Sixth Moon of 284, Stark Manor:
pov Torrhen Snow
Torrhen stood at the edge of the wall they'd built, gazing out at the still morning fog that blanketed the rolling hills. Somewhere in the distance, he could see a zombie burning away for a few moments until it died and disappeared. He rested his arm on the stone battlement and let out a slow breath.
Three months. Three long, brutal, exhilarating months.
They had carved out something real here.
The farm below teemed with wheat, carrots, and potatoes in perfect rows. A small but growing animal pen held cows and sheep, while the courtyard, lit by strategically placed lamps, remained blissfully free of monsters since they'd learned the hard way in their youth how important light was. Their house stood sturdy and secure inside the stone walls, not exactly beautiful but solid—Northern in its sensibilities and Minecraftian in its efficiency.
Still, nothing here had turned out exactly like he'd expected.
This wasn't the vanilla Minecraft he remembered from his old life. No, this place was… expanded. Richer. Complex in a way that felt almost modded. You could craft carriages, polearms, even chainmail shirts without needing to pick them up from mobs. Iron appeared naturally in veined clusters, and ores came in deeper pockets—but you still had to spend a loooot of time to find them. Torrhen's arms still ached from their first week of mining, long before they had even a whiff of enchanted gear.
Diamonds... gods, diamonds were rare.
Three months of sweat, danger, and countless hours underground had yielded just barely enough for two full sets. He and Lyarra had agreed to craft armor and tools first. That had been the easy part.
Getting into the Nether was more trouble. Finding three diamonds for the pickaxe had taken forever, and once they had the obsidian… well, neither of them would ever forget the painfully slow attempt to mine it manually until Lyarra remembered a lava bucket trick and they cursed themselves for not recalling sooner. Still, once the portal was built, they stepped through—heart hammering, sword drawn—and entered hell.
The Nether itself hadn't changed much. Still fire, ash, and piglins.
But netherite? It was worse than diamonds. They'd scoured entire tunnels, braving lava lakes and ancient debris veins that appeared in ones and twos like a cruel joke. He knew there was a netherite farm but that was so incredibly complicated and needed so many resources.... no simply a lot of tnt would be the way they did it once their other goals had been achieved.
So they'd made a pact: they would not return to Westeros until they each had a full netherite set, enchanted and gleaming.
That vow had shaped every day since.
Fortunately, enchanting had been easier than expected. There were far more books, more enchantable materials, and they'd managed to rig up a compact enchanting station inside their house. Their diamond plate armor now gleamed with Protection II and Unbreaking II enchantments. Their diamond swords? Sharpness III, Unbreaking II, Fire Aspect I and Knockback I. Their bows? Power II, Unbreaking I, Punch I and Flame. Good enough—for now.
The gold farm in the Nether had been a turning point. Piglins by the dozen now fell into carefully placed magma traps and hoppers, dropping nuggets and ingots alike. It had already paid off in golden apples, which they stashed with reverent care. Soon, they'd build bartering stations, and maybe even automate potions.
And now… the iron farm.
Torrhen looked over his shoulder. Lyarra was just placing the last set of workstations beside the sleeping pods. A zombie safely boxed-in shuffled near the villager pens, enough to scare the poor idiots into spawning a golem.
There was a creak, then the deep whumph of iron forming from nothing.
A massive iron golem stood there, blinking.
"Ha!" Torrhen let out a laugh, genuine and triumphant. "It worked!"
Lyarra grinned and raised both arms above her head in mock celebration. "Praise be! The Iron Age begins anew!"
They both exhaled, a simultaneous sigh of deep, well-earned relief.
No more scraping the caves for iron veins. No more debating whether to make a bucket or an anvil. They could finally craft without guilt. Torrhen immediately made a mental note to forge a new anvil tomorrow morning—he was down to a few uses left on the old one, and gods above, anvils were expensive.
Their moment of triumph dimmed only slightly as Torrhen's eyes drifted to the handful of villagers they'd corralled in the west corner of their walls.
That had been a disappointment.
Not because they weren't useful—they were. One of them gave sharpness books, another sold arrows, and a third was finally starting to offer enchanted armor—but they were nothing like real people.
Dumb as rocks. Couldn't speak, only grunted. No personality. Just living, breathing trade stations.
Still, the trek to capture and transport them had been worth it. Every emerald earned was one step closer to the enchanted arsenal they would carry home. Every tool they bought was another victory against the odds. Especially since villages seemed quite a bit rarer than they would have expected.
Torrhen stepped down from the wall and joined Lyarra near the new iron golem, watching as it silently patrolled their little stronghold. The sun was rising over the hills, warm and gold.
"Three months," he murmured. "Feels like longer."
"Feels like home," Lyarra said softly.
Torrhen nodded. "A strange, blocky, grindy home."
They smiled at each other. A thousand things still needed building. But for now, they had light. They had defenses. They had loot.
And the twins of Winterfell weren't done yet.
**Scene Break**
pov Lyarra Snow
Lyarra adjusted the strap of her satchel, one hand gripping her compass, the other holding a half-filled map that she'd been meticulously charting since parting ways with Torrhen at dawn.
They'd both agreed it was time. Three months in, and they still knew so little about the full shape of the landmass they called home. It wasn't an island—not unless it was far bigger than they assumed—but it was definitely coastal. Then again, technically Australia was also an island. Nethertheless, their home sat not far from the western shore, where the ocean shimmered and roared with uncanny consistency.
But this… this was the north (of what they had decided to simply call Starting Island), and Lyarra had gone much further than either she or her brother had ventured before.
She climbed a ridge, hopping up blocks and ducking under birch leaves, and then paused as the landscape opened below her.
In the distance there was a village. Larger than usual but it was definetely a village.
Then her breath caught.
The houses were spread across a broad valley, just like in vanilla—symmetrical and blocky, built with spruce logs and cobble. A handful of villagers could be seen shuffling about: brown-robed, block-faced, and unmistakably useless in conversation.
But then her eyes locked on something that didn't belong.
A house.
Not a Minecraft village house. Not vanilla. Not even close.
It was made of dark oak, with a sharply slanted roof and windows that used stained glass—not the usual clear or empty holes. The structure stood taller, too, with chimneys puffing faint smoke and what looked like iron-reinforced double doors. There was even a small fenced garden with unnaturally perfect symmetry and a flickering torchlight glow besides what should be a stable.
Lyarra felt her blood turn cold.
"Oh… no," she whispered, stepping back behind the birch tree.
This wasn't normal. This wasn't random.
That kind of structure meant someone had built it deliberately. Someone—or something—with intelligence and resources. And if this world wasn't vanilla, then who knew what they might be dealing with?
Witches? Modded mobs? A player?
She stared a little longer at the village, squinting to see any signs of movement in or around the strange house.
Nothing. Not yet. But that meant little. She kept creeping around the spot, trying to spot someone but after a while of not seeing anyone, she started approaching before stopping herself.
"I better tell Torr first," she murmured, her voice low.
They'd learned to be careful—more careful than they were back in Westeros. The Netherite hunt, the differences in crafting, the strange, more realistic terrain… all of it pointed to one truth: this wasn't the Minecraft world they'd known from their past life. This was something else. Something more dangerous. More alive.
She turned, gripping her compass tightly, and began sprinting back the way she came—leaping over rivers and cutting through forest, retracing her path with practiced ease.
If this world had builders or players beyond the two of them… they needed to know. To prepare.
And if whatever built that house wasn't friendly?
Well. They had enchanted gear, golden apples, and iron golems now.
They wouldn't be caught off guard. Lyarra would never have suspected that she was spotted creeping around.
**Scene Break**
Seventh Moon of 284 AC, Winterfell:
pov Eddard Stark
The North remained cold as ever, but peace had settled over Winterfell like a thick woolen cloak. And still, Ned Stark could not find complete comfort.
He stood alone in the solar, the last of the daylight slipping away through narrow windows. A fire crackled in the hearth behind him, but he scarcely felt its warmth. His eyes lingered on the parchment in his hands - a raven from Bear Island, this one reporting sightings of the tall, deep purple creatures that the smallfolk were now calling "Slendermen."
The name meant nothing to him, but the fear it caused was very real. Luckily the things' numbers on Bear Island were extremely limited as they had the strength of five grown men (thus too dangerous to face in close combat) and the ability to disappear once an arrow was about to hit them. Quite annoying, really.
And yet it seemed the creatures were not mindless. According to Lady Maege's missive, they did not strike unless provoked. The smallfolk had learned, somehow, that gazing too long into the creature's eyes was what invited their wrath. How they had learned this, the letter did not say.
Ned had ordered Maester Luwin to send copies of the warning to the various holdfasts and mountain clans. That had been four days past. He could only hope it would be enough.
He set the parchment aside and rubbed at his temples. His thoughts drifted again—as they always did—to Torrhen and Lyarra.
Gone for moons now.
Their chambers had been searched, of course. Empty trunks, missing gear, clever diversions. Whoever they were before, the children they once were had vanished, leaving behind only riddles and memories.
What remained now were… different. Bolder. Older, in strange ways. He had feared they might have fled in some childish rebellion, but no. They had planned it. Disappeared south without a word, with weapons, armor, provisions.
And still, Ned believed in them.
Torrhen had known things no child should. Names. Futures. Warnings. And what's more, his predictions had started to come true.
Even now with the recent additions to Winterfell.
In other news, the smallfolk still marched blindly northward. Not even the songs that had turned to tales of terror recently, of travelers vanishing into the snows, of men returning with frostbite, madness, and nothing else had managed to steer the masses for now. Still, tales had begun to trickle down into the Riverlands and the Vale and the lords there had taken up the cause with a self-righteous fury. Letters arrived almost weekly now—concerned inquiries and subtle demands.
Too many of their people had come north and had died chasing golden dreams beyond the Wall.
The fools had only themselves and their greed to blame, but Benjen had not helped. That damned blunder at Riverrun, confirming the rumours about monsters with golden armor. The young wolf had not even embellished reality, but it had spread like wildfire. And wildfire consumed.
Now the lords of the south watched the Far North with wary eyes, and the Night's Watch with suspicion as more and more of their smallfolk left to find fortune beyond the wall.
Winterfell remained unchanged. Still, there were small signs of shifting winds. Rhaenys had smiled again, even laughed. The girl was more herself these days—more than she'd been since Torrhen had snuck out. She spent time in the godswood again. Sometimes she would linger there alone for hours, speaking softly to the heart tree.
Benjen, too, had changed. He wrote often to Dacey Mormont, and Ned suspected there was more than mere courtesy behind the exchange. It warmed his heart to think of it. Maybe something good could come of the madness of these past years.
Ser Gerold Hightower had left some weeks past, bound south to visit family in Oldtown. On the way, he planned to stop at Harrenhal, where the new Lord Whent had married and was soon to become a father. Ned had bid him farewell with a heavy heart—Ser Gerold had become something of a constant here, and his absence made the halls feel emptier.
And then there were the new arrivals.
Two names Torrhen had once spoken with uncanny certainty: Thoros of Myr and a rogue named Bronn. Ned hadn't understood the significance at first, but when they had arrived in Winterfell separately, both looking for coin and purpose, he remembered his brother's words.
"Bind them to Winterfell if you can," Torrhen had said once, long before he vanished. "They'll be worth more than their weight in gold—though Bronn will still want the gold."
So he had taken them both in.
Thoros had arrived first, his red robes as tattered as his faith. But the man had spirit. He spoke openly of fire and fate, and though Ned had no love for R'hllor, he recognized a kind of quiet strength in the priest. Thoros had accepted the invitation to stay with almost pathetic gratitude and spent much of his time talking to Elia and Arthur. Rhaenys seemed to like him. The merchants selling wine even more so.
Bronn was something else entirely.
A sellsword through and through, he had swaggered into Winterfell like he owned it, made a few rude jokes, took a few men's coin at dice, and then bested three of the guard in a sparring match without breaking a sweat. Ned hired him that same day.
The man was trouble—but useful trouble.
Not a week into his service, Bronn had requested a private audience.
The Solar, That Same Evening
Bronn stood in the same solar now, arms crossed, his sword strapped loosely to his hip. He looked unimpressed by the firelight or the tapestries or the company.
"Forgive me for my blunt words, my lord," Bronn said, "but why am I truly here?"
Ned raised a brow. "I thought I had made that clear. You are to train the new recruits of the house guard."
Bronn spat on the stone floor, unfazed. "That's some bull and you know it. Ser Rodrik's as capable a master-at-arms as anyone in the realm. No—I wish to know why I'm really here. Know this though: I'll stay regardless. The coin's good enough."
Ned allowed himself the smallest smile. "You know I could have you flogged for such insolence?"
"Aye," Bronn said. "But you won't. You're too honorable for that, and I reckon you appreciate honesty."
"...You may be right," Ned admitted, folding his hands behind his back. "And you are not wrong to suspect more. Torrhen told me of certain individuals he hoped to recruit someday. You and Thoros were among them."
"The boy? Torrhen Snow, the miracle lad?"
"The very same."
"Huh." Bronn scratched his chin, clearly intrigued. "So this... miracle boy told you about me?"
"He told me a great many things," Ned said. "Including that you would one day seek something greater than gold. A title. A keep of your own."
Bronn's eyebrows rose. "That's... surprisingly accurate. Almost eerily so." He looked at Ned a moment longer. "But he's been missing, hasn't he?"
"Yes. And no. He's been sorely missed—but I believe he and his sister are exactly where they need to be. They prepared for this. Extensively."
Bronn nodded slowly, processing that.
"So don't worry, Bronn," Ned said at last. "Torrhen will return, in time. And until then, your coin will keep coming."
"Fair enough." Bronn flashed a grin. "Been nice talking with you, Lord Stark. I'll return to my duties now, aye?"
"You may go, Bronn of the Blackwater."
Bronn paused at the door, turning with a glint in his eye. "Is that what I'll be known as in the future?"
Ned's lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile.
"Perhaps."
**Scene Break**
Ninth Moon of 284 AC, Castle Black:
general pov
The stream of desperate souls heading north had begun to slow.
At first, they'd come in droves—sellswords, poachers, failed knights, and smallfolk driven by whispers of gold and ruin. They'd marched past the gates with their half-rotted boots and hollow bellies, chasing stories of treasure buried beneath the snow, or of monsters whose death would bring riches beyond measure.
But most who went north did not return. Most of those that did came back battered, bitter, and with far less than they'd hoped. Their tales spread quickly: of things that moved in the dark and did not bleed, instead merely disappearing once killed again; of snow that swallowed men whole; of wildling clans as hard as the mountains and twice as cold.
The Far North was no land for the unprepared. Even without monsters, it was a place that defied life itself. No fields, no herds. Even the wind seemed to hate the living.
Yet the wildlings had endured it for thousands of years.
That realization, perhaps more than the horror stories, gave pause to the common folk. In the taverns of the North and the villages nearer to the Wall, men and women began to speak of the free folk not only with fear, but with something close to respect.
"If they raid us, who can blame them?" old men muttered into their ale. "Gods help me, I'd do the same if I had to raise a child in a place where snow falls in summer and wolves stalk the wind."
Even in places like Last Hearth of on Bear Island where wildling raids had once meant fire and death, people began to ask: What would I do, if I lived where they did?
Still, greed is as human as breath and it wasn't like noone who came back south had nothing to show for it.
So while the flood slowed, it did not stop. Travelers still made their way north, past the Last River, past the Umbers' holdfasts, some even escorted under banners of (usually smaller) noble houses.
And outside Castle Black, where the black brothers once watched from a crumbling wall of ice and solitude, something new was growing.
A village. Rough shacks at first, then tents and merchants' wagons, then stone foundations and timber beams. Blacksmiths and cooks, merchants hawking furs and cold-weather gear, guides offering escort to adventurers with more gold than sense.
They called it Moletown, though it stood far from the old burrowed ruins that once bore that name. The old Moletown had been swallowed by filth, shadows, and worse things in the tunnels. The new one was loud, half-frozen, and growing by the week. Soon, a thousand souls lived there—some only for the season, others with plans to stay.
At first, Lord Commander Qorgyle had cursed the very sight of it.
"They piss in sight of the Wall, drink in front of our gates, and build hovels like rats nesting at our feet," he wrote to Lord Stark. "It is not proper."
But Eddard Stark had replied in the cool, measured tone that marked all his letters: "Proper or not, if gold flows uphill to the Wall instead of down to King's Landing, is that not worth considering?"
So the Lord Commander considered—and then taxed.
Coin flowed. Modest sums by southern standards, but enough. Enough to feed and arm the Watch. Enough to repair Castle Black—not just patch the holes, but to extend it. Timber halls were reinforced. The armory expanded. Even a new rookery tower was raised, though Maester Aemon (who's eyes were slowly starting to fail) still complained about the drafts.
The Shadow Tower and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea saw coin as well. Not much, but enough for repairs and more patrols.
More than that, word spread among the lords of the realm—particularly those with debts to pay or sons without prospects. Gold and grain began to arrive in trickles: a few sacks of barley from the Crannoglands, crates of salted pork from Highgarden, axes and arrows from the Eyrie. Tiny streams, but together they made a river.
For the first time in memory, the Night's Watch was fed, armed, and even somewhat respected.
Only men were still lacking.
The Oath was harsh, and few chose it freely. But with the Wall no longer starving, and word of food and fire spreading in the dungeons of Westeros, more criminals now chose black over death or lost hands. Broken men, thieves, even bastards who once would have rotted in cells or in the countryside now walked the steps of the Wall.
The Watch was still far from what it had once been—but for the first time in maybe hundreds of years, it was growing stronger.
And behind the Wall, the night still waited, and the snows still whispered.
But now, when men looked up at the ancient fortress of Castle Black, they did not see a ruin.
They saw a place they could grudgingly call home.
**Scene Break**