Building and Crafting in Game of Thrones (Minecraft/GOT crossover)

Comments and Reviews would be welcome as always. :)

Screenshot of Stark family tree

Screenshot of Targaryen/Baratheon family tree

Screenshot of Lannister family tree

Sixth Moon of 287 AC, Frostgate, Skane:

POV: Lyarra Skywalker

The Tyrell banner fluttered green and gold in the Skane wind, though it struggled to stay upright against the sea gusts. Lyarra stood beside Torrhen atop the outer walls of Frostgate as the great Reach fleet anchored in the deepwater port. Nine ships, if she counted right. The central galleon was almost ostentatious in its decoration — golden roses carved into the prow and painted with gaudy care.

"She came herself," Torrhen said, tone unreadable.

"The queen of thorns doesn't send second-rate emissaries," Lyarra replied. "Not when coin's involved."

Below, Unsullied moved to secure the harbor, and the first of the Reachlanders began to disembark. Olenna herself appeared soon after — cloaked in pale green wool, a starched veil tight around her head, eyes sharp beneath her cowl. Willas Tyrell followed close, limping but proud, with Garlan and Margaery flanking him like bright pieces on a gameboard.

"You're staring," Torrhen murmured.

"Not at her," Lyarra said. "At him."

"Willas? Or Garlan?"

"Willas"

"Heh about to become a cougar, aren't ya?" he asked with a grin causing her to swat him.

"Oh shut it you moron, he is only three years younger than us... and he's got a nice smile"

**Scene Break**

POV: Willas Tyrell

Frostgate did not feel like the North. Not truly. There was no dour grimness here, no dirt-swept yards or gray stone keeps — only strange towers of perfect stone, paved streets warmed from below, and lamps that burned without oil. And at the heart of it, a young woman with dark brown hair with silver threats, a diamond-pinned cloak, and eyes that saw too much.

"I hope you're not expecting roses," Willas said lightly as Lyarra Snow approached. "They'd freeze before I handed them to you."

Lyarra raised an eyebrow. "We prefer wolf's bane anyway. It doesn't wither so easily."

He laughed. It wasn't forced.

They fell into conversation easily enough — about horse-breeding, the challenge of feeding so many mouths in winter, and the difficulties of balancing old customs with new powers. She was clever and funny without being cruel. Willas made Lyarra smile more than once.

And he, in turn, watched her with a kind of reverent wariness — like a man approaching a wild beast he hoped would not bite.

**Scene Break**

POV: Olenna Tyrell

Olenna did not like being surprised.

And the North — specifically this strange, impossible corner of it — had surprised her more times in the last two days than she liked to admit.

They fed thousands here, without visible fields. The markets were overflowing. The roads were clean. And there was an air of discipline that reminded her more of the Citadel than any northern holding.

Worst of all, her grandson was enchanted.

"She's too clever by half," Olenna said as they walked the upper corridors of Frostgate, Margaery trailing behind. "And too dangerous by double."

"But not cruel," Willas replied. "Not unkind. And she listens."

"You want to marry her?"

"I wouldn't object to the idea," Willas said honestly. "And if it keeps the Reach from bleeding coin, I think it's worth considering."

Olenna grunted.

Later, in a solar lit by these so called glowstone lamps and warmed by netherrack furnaces she faced Torrhen Skywalker with a tight smile.

"You've made quite the mess of things, Lord Torrhen," she said. "The Northern lords no longer need our grain. My family's profits are down by a third. Normally, I'd consider that a declaration of war."

Torrhen said nothing.

"But my grandson is fond of your sister. And you, though I can't quite tell how, have convinced half the North you're gods-touched."

She paused.

"So I propose a solution. A betrothal — Willas and your sister. No dowry required. In exchange, you convince the Northern lords to resume grain purchases from the Reach."

Torrhen tilted his head. "And your son?"

Olenna's smile turned knife-sharp. "Mace will not interfere. I give you my word on that."

Torrhen didn't answer right away. Then: "I'll accept your offer. But I'll buy the grain myself — at fair price. What I do with it after is my concern."

"You plan to hoard it?"

"I plan to sell it to Essos."

Olenna stared at him. Then she gave a single, dry laugh.

"Gods save me. You're worse than I thought."

**Scene Break**

Sixth Moon of 287 AC, Frostgate, Skane:

POV: Torrhen Skywalker

The fields beyond Skyport and Frostgate shimmered green and gold in the late-day light, strange for a northern island. Where once wheat and barley had stood stiff against the wind, now lines of potatoes stretched in dense rows. Carrots too — bright and plentiful — and the first saplings from the apple groves dotted the outer ring, their trunks supported by bone-reinforced posts and watered by redstone-fed irrigation. It didn't yield too much but it was a good way to deflect atleast some of the suspicions about their immense food exports.

Torrhen watched the training yard from his balcony. The Tyrells would leave again tomorrow, placated that the Reach had a market again and would leave Willas here so that he might get to know his betrothed and see how she helped run Frostgate.

Speaking of the devil, he felt her approach before he heard her steps.

"You like him," he said flatly, not turning around.

Lyarra stood beside him, her expression unreadable. "I don't dislike him."

"That's not what I asked."

She huffed softly. "He listens. He laughs at my jokes. He asked about what we're doing here but didn't push. And I think… I think he'd treat me kindly."

Torrhen finally turned, studying her. There was a lightness in her eyes — cautious, but genuine. It reminded him of how she'd looked when they'd first entered the End and found peace in its void.

"I thought you'd hate the idea of being married off to a Reachman," he said.

"I would," she admitted. "It's just so far away from here." Her nose wrinkled. "But Willas is different. You saw how he spoke to Steve — no mockery, no disbelief. Just questions. He reminds me a little of you, honestly. Only with less brooding and more books."

Torrhen snorted despite himself.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "I have a favor to ask."

He crossed his arms. "If you say you want to give him a diamond blade, I will drop you off a cliff."

"No," she said quickly. "Just… a potion. A minor regeneration draught. I've brewed one small enough that it should numb the pain and help with the leg. Mayhaps it will not cure him entirely though I hope it will nut it might ease him a little."

He stared at her. "You brewed a regen potion for your betrothed?"

"It's a gesture, Torrhen."

He sighed through his nose, then looked away. "Alright. Slip it to him. But not in front of anyone else."

She beamed and hugged him hard. "You're the best twin brother a girl could ask for."

He muttered something about sabotage and manipulation but patted her head all the same.

He wondered just how long they could keep the existence of these potions mostly quiet.. but in the end it wasn't even that important anymore, House Skywalker was strong enough now that whole armies could come and they would still falter.

Later he sat on the observation deck on the top of the central tower. Val sat beside him, her legs dangling over the edge, bare toes brushing the wind.

"You're quiet today," she said, turning toward him. Her silver-blonde hair had been braided the Northern way, though she now wore the long woolen coat embroidered with the sigil of House Skywalker.

Torrhen glanced at her, then back at the horizon. "I don't know if I'll like being celebrated. The feasting, the toasts, the titles. I like… this. Quiet. Simple."

"You're marrying a wildling," Val said with a faint grin. "You'll get some of that. Not much, but some."

He chuckled. "You're more civilized than most lords I've met."

"I'm only civilized when I want to be." She bumped his shoulder with hers. "Besides, you're the one building castles out of nowhere and feeding half the North. Let them give you a few days of music."

Torrhen was silent for a time, then murmured, "I just didn't think I'd get this far. A wife. A tower. People counting on me. I was supposed to die in Winterfell. I did."

Val didn't flinch. She looked at him, really looked.

"But you came back. And you built all this." She swept a hand across the farms below, the rising walls of Skyport in the distance, the banner fluttering high over the great hall — a banner stitched by her own hands. "You made a world where someone like me doesn't have to kneel... well when I don't want to" she said with a wink before becoming serious again, "That's no small thing."

He turned toward her, his eyes softer now.

"And you never doubted me."

"I did," she said, smirking. "At first. Thought you were a southern idiot with a sword and too many words. But you listened. And you shared. And you saw me."

She leaned against him then, head on his shoulder.

"I'm glad it's you," she said. "Even if I'll have to wear a bloody dress and smile through a hundred speeches."

Torrhen snorted. "You can wear armor if you want."

Val looked up. "I might. Or nothing at all."

His breath caught, then he laughed, warm and easy for the first time in days.

A raven passed overhead, flapping toward the rookery with a fresh message — politics, requests, plans. But Torrhen didn't move to intercept it.

"Let it wait," he murmured.

Val reached down, laced her fingers through his.

And for a little while longer, they watched the sun set over a world they'd reshaped together.

**Scene Break**

POV: Willas Tyrell

The potion tasted faintly of mint and fire, sliding down his throat with a warmth that spread almost instantly. Lyarra had offered it with such a calm voice, as if it were a cup of tea — and yet, when he stood afterward, the pain in his bad leg dulled and finally disappeared completely.

"... you realise that you are sitting on a gold mine if you have a reliable way to create these miracles, no?" he asked with a grateful smile.

"Yes we know that but it is not exactly easy to create sooo if you could keep this a secret I would be... really grateful" she told him with a wink and he just barely managed not to blush immensely.

**Scene Break**

Sixth Moon of 287 AC, Frostgate, Skane:

POV: Thoros of Myr

The statue of Herobrine stood twice as tall as a man, carved from smooth basalt, its blank white eyes catching torchlight like cold fire. Around it, the Faithful knelt in silence, heads bowed, ready to receive the blessings... or so he thought, he really had no idea what this was about.

They sang softly — not hymns, not quite — more like music without words. The central tower of Frostgate had never felt more like a temple. He wasn't sure he liked it. 

His prince stood at the edge of the hall, hands clasped behind his back as the singing quieted. Thoros of Myr approached, his grey robes now marked with a diamond pin.

"I still wonder why you let these smallfolk that seem to have almost fanatical loyalty to your house worship an obscure god that I have never heard about before"

"Religious freedom is all what I'm about my friend. I have no idea where they even got the idea of worshipping herobrine but hey, if it makes Skane more distinct... maybe it will help attract more people in the long run"

"The faith will not be happy with another heretic religion spreading in the north"

"No they will not but when are the faith of the seven ever really happy?"

Thoros had no answer to that so he simply nodded in acceptance.

"You chose the men?" Torrhen asked.

Thoros nodded again. "Three. Diligent, obscure, and hard to rattle. They've spread our word before — this will be no different."

"Then let them leave by morning. Tell them to take a crate of coin and this letter here." Torrhen said before handing

"Shall I have them pose as pilgrims again?"

"No," Torrhen said, glancing back toward the statue. "This time, they go as merchants... speaking of, better have them carry actual goods to sell. Send an actual merchant of our faithful, maybe with fish or potatos. And have them preach about Herobrine. They'll call it heresy. Good. The louder the alarm, the more the cracks will widen in the Twins."

"Am I allowed to read what is being delivered?" asked Thoros to which Torrhen merely waved and nodded, "Sure" his prince said, "Just make sure to reseal it properly".

Thoros broke the wax carefully. Inside, the message was short, direct, and unsettling.

To Lord Aenys Frey of the Crossing, When the old twin tower dies — and he will die soon — you will have choices. Your father has sons aplenty, but few men of vision. You, Aenys, could be more. If you seek the strength to rule, we will provide it. If you seek safety for your line, we can offer that too. But choose wisely. The South is watching. And when the fires of the Faith reach your walls, you will need more than bridges to survive. Write to Frostgate.

The old gods see potential in you. — T. Skywalker

Thoros reread it three times before folding it back. He said nothing aloud.

Hmmm seems my liege is planning to take Lord Frey from the board... eh he snorted dismissively From what I heard it could hardly hit a better target.

**Scene Break**

POV: Torrhen Skywalker

Back at Frostgate, Torrhen watched the map of Westeros as if it were a puzzle. Redstone torches glowed at strategic points — Riverrun, the Trident, King's Landing, Gulltown, the Arbor. And the one he watched most closely now: The Twins.

"Aenys is ambitious," he murmured to himself. "But not brave. That's why he's useful."

He moved one of the torches from white to gray. The signal for chaos.

Lyarra entered behind him, quiet as snowfall.

"Is it time?" she asked.

Torrhen didn't look up. "Not yet. But soon."

She stepped beside him, noting the subtle shift in the western half of the map. "I thought you were preparing for the Long Night. For the Five Kings."

"I was," Torrhen said. "But the Faith has risen. Again. And they won't stop with swords and septons."

He gestured toward the North. "They'll come for us. Not in a year, maybe not even in five. But they will. They'll march north again, not to claim thrones… but to convert the last free gods of this land."

Lyarra was silent for a moment, "How many of the southern lords do you expect to rise along with the faith?"

"Hmmm... the Reach atleast though maybe with your betrothal to Willas we can take the opportunity, force a split and finally weaken the Hightowers."

"Isn't Lord Mormont married to a Hightower now?"

"Mhm a teenage Lynesse Hightower, I guess the more things change the more they stay the same. It doesn't matter however, Leyton Hightower may not openly support the faith but coin and weapons? I am sure that's a no brainer.... hmmm let's see, the Hightowers, Tarlys and surrounding houses in the Reach, probably.. the Ironborn will more likely raid the whole western coast than choose a side. Hopefully noone in Dorne and in the Riverlands though the Brackens might, the Vale if they dare and defy Jon Arryn so probably atleast the Graftons. I think we can expect the Stormlands to join and maybe the Westerlands, depending on how the High Septon handles the royal family."

"And what do we do?"

Torrhen smiled — tight, brittle. "We prepare. For war, for winter, and for every southern army stupid enough to come north looking for souls."

He turned back to the statue of Herobrine now visible through the archway. He would never follow this particular worship not when it was expected of him as a Stark (because the north still saw him as a Stark despite his name) to follow the old gods and because worshipping the old gods frankly was quite easy and worshipping what was effectively mother nature? Yeah he could get behind that.

**Scene Break**