tent stirred.
One of the guards, Peter Griffin, stepped through, a bit out of breath. "A woman, my lord. She… insisted. Said you were expecting her."
Before Torrhen could ask further, she slipped past the guard like a breeze.
She stood tall and poised, her white-blonde hair braided with beads and bone, dressed in furs that clung in all the right places. Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief—and intent.
Torrhen froze, words momentarily abandoning him. Gods, she's even more stunning in person.
"And who might you be?" he asked after regaining his composure.
She gave him a quick once-over, then smiled knowingly. "I am Val... You know you're not what I expected."
The name took him by surprise, any got fan knew the name of the wildling that had been considered a princess by the Westerosi. And now a teenage version of the same woman was standing in front of him.
He cleared his throat. "You knew my name?"
"I know of you. You and your twin are all the clansmen talk about. Some of the crows I met during the journey here mentioned you before. One said you're a god dressed in boy's skin."
Torrhen chuckled. "And what do you think?"
"I say you look tired, clever, and alone. That's usually when men are most honest."
The guard behind her was still frozen in place. Torrhen waved him off. "You may go."
Val stepped closer as the tent flap fell shut again, shutting out the night. "Mance said I could speak to you. Alone. He trusts me more than most."
"You speak well," Torrhen said carefully. "Too well to have slipped through my guards by accident."
She smirked. "They didn't try to stop me. I think they were hoping I'd steal your furs and your virtue."
He smiled back despite himself, studying her. Confident. Direct. Beautiful. Dangerous? Possibly. But honest in her own way.
She walked the perimeter of the tent, running a hand across the maps, the fabric, the sword laid beside his cot. "So. Is it true you want to build cities where only ghosts dwell?"
"Yes," Torrhen said, voice low. "And light fires that never go out. The lands beyond the wall have changed since the mobs.. sorry monsters appeared. The wildlings need properly fortified towns, big and spread out enough that all have a place and everyone can be fed from the surrounding lands. I want to help with that."
"I believe it." She turned back to face him. "You want to bring all the wildlings under your banner.. something impossible. I like that."
They spoke long into the night—of the land, the wildlings, of gods and ghosts. Val told him of her people's hardships, of the mountains that swallowed men, of her sister Dalla's dreams. Torrhen told her of the forge at Frostgate, of what layed on Skane and Skagos, and of the promise of unity.
At one point, their hands touched, and neither pulled away.
Later—after laughter, whispered stories, and a kiss that stole the breath from them both—she rested against him under his furs. No vows were spoken. No lines were crossed too far. But something had shifted.
A promise. A possibility.
**Scene Break**
The snowfall had stilled at dawn. Pale light edged the mountains.
Val walked beside Torrhen, her expression unreadable but her arm looped through his. Behind them, Steve and Alex followed at a respectful distance, saying nothing.
Inside the tent, Mance Rayder waited by a small fire pit. He rose when they entered.
"Torrhen Skywalker," Mance said with a nod. "You're late. Or perhaps I'm early."
"I was told we had something to discuss."
Mance's eyes flicked to Val, who met his gaze calmly, then returned to Torrhen. "You've impressed more than just my people. You've impressed her."
Val said nothing.
Mance folded his arms. "You want peace. Civilization. A place for your laws. I want my people to survive without bending knee to those who see them as less than beasts."
He stepped forward. "So here's my offer. I'll bend the knee—to you. I'll swear to follow you. Not as a king… but as a lord in truth."
Torrhen raised a brow. "What's the condition?"
Mance smiled faintly. "That when Val turns ten-and-four—which will be in a few moons—you take her to wife. You marry her, and through her, bind yourself to the Free Folk forever."
Val's expression didn't change, but her gaze shifted slightly toward Torrhen.
Torrhen's mind moved fast. She is beautiful. Clever. Strong. The wildlings adore her. It secures their loyalty. He thought of Elia, of Lyanna, of all the times love had been a battlefield.
He looked at Mance. "And if I agree?"
"Then you'll have every spear and axe north of the Wall sworn to you... well atleast those who follow me. I will follow you and they through me."
Torrhen nodded slowly. "Then I agree. When Val turns ten-and-four, we'll be wed."
Mance extended his hand. "Then let it be done."
They clasped arms, a pact sealed in fire and frost.
Mance swore the oath in the old tongue, his voice rough and final. When he finished, Val stepped forward and quietly said, "Until then, I'll stay with you. To learn. To remind you of your promise."
Torrhen didn't object.
He simply met her eyes—and saw no hesitation.
"Then welcome to my adventure," he said, and smiled.
Outside, the cold wind picked up—but inside, something new had taken root.
**Scene Break**
Fifth Moon of 285 AC, Southern Coast of Skane
Pov Lyarra Skywalker
The wind rolled in from the sea, briny and cold, whipping at Lyarra's cloak as she stood atop the small hill overlooking the fledgling settlement. Smoke curled from dozens of wooden chimneys, and the muddy streets were lined with wooden homes—some barely more than shacks.
The things she had introduced like football, pianos and drums had been ignored entirely and so she quickly forgot about that. Guitars were seen as interesting versions of lutes and a few had been brought by the traveling minstrels who hoped to meet the infamous miracle bastards. Chess was regarded as a simpler and yet more refined version of cyvasse by those who had come from Winterfell and understood the game.
One of the guards promised her, he would take a board and a rulebook back to Winterfell once he returned. That would still take some time however, the guards from Winterfell would return only once enough smallfolk on Skane had been trained.
While she was pondering, a cluster of children ran barefoot past the guards, laughing despite the dirtbeneath their feet. The scent of fish and unwashed bodies clung to the salt-heavy air.
"Almost four hundred souls now," said Ser Wade Wilson, removing his helmet and scratching his stubbled jaw. "Most from Skagos. They call it South Skag. Bit unimaginative, if you ask me."
"It won't be that for much longer," Lyarra replied, folding the thick vellum report and tucking it beneath her arm. "By the end of the year, this will be Skyport."
Behind her, Captain Mace Windu of the Diamond Guard stood silently, his presence radiating calm vigilance. His amethyst glowing blade remained sheathed, but his eyes scanned the village ceaselessly. Wade Wilson and twelve Winterfell guards flanked them in a protective ring, their mailed boots sinking slightly into the wet earth.
Lyarra descended the hill and strode toward the heart of the village. People paused in their work, some curious, others wary. Word had spread: the Lady of Frostgate had arrived.
She raised her voice, clear and resolute. "Every farm that lies within a day's walk of this coast is to be sold to the administration. You'll be compensated fairly. Food, coin, and shelter. One to three gold coins depending on acreage, and food stipends until your new homes are ready. Every one of you will receive what I have decided to call an apartment in the new buildings."
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Some looked relieved. Others uncertain.
"You're not being cast out," Lyarra added. "You're being brought forward."
She turned to the at her side. "Begin cataloging ownership and marking properties. Start with those closest to the coastline."
Within the week, huts and shacks were torn down, wooden planks piled and burned. In their place came teams of hired smallfolk with carts, picks, and spades. They flattened the ground under overseers from Frostgate's guards.
From White Harbour came hired masons and carpenters. Trenches were dug—two deep lines winding across the future streets. Lyarra stood beside one as copper piping was lowered into place, gleaming in the sunlight.
"This one's sewage," said the pipeworker, pointing. "That one's for fresh water just like you asked us to do. The freshwater pipes will need pressure though if you want your dream of flowing water to come to reality, milady."
"Don't worry, I'll figure that part out," Lyarra replied. "I will design a pump from scratch if I need to."
**Scene Break**
Fifth Moon of 285 AC, Frostgate, Skane:
Pov Lyarra Skywalker
The bells of Frostgate rang faintly from the inner courtyard, their chime distorted by the wind sweeping down from the mountains. Lyarra stood on the upper balcony of the Hall of Glass, overlooking the expanse of Skane's growing port in the distance. The construction of the second wall had begun just that week.
So when the steward interrupted her with a nervous cough and the words, "A visitor, my lady—he insists on an audience," she didn't expect to find a septon in cream-colored robes standing in her solar.
The man looked far too clean for Skane. His beard was neatly combed, his hands soft, and his eyes judgmental beneath a thick brow.
"I am Septon Lawren," he declared, bowing stiffly. "I bring greetings from the Faith of the Seven, and I come bearing a holy request."
Lyarra raised a brow. "The Seven don't have much reach here."
"Which is precisely the problem," Lawren replied, straightening. "Skane is part of the Seven Kingdoms. And though the North is permitted to follow the Old Gods, this isle—newly brought into the king's fold—remains spiritually untended. A sept should be raised in the port. A modest one, of course. For the sake of unity."
"No," Lyarra said simply.
Lawren blinked. "I… forgive me, Lady Skywalker, but surely you do not mean to reject the spiritual guidance of the realm's dominant faith?"
"I do," she replied. "Firmly and without regret."
He stepped forward. "This island is part of the kingdom. It must reflect the Crown's values."
"We are part of the realm by royal decree, and that same decree granted us the right to our own customs and rule," Lyarra said coolly. "Skane keeps to the Old Gods. The people are happy. There is no demand for a sept—only your presumption."
The septon's face flushed with indignation. "Then you risk branding this isle as a den of heresy."
Lyarra leaned in. "You're welcome to leave with that opinion. You'll find it much easier to voice once you're off my island."
Septon Lawren sputtered. "Are you threatening a servant of the Faith?"
"I'm evicting an uninvited trespasser. Guards."
Two guards stepped into the solar. Without raising their voices, they flanked the septon and motioned toward the door.
"Lady Skywalker—"
"Safe travels," Lyarra said, turning her back on him.
**Scene Break**
Sixth Moon of 285 AC, The Sept of Baelor, King's Landing
Omniscient pov
The High Septon's expression was a careful mask of sanctity. Septon Lawren, red-faced and muttering with wounded pride, knelt before him at the foot of the marble dais.
"She cast me out, Your High Holiness," Lawren said. "Refused to even consider our request. There is no sept, no reverence for the Seven. She even mocked our presence."
The High Septon frowned, folding his fingers. "The North grows bold indeed. First they cheat death, then they claim gold, now they spurn the gods."
He gave a long sigh and reached for a parchment. "Summon a messenger to the Hand. This cannot go unanswered."
**Scene Break**
Tower of the Hand, King's Landing
Pov Jon Arryn
The heat in the Tower of the Hand was sweltering even this late in the day, but Jon Arryn did not open the windows. He preferred discomfort over spies on the wind.
He read the High Septon's letter twice before setting it down.
Robert was snoring on a couch in the adjacent solar, half-drunk after yet another feast. Jon tapped the parchment, then looked across the desk at the waiting septon's messenger.
"Tell His Holiness this: the North has always kept to its trees, its gods, and its old ways. That precedent remains. Lady Lyarra Skywalker rules Skane with her brother's blessing who in turn has the King's blessing, and unless she begins burning septs rather than declining to build one, there will be no rebuke."
The messenger opened his mouth, but Jon raised a hand. "No debate. The Seven reign in the South. The trees in the North. If we start policing faith, we'll have another war before summer ends."
He took a quill and dipped it in ink. "You may tell the High Septon that should he wish to convert Skane, he is welcome to walk there himself."
The quill scratched against the page, and with that, the matter was closed.
**Scene Break**