The next four days passed in a blur of careful preparation and secret work. Torrhen maintained the appearance of an excited young lord preparing for his first real journey into the North, while beneath the surface, he was crafting an arsenal that would make him unstoppable.
His nightly mining expeditions became routine. After the castle settled into sleep, he would descend into the passages beneath Winterfell, find isolated sections of stone far from the crypts, and mine. His iron pickaxe made the work far faster than the wooden one had, and he was learning to recognize different stone types by sight and texture.
On the second night, he found his first vein of gold ore—six blocks of it gleaming in the torchlight. Gold was softer than iron, less useful for tools, but Torrhen remembered from his Minecraft knowledge that gold had special properties. Golden apples, when crafted with enough gold, could provide powerful regeneration. And gold was essential for certain advanced crafting recipes he'd need later.
He mined it all, his inventory growing heavy with wealth that would make any lord in Westeros weep with envy.
On the third night, mining deeper than ever before, his pickaxe struck something that made his heart race: the distinctive cyan-blue gleam of diamond ore.
Diamonds. The ultimate resource in Minecraft, rare and precious beyond measure. Diamond tools were the fastest, most durable tools available—at least until he could reach the Nether and find ancient debris for netherite. Diamond armor was nearly indestructible. Diamond was power.
The vein was small—only three blocks—but Torrhen mined them with reverent care. Three diamonds. Enough for a diamond pickaxe, which would let him mine obsidian, which would let him build a Nether portal.
Everything was coming together.
By day, he played his part perfectly. He met with the guards his father had selected for the journey—ten good men, loyal and experienced. He accepted gifts from the steward to bring to the mountain clans: fine furs, Northern steel daggers, wheels of cheese preserved in wax. He listened to Brandon's advice about dealing with clan politics and nodded at his mother's instructions about staying warm and eating properly.
And through it all, Lyanna watched him with knowing eyes.
She found him on the fourth day, in the armory where he was supposedly selecting weapons for his journey. The room was empty except for the two of them, surrounded by racks of swords and spears that seemed primitive compared to what Torrhen could now craft.
"Tomorrow," she said without preamble. "You leave tomorrow."
"I know."
"Have you figured out how you're going to do it? How you're going to disappear?"
Torrhen glanced at the door to make sure no one was approaching, then nodded. "The Wulls' territory. It's the most remote of the mountain clans, full of caves and hidden valleys. I'll tell the guards I want to explore one of the deeper caves, maybe hunt for a white hart or some other prize. Once we're deep enough in, I'll... stage an accident."
"What kind of accident?"
"A cave-in, maybe. Or evidence of a bear attack. Something that would explain why they can't find my body." He pulled out a cloak from his pack—an old one he'd been wearing for years, already worn and frayed. "I'll tear this, stain it with blood, leave it where they'll find it. They'll search for a while, but eventually they'll have to accept that I'm gone."
Lyanna's face was pale. "And then?"
"Then I head north. Really north. Beyond the Wall, to lands where no one from Westeros ever goes. I'll find a suitable location and start building."
"Building what, Torrhen? You keep talking about this kingdom, but what does that even mean? You're one man. You can't build a kingdom alone."
He wanted to tell her. Gods, how he wanted to show her the iron pickaxe in his inventory, the stacks of resources, the crafting table that defied all logic. But the risk was too great.
"I have... advantages," he said carefully. "Skills that will let me build faster, gather resources more efficiently. And I won't be alone forever. Eventually, I'll recruit people. Wildlings, maybe, or others who want to escape the South. But first, I need to establish a foundation. Something solid that can't be taken away."
"You sound insane."
"Maybe I am." He smiled slightly. "But it's a productive kind of insane."
Lyanna was quiet for a moment, then she reached into her own pack and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. "Here. Take this."
Torrhen unwrapped it and found a small direwolf carved from weirwood, no bigger than his thumb. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the details perfect. "Did you make this?"
"Last winter. I was bored." She looked away, embarrassed. "It's supposed to be for luck. The Old Gods watching over you, or something. I know it's stupid—"
"It's not stupid." Torrhen closed his hand around the carving, feeling the smooth wood against his palm. "Thank you, Lyanna. I'll keep it with me always."
"You'd better. And you'd better keep your promise too. About sending word, about letting me visit your impossible kingdom." Her voice cracked slightly. "I'm going to miss you, you stupid, ambitious fool."
He pulled her into a hug, and she clung to him fiercely. "I'll miss you too. But this isn't goodbye forever. Just... goodbye for now."
"For now," she repeated, pulling back and wiping her eyes quickly. "Right. For now."
She left before he could say anything else, her footsteps echoing in the empty armory. Torrhen looked down at the small weirwood direwolf, then carefully placed it in his inventory. It would be safe there, safer than anywhere else in the world.
That night, his last night in Winterfell, Torrhen worked feverishly in his chambers. He'd smelted all his ore, turning iron and gold into gleaming ingots. Now it was time to craft his survival kit.
First, armor. A full set of iron armor required twenty-four iron ingots: eight for a chestplate, seven for leggings, five for a helmet, four for boots. He'd mined exactly twenty-nine iron ore over the past few days, giving him just enough.
He opened his crafting interface and began the familiar patterns. The helmet materialized first—a solid construction of iron that somehow weighed almost nothing when placed in his inventory but provided full protection when worn. Then the chestplate, the leggings, the boots. Each piece was perfectly fitted, adjusting to his body through some Minecraft magic he didn't fully understand.
When he put the full set on, standing before the small mirror in his chambers, Torrhen barely recognized himself. The iron armor gleamed in the candlelight, covering him from head to toe in protective metal. He looked like a knight from the Age of Heroes, like something out of legend.
But this was just iron. Eventually, he'd have diamond armor. Netherite armor. Enchanted gear that would make him truly unstoppable.
He stored the armor in his inventory—it vanished from his body instantly, returning him to his normal clothes—and moved on to other essential crafts.
A bucket, crafted from three iron ingots. Essential for carrying water or lava.
Shears, for gathering wool from sheep—he'd need beds eventually, and beds required wool.
An iron door, just in case he needed secure storage.
Flint and steel, crafted from an iron ingot and a piece of flint he'd found while mining. This was crucial—it would let him create fire, and more importantly, it would eventually let him ignite a Nether portal.
By the time dawn broke, Torrhen had transformed his mining haul into a comprehensive survival kit. His inventory held:
Full set of iron armor Iron pickaxe, axe, sword, and shovel Crafting table and furnace Three diamonds (saved for a diamond pickaxe later) Stacks of cobblestone, dirt, and wood Coal for fuel Flint and steel Bucket Basic food supplies (bread he'd crafted from wheat, cooked meat) And Lyanna's weirwood direwolf
He was as ready as he could be.
The farewell breakfast was subdued. Lord Rodrik gave him a final lecture about representing House Stark with honor. Brandon clapped him on the shoulder and told him to be safe. His mother hugged him tightly, making him promise to send ravens regularly. The younger children peppered him with final questions.
Lyanna said nothing, but when she hugged him goodbye, she whispered in his ear: "Don't you dare actually die, Torrhen Stark."
"I won't," he whispered back. "I promise."
The ten guards waited in the courtyard, mounted and ready. Torrhen's own horse—a sturdy Northern courser named Storm—stood saddled and packed with supplies he wouldn't actually need. The gifts for the mountain clans were loaded on a pack horse.
Lord Rodrik stood on the steps of the Great Hall, his hand raised in farewell. "May the Old Gods watch over you, my son."
"And over Winterfell, Father."
Then they were riding out through the gates, the ancient castle falling behind them as they headed into the wilderness of the North. Torrhen didn't look back. Looking back would make this harder than it already was.
The journey to the mountain clans' territory took three days. They traveled through forests of sentinel trees and past frozen streams, the land growing wilder and more rugged with each mile. The guards were good men, professional and alert, but they clearly saw this as a routine escort mission. None of them suspected what Torrhen was planning.
They visited the Norreys first, a proud clan who lived in a series of interconnected caves in the northern mountains. The clan chief, a grizzled old warrior named Torren Norrey, welcomed them with cautious hospitality. Torrhen presented the gifts—fine furs and steel—and spent an evening listening to stories of clan raids and ancient feuds.
It was interesting, in its way, but Torrhen's mind was already beyond the Wall. Every hour spent in pleasantries was an hour he could have been mining, building, preparing.
They moved on to the Liddles, then the Flints of the mountains. Each visit followed the same pattern: formal greetings, gift presentations, shared meals, stories of Northern heritage. The guards relaxed more with each successful visit, their vigilance waning as the journey proved peaceful.
Perfect.
On the eighth day, they reached Wull territory. The Wulls were the most remote of the mountain clans, their lands a maze of deep valleys and cavern systems in the northern reaches of the Wolfswood. Chief Theo Wull was a massive man with a beard like a avalanche, who greeted Torrhen with bone-crushing handshakes and booming laughter.
"A Stark pup come to visit old Theo!" he roared. "Your grandfather used to hunt these mountains, boy. Killed a shadowcat with nothing but a dirk, or so the songs say."
"I've heard the songs," Torrhen said, smiling. "Actually, Chief Wull, I was hoping to do some hunting myself while I'm here. These mountains are famous for their game."
"Aye, that they are! What are you after? Elk? Boar? We've got a white hart that's been spotted in the eastern valleys, if you're feeling ambitious."
"Actually," Torrhen said, his plan forming, "I heard there are caves in these mountains. Deep ones, where bears den in winter. I thought it might be worth exploring—maybe find a bear's hoard, or at the very least, test my courage."
One of his guards, a veteran named Jory, frowned. "Lord Torrhen, cave exploration is dangerous. We're not equipped for it."
"We have torches, don't we? And rope? How different can it be from exploring the crypts of Winterfell?" Torrhen kept his voice light, casual. "Besides, the Wulls know these mountains. Surely Chief Wull can recommend a safe cave to explore?"
Theo Wull stroked his beard thoughtfully. "There's the Frostfang Caverns, about half a day's ride east. Big cave system, goes deep into the mountain. Bears do den there sometimes, and there's a stream inside that's said to have gold nuggets if you know where to look."
"Gold nuggets?" Torrhen let his eyes light up with appropriate greed. "That sounds perfect. We could spend a day exploring, maybe bring back something valuable for Winterfell."
The guards exchanged uncertain looks, but none wanted to appear cowardly in front of the mountain clan. Jory finally nodded. "If Lord Torrhen wishes to explore the caves, we'll accompany him. But we go in together, and we don't take unnecessary risks."
"Of course," Torrhen agreed readily. "Safety first."
They spent that night as guests of the Wulls, eating roasted boar and drinking strong Northern ale. Torrhen made sure to be sociable, friendly, showing no signs of his real plans. He even got slightly drunk—or pretended to—laughing at Theo Wull's bawdy jokes and swapping stories with the clan warriors.
But in his mind, he was counting down the hours.
The next morning, they set out for the Frostfang Caverns with two Wull guides. The ride took them through increasingly rugged terrain, past stands of ancient weirwood and over streams so cold they steamed in the autumn air. The mountains here were wild, untouched by human hands except for the occasional clan hunting party.
The cave entrance was a massive opening in the mountainside, easily twenty feet tall and twice as wide. A stream flowed out of it, crystal clear and icy cold. The Wull guides stopped at the entrance.
"This is as far as we go," one said. "The caves belong to the bears and the darkness. We don't go in unless we have to."
"We'll be fine," Torrhen assured them. "We'll be back by nightfall."
The guards lit torches—unnecessary for Torrhen, who could craft torches at will from his inventory, but he had to maintain appearances—and they entered the cave.
Inside, the temperature dropped immediately. The sound of dripping water echoed off stone walls, and their torchlight cast dancing shadows across formations of limestone and crystal. The stream bed provided a natural path deeper into the mountain.
"Stay close," Jory ordered. "Lord Torrhen, you remain in the center of the group."
They moved deeper, the cave splitting into multiple passages. Torrhen deliberately steered them toward the largest tunnel, the one that descended most steeply. He needed to get them deep enough that when the "accident" happened, it would be believable that he couldn't escape.
After an hour of careful exploration, they were deep in the mountain's heart. The air was thin and cold, their breath misting in the torchlight. The tunnel had narrowed to barely ten feet wide, the ceiling pressing down overhead.
Perfect.
"My lords," one of the guards called out. "I found something!"
Everyone turned. The guard was pointing at what looked like gold glinting in a side passage. Fool's gold, probably, or just quartz catching the light. But it served Torrhen's purpose.
"Let's check it out," he said eagerly, pushing toward the side passage. "That could be real gold!"
As the guards clustered around the passage, examining the worthless mineral, Torrhen made his move.
He had a block of TNT in his inventory—crafted two nights ago from gunpowder he'd gotten by killing a creeper in creative mode within his mind, testing the limits of his abilities. He'd been saving it for this moment.
While the guards were distracted, Torrhen slipped the TNT block into a crack in the cave wall, placed carefully where the stone looked weakest. Then he pulled out his flint and steel.
"What was that sound?" he called out, making the guards turn.
And in that moment, he ignited the TNT.
The explosion was deafening in the enclosed space. Stone shattered, the concussion wave knocking everyone off their feet. Dust and debris filled the air as a section of the tunnel collapsed.
Torrhen had positioned himself perfectly. The collapse separated him from the guards, a wall of rubble falling between them. He could hear them shouting on the other side, calling his name in panic.
"Lord Torrhen!"
"Torrhen! Can you hear us?"
"Gods, the tunnel collapsed! Start digging!"
He let them dig for a few minutes, their voices growing more frantic. Then he pulled out his worn cloak—the one he'd prepared—and tore it deliberately. He had a vial of his own blood in his inventory, collected over several nights by pricking his finger. He poured it over the torn cloak, letting it soak into the fabric.
Then he placed the bloody, torn cloak where the guards would find it when they finally broke through the rubble.
"I can see light!" one of the guards shouted. "Keep digging!"
Time to go.
Torrhen moved away from the collapse, deeper into the unexplored tunnels. He pulled an iron pickaxe from his inventory and began mining through the cave wall, creating his own passage. The stone broke away easily, falling into his inventory instead of cluttering the floor.
Behind him, he heard the guards break through the rubble. Their shouts of triumph quickly turned to horror.
"His cloak!"
"Blood—there's so much blood!"
"Lord Torrhen! TORRHEN!"
"Search the tunnels! He might still be alive!"
But Torrhen was already gone, mining through solid stone faster than any man could run. He created a branching tunnel, then sealed it behind himself, replacing the stone blocks so perfectly that no one would ever know a passage had existed there.
He mined for hours, putting miles of solid rock between himself and the search party. His pickaxe never tired, never dulled. He was a ghost in the stone, invisible and unstoppable.
Finally, when he judged he was far enough away, Torrhen stopped mining horizontally and started going up. He needed to reach the surface, to see the sky again, to orient himself.
The stone gave way to dirt, then to grass and roots. Torrhen broke through the surface in a small forest clearing, somewhere in the wild mountains north of the Wulls' territory. He was far from any human settlement, far from any path or road.
He was free.
Torrhen climbed out of his self-made tunnel and stood in the clearing, breathing the cold mountain air. Behind him, miles away, the guards would be searching frantically. They'd find the bloody cloak, the collapsed tunnel, no sign of his body. Eventually, they'd have to conclude that he was dead—killed in the cave-in, his body buried under tons of rock or carried away by some underground river.
They'd return to Winterfell with tragic news. His father would grieve. His mother would weep. Brandon would become Lord Stark's only son.
And Lyanna... Lyanna would know the truth, or suspect it. She'd see through the deception. But she wouldn't tell. She'd keep his secret, waiting for the day he fulfilled his promise.
Torrhen looked north, toward where the Wall stood invisible on the horizon. Beyond that Wall lay his future. His kingdom. His destiny.
He pulled out his compass—a Minecraft compass that would always point to his respawn point, currently set to this very clearing—and checked his bearings. North. Always north.
Then he stored his pickaxe, settled his pack, and began walking.
The second son of Winterfell was dead.
The Eternal Builder was just beginning.