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Third Moon of 285 AC, Winterfell:
POV: Catelyn Stark
Catelyn sat by the window of her solar, a letter from Riverrun half-read on her lap and a cold draft creeping under the door. Outside, the godswood stood in stark silence beneath a veil of snow. She did not turn as the door opened behind her.
"He asked the king to legitimise them," she said softly, still staring at the white branches beyond the glass. "Both of them."
Eddard said nothing for a moment. Then: "Torrhen indeed did."
She turned, rising from the cushioned bench with slow, careful steps. "Alysanne, I can understand. She's your blood, your daughter. You named her from the start. But Jon—"
"He is also blood," Ned said. "Lyanna's boy. My sister's son."
"He is seen as yours," she snapped, a flush rising to her cheeks. "The realm believes he's your bastard. And now he is your trueborn son in all but blood. Do you not see what that means, Ned? Should Robb—"
Her voice caught. She pressed her lips together.
"If Robb were to fall," she said finally, "there are some who would look to Jon."
Ned's face was stone. "I would not."
"But others might." She paced the room, her fingers curling in frustration. "Lords remember blood. Lineage. And now Jon has both Stark name and legitimacy. And since Elia is all but raising him he will be close to Torrhen and Lyarra. That makes him powerful."
Catelyn remembered in that moment that Jon wouldn't remember Elia as his mother however, Elia and her children alongside Ashara and Alysanne were set to leave towards Skane with the Skywalkers while Jon stayed behind. Catelyn knew, her husband would miss his daughter deeply but it was better this way. Ashara Dayne and Elia Martell could continue scheming on the Skywalker's little island for all she cared.
"I'm sorry, he acted without telling me first," Ned said quietly. "But Torrhen didn't do it too spite you, I know you don't have a close relationship but he told me that despite your shortcomings that with a bit of tutelage you can become a good lady of the north. And there was no malice in the request—only protection. For the children. For Alysanne. For Jon."
"You trust them far too easily," she muttered.
"No," he said. "I trust them exactly because I know how hard they fought to earn that trust. They are revered among the northern smallfolk. Skagos bends to them now. The wild folk have begun settling on the eastern shores. Torrhen has a mind like Maester Luwin's, but forged in fire and war. And Lyarra… she reminds me of Arya. Fierce. Clever."
Catelyn exhaled, rubbing her brow. "And now they speak of building a port. A fleet. You realise that gives them eyes and hands on the eastern coast?"
"I do," Ned said. "And I think we ought to match them."
She turned, blinking. "What?"
"The North has long been land-bound," he said. "But Skane is building a fleet to sail east, south and nord—toward Hardhome, toward gods know what else. I believe it's time the west had its own answer. White Harbor cannot be our only proper port. Now with Torrhen seeking to build a trade and war fleet, we must look to Sea Dragon Point."
She hesitated, then nodded slowly. "It's a natural harbor. Deepwater. Sparsely settled, but close enough to Bear Island and the western isles."
"If the Skywalker coffers will be as deep in the future as they claim, we could propose an arrangement. Torrhen funds a new port there—under the Stark banner. A place where the North can build its own fleet."
Catelyn raised a brow. "And who would hold it?"
Ned met her gaze.
"Jon," he said. "He'll be of age once the port there is finished and grows into a proper town. Give him a chance to earn land, title, and responsibility—under our watch. And if Torrhen has a daughter of suitable age by then… or even Rhaenys perhaps, they might be siblings but they are Targaryens and the realm doesn't know that and most importantly Rhaenys adores Torrhen even if she is stubbornly refusing to speak to him right now."
Catelyn crossed her arms. "A betrothal."
"Alliance," Ned corrected. "Security."
She looked away, toward the pale light spilling across the snowy grounds. "And what if the girl refuses? Or Jon does?"
"Then we find another way," Ned said simply. "But the match would tie the future Skywalkers to us in blood again. It would anchor their strength to the realm, and not just their own ambitions."
Catelyn was silent for a long moment. Then: "You truly think another war is coming, don't you?"
"I know it is."
She closed her eyes. "Very well. Speak to Torrhen—when the time is right. And only if the coffers prove as full as he boasts. Until then… let Jon remain here. With Robb. We might aswell let them grow up as brothers."
Ned stepped close, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Thank you."
"I did not say yes," she murmured. "I said maybe."
He smiled faintly. "That's more than I hoped for."
Outside, snow continued to fall—soft and steady, a hush before the storm.
**Scene Break**
Third Moon of 285 AC, Winterfell:
POV: Torrhen Skywalker
The alehouse in the shadow of Winterfell's east wall smelled of woodsmoke, wet dogs, and spilled dreams. Torrhen didn't mind. After weeks of meetings, stewards, and smallfolk squabbles, it was good to be among the humbler places again—even if Lyarra had warned him not to get into another fight over dice.
He sat at a corner table, cloak drawn close, watching the firelight flicker over the rim of his mug.
Then the door burst open with a gust of snow and two men stepped inside, trailing wet cloaks and loud laughter.
"Another round, you stingy bastard," one of them called—a lean sellsword with a wolfish grin and a sword worn well at his hip.
"And maybe a miracle while you're at it," said the second—a red-robed man whose bald head glistened with melting snow. His voice was slurred, but his eyes were sharp.
Torrhen's interest stirred. He'd seen the second man before—in Robert's war camp years ago, swinging a flaming sword and sloshing wine between verses. Thoros of Myr.
The other had to be Bronn. Every game of thrones fan knew him. Sellsword. Killer. Survivor. The kind of man who only backed a winning hand. Though he looked a lot younger here of course.
Torrhen stood and approached.
"Bronn of the Blackwater," he said simply.
The man turned, hand halfway to his hilt. "Who's asking?"
"Torrhen Skywalker. Of Skane."
Bronn blinked. "That a real place?"
"It is now," Torrhen replied, smiling faintly.
Thoros peered at him, squinting as he stepped closer. "I know that face…" he murmured, then his breath hitched. "Gods."
Torrhen raised a brow.
"There's power on you, boy," Thoros said, voice dropping low. "Real power. Not tricks. Not titles. You've touched something holy—or it's touched you."
Bronn made a face. "He always talks like this after three mugs."
"No," Thoros muttered, ignoring him. "No. I felt this once before. Years ago, in Volantis. There was a woman—a Red Priestess—who told me she would eventually seek out someone who would save us all"
"And you think I am that person?" Torrhen asked with intrigue... if he could get the support from the faith of Rhllor, his work could become a lot easier.
"You look like someone who doesn't stay dead," Thoros said. "And that's close enough."
Bronn rolled his eyes. "Great. You've got a prophecy now."
Torrhen chuckled. "Not just a prophecy. A proposition."
That got Bronn's attention. Lord Stark had told them that Torrhen would eventually seek their employ. He leaned in slightly. "I'm listening."
"I need men. Fighters. Survivors. People who don't flinch from the truth or the ugly things coming. I plan to build a new fleet. A stronghold to rival any in the South. I'm going to explore the lands east of the Wall but while I do so I need someone to train new guards and more on Skane."
"Hah you are definetely right about that, I have seen those so called Honor Guard lads and lasses of you. They look like they haven't been wielding a sword for a year" said Bronn in jest only for Torrhen to nod.
"That's because before we took them from Skane, they hadn't. You will meet few on Skane if any that know how to fight properly.I hope that's not a problem?"
Bronn shrugged. "Do I get paid?"
"Well," Torrhen said, tossing a small leather pouch onto the table. It jingled heavily. "There's that. Also a roof for free. And weapons" he said taking out an iron sword out of his scabbard that faintly glowed purple. It was enchanted with Sharpness II and Unbreakable III but he wouldn't tell it Bronn like that.
Bronn stared at it. "Why is it glowing purplish?"
"It's enchanted by means others cannot replicate to be sharper and more durable. You may take and try it in the yard later"
Bronn reached for his mug and downed it in one go. "Well then. If the pay's good and that sword holds true to your promises that's enough for me. Where do I sign?"
Thoros looked at Torrhen, still chewing, his gaze suddenly sober. "If you are what I think you are… the wars ahead will make the Rebellion look like a tavern brawl."
Torrhen met his gaze without blinking. "Then I'll need both of you at my side."
Bronn smirked. "That your pitch? 'Join me or die horribly later'?"
Torrhen's smile was cold and honest. "Roughly."
The three of them laughed—and drank—and when they stepped out into the snow, it was with the quiet understanding that something had changed.
**Scene Break**
Fourth Moon of 285 AC, Winterfell
POV: Torrhen Skywalker
It had been two weeks since he, Lyarra and the others arrived and the king's party would soon leave Winterfell for Castle Black. Since Steve, Alex and him planned to join them while Lyarra, Bronn, Thoros, Elia, Ashara and their children would travel with the Skywalkers' escort to Skane where Lyarra would take on the duties of the Steward temporarily until they found a good and even more importantly trustworthy candidate.
But before that happened there was something he still needed to do.
Torrhen found Rhaenys where he suspected he might—beneath the bare branches of the godswood's heart tree, sitting with her knees pulled to her chest and her chin resting atop them. Snowflakes danced in her dark hair. She didn't look up when he stepped through the archway.
He stood quietly for a moment.
"You've been avoiding me," he said gently.
Rhaenys shrugged.
"I deserved that," he added.
Another shrug.
He walked closer and knelt beside her. "You're angry."
This time, she spoke. "You left. Without saying goodbye. You said you'd come back—but you didn't. Not for a long time."
"I know," Torrhen said. "And I'm sorry."
She turned her head, eyes brimming with tears. "You missed my name day."
"I missed more than that."
"Everyone says you're a lord now. That you have your own island. Your own castle. That you fight wars and wear armor and command people."
"I didn't want any of it if it meant hurting you."
She sniffed, brushing at her cheek. "Then why did you go?"
Torrhen looked at her, voice soft. "Because I had to. There were things I needed to learn, needed to do. And things I had to build. For you. For your mother. For Aegon."
A long pause.
"Promise you'll stay now?" she asked, voice small.
He shook his head.
"No, Rhaenys. But you, your brother, and your mother will come with Lyarra to my home."
"Not you?" she asked sadly.
"Steve, Alex and I will travel with the king to Castle Black and beyond. But I promise I will return after that and then we can play plenty again" said Torrhen with a reassuring smile.
She looked at him for a long moment, weighing his words like a child trying to read the truth behind them. Then she leaned her head on his shoulder.
"Hmm. 'Kay."
He stayed there with her for a while, the quiet between them no longer cold.
Later that evening, they tucked Rhaenys into bed together—Elia brushing out her daughter's curls while Torrhen told a wildly exaggerated tale about a lava-filled cavern and a skeleton king who wore emeralds for eyes.
Rhaenys giggled drowsily, her eyelids fluttering. As her breathing slowed, Elia smiled and pressed a kiss to her temple. Torrhen tucked the blanket higher over her chest.
"Goodnight, sweet girl," Elia whispered.
They left the room in comfortable silence. As they walked toward his chambers, Elia glanced over, her expression calm but weary.
"You've changed," she said simply. "More than just height and armor. You're steadier. Quieter."
"I had to be," Torrhen said. "For Lyarra. For what I plan to do."
At the door to his chamber, he hesitated, then gestured. "Come in for a moment? I… have something for you."
Elia blinked, then followed him in.
From a chest at the foot of the bed, Torrhen retrieved two small items: a glass vial filled with glowing red liquid, and a golden apple that shimmered with unnatural light.
He held them out with nervous hands. "These are for you."
Elia's brows drew together. "Torrhen…"
"The vial is a regeneration draught. The apple strengthens the body for days—heals, restores, even mends old wounds." He hesitated. "I don't offer them lightly. But you've given so much to Rhaegar in your attempts to give him three dragons and I know what you lost in doing so. You deserve to feel whole."
"How do you..? No of course you knew of those blasted prophecies" Elia said staring at the items in Torrhen's hands, then took the vial first. Her hands trembled.
Moments passed. She drank. Then ate the apple.
Torrhen watched as the color bloomed in her cheeks. Her posture straightened. The weariness in her limbs—the quiet aches she always hid—seemed to melt away.
Elia's lips parted. Her eyes welled.
She stepped forward and kissed him—softly, sweetly—lingering a moment longer than politeness required.
"You will make such a fine husband to whatever lucky lady you choose," she murmured. "It's truly a shame we could never work out."
Torrhen blinked, caught entirely off guard by the kiss. "Wait—what?"
"I would be pleased," Elia continued, her voice quiet and sincere, "if you would give me a child."
Torrhen's mouth opened and closed. "Elia… I thought you didn't feel that way about me."
She tilted her head, smirking slightly. "How could I have? You were a boy. A sweet, awkward boy who barely met my eyes. But now… you've become rather dashing. And more importantly—you are kind... and my friend"
She looked down for a moment, then back up.
"Rhaenys has been asking me for another sibling. Pestering, really. She doesn't understand why I cannot give her one. Not anymore." Her gaze drifted toward the now-empty vial. "But now, I feel like before... I think I can. Because of you."
Torrhen's voice was very soft. "Are you sure?"
Elia gave a small, sad smile. "I'm not in love with you. But I care for you. And I trust you. And if this is the last child I bear… I would rather it be with someone I admire than a stranger with a crown."
"I've never done this before" said Torrhen awkwardly surprising Elia.
"Oh? Well that doesn't matter to me. Actually I'd be honoured to be your first."
He hesitated only a moment longer—then took her hand.
That night was awkward, at first—gentle, careful, almost clumsy. But in time, the tension gave way to warmth. It wasn't passion, not exactly. It was quiet companionship wrapped in shared purpose.
Torrhen knew that he had to start having children soon if they were to be old enough to fight in the Long Night. It was not a reason he would have ever thought to have for having children and having them only to raise them to fight for humanity's survival felt distasteful but here he was. And perhaps, just perhaps his children might have some extraordinary abilities aswell. One could only hope.
By morning, the snow clouds that had drifted over Winterfell had passed. Sunlight shone on the snow-glazed rooftops. Elia lingered beneath the covers, her hand resting on Torrhen's chest, her eyes closed in something like peace.
And for the first time in a long while, Torrhen felt still. He'd make Elia promise not to tell anyone the next morning.
**Scene Break**