Dawn broke over Winterfell with the pale light of early autumn. Torrhen had barely slept, his mind too full of possibilities and plans. He rose from his bed and immediately began testing his abilities in small ways—picking up and placing blocks of stone from his floor, crafting and uncrafting simple items, familiarizing himself with the inventory system that existed in a space beyond normal perception.
Every action confirmed what he had discovered last night: this was real. All of it.
He heard the castle stirring to life outside his door—servants moving through corridors, guards changing shifts, the distant clang of the smithy already at work. Torrhen quickly stored his crafting table in his inventory and made himself presentable. Today, he would begin laying the groundwork for his departure.
The Great Hall was already bustling when he arrived for breakfast. Lord Rodrik sat at the high table with Brandon, discussing matters of grain storage for the coming winter. Their mother was coordinating with the castle steward about preserving meat. His younger siblings were already eating, laughing and bickering as children did.
Lyanna caught his eye as he entered, raising an eyebrow. He gave her a subtle shake of his head—not now—and took his seat.
"Torrhen," his father said, looking up from his conversation. "You look like you barely slept."
"I had much on my mind, Father."
"Still brooding about the North?" Brandon asked with a grin. There was no cruelty in it; his older brother genuinely didn't understand why Torrhen would want anything other than a comfortable life in Winterfell.
"Not brooding. Thinking." Torrhen took a piece of bread and some cheese, noting with interest how his hunger bar in his mind ticked up slightly as he ate. The mechanics were subtle but definitely present. "Father, I wanted to speak with you about something."
Lord Rodrik set down his cup. "Go on."
"I want to travel north. To see the Gift, perhaps visit some of the holdfasts near the Wall. Learn about the lands that border our territory."
The table went quiet. Brandon's grin faded, replaced by concern. Their mother's hands stilled. Even the younger children stopped their chatter.
"The Wall," Lord Rodrik said slowly, "is not a place for sightseeing, Torrhen."
"I know that, Father. But I'm sixteen now, nearly a man grown. I should understand all of the North, not just the comfortable parts. The Night's Watch protects us from what lies beyond—shouldn't I at least see what they're protecting us from?"
"You can see the Wall from a distance," Brandon interjected. "You don't need to go to it."
"With respect, brother, you'll inherit these lands someday. Don't you think it's important that at least one of us understands the true scope of the North? The challenges it faces?"
Lord Rodrik studied him for a long moment. Torrhen kept his expression neutral, earnest. He wasn't lying—he did want to see the North, to understand it. He just wasn't mentioning the part about never coming back. Or the part about building a kingdom beyond the Wall. Or the supernatural crafting abilities.
"You want to visit the Night's Watch castles," his father said finally.
"Yes. Castle Black, perhaps the Shadow Tower. I could carry messages if you have any for Lord Commander Qorgyle. Learn from the brothers there. It would be educational."
"Educational," Lord Rodrik repeated, skepticism clear in his voice. "Or are you hoping to take the black yourself?"
"No!" Torrhen said quickly, and that at least was completely true. The Night's Watch was an honorable institution, but their vows would restrict him far too much. No wives, no lands, no titles—and more importantly, they'd expect him to stay at the Wall. "I have no desire to join the Watch, Father. I just want to see the North. To understand it."
His mother spoke up for the first time. "Rodrik, the boy has a point. He's of an age where he should be learning about our lands. Perhaps a short journey, with a proper escort—"
"I don't need an escort," Torrhen interrupted, then caught himself. "That is, I'd prefer to travel light. A small party, perhaps. Too many men would be a burden on the Night's Watch's supplies."
Lord Rodrik's eyes narrowed. "You want to travel to the Wall, one of the most dangerous borders in the realm, with minimal protection?"
"The Gift is still Stark land, Father. And the Night's Watch patrols the area. I'll be safe enough with a few good men."
"No."
The word was flat, final. Torrhen's jaw tightened.
"Father—"
"I said no, Torrhen. If you want to see the Wall, you'll travel with a proper escort. Twenty men, at least. And you'll stay at Castle Black, under the Watch's protection, for no more than a fortnight. Then you'll return home."
Twenty men. That would make it nearly impossible to slip away unnoticed. Torrhen's mind raced, looking for another angle.
"What if I traveled to the mountain clans first?" he suggested. "The Liddles, the Wulls, the Norreys. They're our bannermen, and I should know them. I could make my way north gradually, visiting each in turn. By the time I reached the Wall, I'd have a much better understanding of the North."
This was better. The mountain clans were spread out, their territories vast and wild. It would be far easier to disappear into the mountains than to slip away from Castle Black with twenty Winterfell guards watching his every move.
Lord Rodrik considered this, stroking his beard. "The clans are proud folk. They'd take it as an honor, a Stark son visiting their halls."
"Exactly. And it would strengthen our ties with them. Show them that House Stark hasn't forgotten them."
Brandon frowned. "Those are rough lands, Torrhen. The mountain clans are loyal, but they're also... rugged. You'd be sleeping in caves and eating whatever they hunt."
"I'm a Stark," Torrhen said firmly. "I can handle rough conditions."
"He has the wolf-blood, this one," their mother said with a mixture of pride and worry. "Just like your grandfather."
Lord Rodrik was silent for a long moment, weighing the request. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. You may visit the mountain clans, with an escort of ten men. You'll carry gifts for each clan chief—furs, weapons, whatever the steward deems appropriate. You'll spend no more than three days at each holding, and you'll send ravens back to Winterfell every fortnight to report your progress."
Ten men. That was better than twenty, but still too many. Torrhen would have to find a way to deal with that problem later.
"Thank you, Father. I won't disappoint you."
"See that you don't. And Torrhen? If you're doing this to prove something, to yourself or to anyone else, remember: you're a Stark of Winterfell. You have nothing to prove."
But that was where his father was wrong. Torrhen had everything to prove. He just couldn't say that out loud.
The rest of breakfast passed in planning. Brandon offered advice on dealing with the mountain clans, their mother insisted on packing extra furs, and the younger children peppered him with questions about whether he'd see giants or wildlings.
Lyanna said nothing, but her eyes followed him throughout the meal. When breakfast ended and the family dispersed to their various duties, she cornered him in the corridor outside the Great Hall.
"Ten men," she said quietly. "How are you going to lose ten men?"
"I'll figure something out."
"Torrhen, this is madness. You're really going to do this, aren't you? Leave Winterfell, head into the wilderness, and never come back?"
He looked around to make sure no one was listening, then pulled her into an empty room—a small storage chamber filled with old tapestries and furniture.
"Yes," he said simply. "I'm really going to do this."
"Why? What's out there that's worth leaving your family? Leaving me?"
The hurt in her voice made his chest ache. "Lyanna, I'm not leaving because I don't love you. Or Mother, or Father, or even Brandon. I'm leaving because if I stay here, I'll spend my whole life being the second son. Brandon's brother. Someone's castellan or knight. I'll never be my own man, never build anything that's truly mine."
"So build something here! Earn a keep from Father, marry well, make a name for yourself in the North."
"That's not enough." Torrhen struggled to find words that wouldn't reveal too much. "I have... opportunities. Abilities. Things I can do that could change everything. But I can't do them here, under Father's watchful eye, under Brandon's shadow. I need to go somewhere I can work freely, build freely, without questions or interference."
Lyanna studied him intently. "You're different. Since last night, you've been different. What happened to you, Torrhen?"
He almost told her. The words were right there, ready to spill out. But revealing his Minecraft abilities to anyone, even Lyanna, felt dangerous. What if she told Father? What if she tried to stop him? What if word spread beyond Winterfell?
"I can't tell you," he said finally. "Not yet. But I promise, Lyanna, when my kingdom is built, when I've made something truly great, I'll send for you. You can visit, see what I've created. Maybe even stay, if you want."
"Your kingdom," she repeated, shaking her head. "You sound like a madman."
"Maybe I am. But I'm a madman with a plan."
She laughed despite herself, a short, sharp sound. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But promise me something."
"What?"
"Promise me you won't get yourself killed doing whatever foolish thing you're planning. Promise me that someday, I really will see this kingdom of yours."
Torrhen took her hands, squeezing them. "I promise. I'm not going to die, Lyanna. I'm going to build something amazing, and when I do, you'll be the first person I invite to see it."
She searched his face, then nodded slowly. "All right. I'll hold you to that." Then her expression hardened. "Now, how are you going to lose those ten guards?"
"I haven't figured that out yet."
"Well, you'd better figure it out soon. Father's going to assign them within the week, and once they're watching you, slipping away will be nearly impossible."
She was right. Torrhen's mind was already working through possibilities. The mountain clans' territories were vast and rugged, full of caves and forests and hidden valleys. If he could convince the guards that he wanted to go hunting, or explore a particularly remote area, he might be able to slip away in the confusion.
Or...
An idea struck him. "What if they thought I was dead?"
Lyanna's eyes widened. "What?"
"Not actually dead. Just... missing. Lost in the mountains, presumed killed. They'd search for a while, but eventually they'd have to return to Winterfell and report the tragedy."
"That's insane. Father would send every man in the North to search for you."
"Not if the guards reported finding evidence of my death. A torn cloak, blood, signs of an animal attack. The mountains are dangerous—people die in them all the time."
"Torrhen, that would destroy Father. And Mother. They'd grieve for you."
He felt a pang of guilt at that. His parents didn't deserve that pain. But what choice did he have? If he simply disappeared without explanation, they'd search even more desperately. At least if they thought him dead, they'd have closure. Eventually.
"I'll send word," he said. "Not right away—it has to be believable. But in a few years, I'll send a raven. Let them know I survived, that I'm building something in the North. I won't tell them where exactly, but I'll let them know I'm alive."
"A few years?" Lyanna looked horrified. "You'd let them think you were dead for years?"
"I don't have a choice. If I tell them the truth now, they'll stop me. If I disappear without explanation, they'll never stop searching. This is the only way."
Lyanna pulled her hands from his, stepping back. "I don't like this, Torrhen. Any of this."
"I know. But it's what I have to do."
She was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. But I want to help."
"Help how?"
"The guards. I can help you lose them. Create a distraction, lead them astray, whatever you need. I won't let you go alone into the wilderness without at least making sure you have a fighting chance."
Torrhen wanted to argue, to keep her out of it, but the truth was he could use her help. And she was right—losing ten trained guards would be nearly impossible without assistance.
"All right," he said. "But you have to be careful. If Father suspects you helped me, you'll be in trouble."
"I can handle trouble." She grinned, the fierce wolf-blood shining in her eyes. "Besides, someone has to look after you, little brother."
"I'm older than you."
"Only in years. In common sense, I've got at least a decade on you."
Despite everything, Torrhen laughed. "Thank you, Lyanna. Really."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you've actually built this impossible kingdom of yours and I'm visiting it in style." She headed for the door, then paused. "Oh, and Torrhen? When you do send that raven letting everyone know you're alive? Maybe include an apology. Mother's going to want to kill you herself."
She left him alone in the storage room, surrounded by dusty tapestries and old furniture. Torrhen looked around at the forgotten items and saw potential. The furniture was wood—oak, from the look of it. He could break it down, add to his supplies. The tapestries were wool, useful for crafting beds or banners.
But taking things from Winterfell felt wrong, like stealing from his family. He had enough oak planks from his bed frame experiments last night. What he really needed was to start gathering real resources—iron, stone, coal. Materials he could only get by mining.
Which meant he needed to find a place to mine in secret.
Torrhen spent the rest of the day exploring Winterfell with new eyes. The castle was ancient, built on natural hot springs that kept it warm even in the deepest winter. There were catacombs beneath the castle, crypts where generations of Starks were entombed. And beyond the crypts...
He made his way down into the lower levels, past the crypts where stone kings sat in eternal vigil. The tombs were sacred ground, not to be disturbed, so he moved past them quickly. But beyond the crypts, there were older passages, rougher hewn, leading deeper into the earth.
Few people came down here. It was cold despite the hot springs, dark, and unsettling in the way that ancient places often were. Perfect.
Torrhen found a small side passage, barely large enough to walk through, and followed it until the sounds of the castle above faded away. Here, in the deep darkness, he finally felt safe enough to experiment properly.
He pulled out his wooden pickaxe and began to mine.
The stone broke away easily under his enchanted tool, far easier than it should have. Each block crumbled and vanished into his inventory, leaving a perfect cubic void behind. Torrhen worked quickly, creating a small chamber about ten blocks wide and tall, testing the limits of his abilities.
Mining was faster than he expected. The wooden pickaxe made short work of stone, though he knew it would be even faster with better tools. He needed iron. Desperately.
As he mined deeper into the wall, he hit a vein of something different. The stone here was darker, flecked with gray. Coal! His first ore discovery.
Torrhen mined the coal eagerly, watching as it dropped into his inventory as chunks of coal ore. He'd need to smelt it to get usable coal, which meant building a furnace. He had the cobblestone for it now—plenty of it from all the mining he'd been doing.
He pulled out his crafting table and set it up in the small chamber. The three-by-three grid appeared in his mind, expanded from the basic two-by-two. Eight cobblestone arranged in a square with the center empty created a furnace.
The furnace appeared in his hands, a heavy stone construction that somehow weighed almost nothing. He placed it against the wall and opened it. Two slots: one for fuel, one for items to smelt.
But he needed fuel. Wood would work, but coal was better. Except he needed to smelt the coal ore to get usable coal.
Torrhen laughed at the circular problem, then pulled out some of his oak planks. He'd use wood to smelt the first coal, then use that coal to smelt more coal. Standard Minecraft bootstrapping.
He placed the coal ore in the smelting slot and wood planks in the fuel slot. The furnace roared to life with impossible heat, flames that should have filled the chamber with smoke and burned through oxygen but somehow didn't. Minecraft physics, defying reality.
Minutes later, he had coal. Beautiful, burnable, efficient coal.
Torrhen spent the next several hours mining and smelting. He dug deeper into the stone, creating a small network of tunnels beneath Winterfell. He found more coal, and then—joy of joys—his pickaxe struck iron ore.
Iron was the gateway to everything. Iron tools were faster and more durable than wooden ones. Iron could be crafted into armor, weapons, shields. Iron was civilization.
He mined every piece of iron he could find, following the vein through the stone. By the time he finally stopped, exhausted and filthy, his inventory was heavy with resources: stacks of cobblestone, dozens of iron ore, coal for fuel, and even a few pieces of gravel and dirt from where the stone gave way to older geological layers.
But he'd been gone for hours. Someone would notice.
Torrhen quickly broke down his crafting table and furnace, storing them in his inventory. He looked at the tunnels he'd created—obvious evidence of mining, of impossible excavation. He couldn't leave them like this.
So he filled them in, replacing each block of stone he'd removed, sealing the tunnels as if they'd never existed. It took almost as long as the mining had, but when he was finished, the passage looked exactly as it had when he'd arrived: ancient, undisturbed, empty.
Perfect.
He made his way back up through the crypts, past the stone kings, and emerged into the castle proper. It was late afternoon, nearly time for the evening meal. He was covered in stone dust and grime, looking exactly like someone who'd been crawling through ancient passages.
A guard spotted him and raised an eyebrow. "Lord Torrhen? What happened to you?"
"Exploring the crypts," Torrhen said casually. "Wanted to pay respects to the old kings. Got a bit dusty."
The guard accepted this without question. Starks visiting the crypts wasn't unusual. Torrhen hurried to his chambers to clean up before dinner.
As he washed the stone dust from his hands and face, he took stock of his progress. One day. He'd had these abilities for barely one day, and he already had a fortune in raw materials. Twenty iron ore, which would smelt into twenty iron ingots. Enough to make a full set of iron tools, with plenty left over.
Tonight, after everyone slept, he'd set up his furnace in his room and start smelting. By tomorrow, he'd have iron tools. The day after, he could mine even more efficiently, going deeper, finding better resources.
Diamond. Gold. Redstone. Lapis lazuli. All the treasures Minecraft offered, hidden beneath Westeros, waiting for him to discover them.
But first, he had to get out of Winterfell. Had to lose those ten guards, make his way beyond the Wall, and find a place to build his kingdom.
One step at a time.
Dinner that evening was a family affair. Lord Rodrik announced that Torrhen would be leaving in five days' time, giving the steward time to prepare gifts for the mountain clans and select appropriate guards for the journey. The whole family seemed excited about it, even Brandon, who apparently saw it as a good learning experience for his younger brother.
Only Lyanna seemed troubled, shooting Torrhen concerned looks throughout the meal. He gave her small, reassuring nods. It would be fine. He had a plan.
Or at least, he was working on one.
That night, after the castle settled into sleep, Torrhen set up his furnace in his chambers and began smelting iron. The furnace's glow was subtle, magical in nature, producing light without smoke or excessive heat. He could work through the night without fear of detection.
As the iron ore transformed into ingots with soft plinks of completion, Torrhen planned. Five days until departure. In that time, he needed to:
Craft a full set of iron tools and at least one set of iron armor Gather or craft enough food to last several weeks (he could hunt and craft, but starting with supplies was wise) Create a believable cover story for how he'd "die" in the mountains Coordinate with Lyanna on the distraction Map out a route beyond the Wall to suitable kingdom-building territory
It was ambitious, but doable. Especially with Minecraft abilities.
By dawn, he had twenty iron ingots cooling in his inventory. He crafted an iron pickaxe first—the tool he'd use most often. The crafting interface accepted the pattern instantly: three iron ingots across the top, two sticks forming a handle. The pickaxe materialized in his hands, heavy and solid and real.
Then an iron axe, an iron sword, an iron shovel. Basic tools for survival and construction. He wanted to make armor too, but a full set required twenty-four iron ingots. He'd need to mine more.
Which was fine. He had time. Five days was an eternity when you could mine through stone like butter.
Torrhen hid his tools in his inventory and crawled into bed just as the sun began to rise. He was exhausted but satisfied. Every piece was falling into place.
In five days, he would leave Winterfell.
In ten days, perhaps fifteen, he would disappear into the mountains.
And then?
Then Torrhen Stark would truly begin building his kingdom.
The thought made him smile as sleep finally claimed him. Let Brandon have Winterfell. Let his father rule the North.
Torrhen would have something far greater.
He would have forever.