A year had passed since Alyssa Stark had claimed Moat Cailin. What had once been a damp ruin swallowed by fog and forgotten by time was now a living heart beating strong in the Neck. The fortress had been reforged in stone and steel, but it was more than that — it was alive.
Alyssa, now eleven, stood upon the highest rebuilt tower, her black cloak laced with Northern silver. From this perch she could see the grain fields sway like ocean waves in the wind, the slow turn of windmills she'd designed herself, and smoke curling gently from the chimneys of homes and forges.
Moat Cailin was no longer just a defensive keep — it was a city in the making.
She had overseen every piece of it: the construction, the planning, the welfare of her people. Using the strange knowledge buried deep in her soul — fragments of a past life, a world far beyond this one — she taught the builders and masons how to raise stronger walls and dig aqueducts that carried clean water across the grounds. She had bred goats and sheep for more than just meat, encouraging the growth of fine wool and silk. She had glassworks built, producing windows, lenses, and mirrors, and commissioned parchment-makers to create scrolls and books — even experimenting with early forms of paper. She didn't keep this knowledge to herself; Alyssa made sure to teach others everything she knew, training the most talented builders, weavers, and scribes until they could carry on the work themselves. This freed her to focus on broader ambitions — strategies, alliances, and long-term planning. Tapestries adorned the halls now, some woven with her own designs, while trade flowed in from Dorne, Qarth, and even Quarth — spices, dyes, scrolls, and tools she had only dreamed of before.
The Neck, long considered a harsh and muddy land, had become fertile. Alyssa used her abilities to strengthen the soil and bend nature subtly, creating crops that could thrive where others failed. Potatoes that ripened faster, beans that survived the chill, berries sweet enough to trade for coin in any court. Her fortress fed itself — and the surrounding villages — with ease. But Alyssa did not stop there. She ordered regular shipments of surplus grain, dried meats, and produce to Winterfell and other parts of the North where hunger still lingered. She kept the prices of food low, insisting that no child or elder should go to bed with an empty belly. In doing so, she won the hearts of the smallfolk, who sang her praises and whispered that perhaps the gods had finally blessed the North with a ruler who truly saw them.
Schools stood at the edge of the inner walls, where children — noble, common, and orphaned — learned side by side. Boys and girls alike were taught reading, writing, numbers, history, trade, and ethics. But Alyssa's ambition reached beyond Moat Cailin and its surrounding villages. She sent ravens to every Northern holdfast, inviting families to send their children to be educated, clothed, and fed — regardless of wealth or birth. Dormitories were expanded, kitchens ran night and day, and her teachers were trained to see potential in every face. Her dream was not only to build a city but a generation — thinkers, builders, warriors, and healers who would reshape the North for the better. Those with aptitude were given internships: apprenticing as scribes, blacksmiths, merchants, or diplomats.
Her military was no less organized. Trained by the best guards she could find — many from Winterfell or Essos — her soldiers drilled daily. They wore flexible armor, inspired by designs she'd once seen in another life, and could march through marsh or stone like wraiths of the North. Beyond that, Alyssa had been quietly building her forces through unconventional means. Wildlings who had wandered past the Wall, thieves, and raiders captured in the surrounding lands were given a choice: serve her, take the black and go to the Wall, or die. Many chose loyalty and were gradually folded into her growing army, trained from the ground up and treated with fairness, though watched carefully. To ensure absolute loyalty and silence, Alyssa wove protective magic into their oaths — none could betray her without facing severe consequences. Her army, once a simple guard, was now a true force — varied, loyal, disciplined, and bound to her in more ways than one.
Alyssa trained alongside her soldiers, sparring with sword and bow, mastering stances and techniques. She refused to sit on high while others bled in her name. Her presence on the training fields inspired loyalty, and her skill earned respect. She opened her ranks to women, disregarding the whispers of tradition. If they could fight, she would arm them. If they could lead, she would elevate them. Her forces were not only diverse in origin, but also in gender, united by shared purpose and belief in their Lady.
Yet it was not just steel or stone that made Moat Cailin rise. It was people.
And it was Alyssa's Circle — the orphans she had taken in from the start, those who had become her eyes, ears, and soul.
Torran, a quiet, sharp-eyed boy, ran her network of informants with ruthless efficiency. No rumor in the Neck or White Harbor escaped his reach.
Lysa, elegant and bold, had already visited three noble courts, negotiating trade and peace. At just twelve, she spoke four languages.
Branric, strong and broad as a young bear, was the commander of her household guard and personally saw to her protection.
Mira, slight and clever, worked closely with the builders. She crafted siege engines and improved irrigation systems, her mind as sharp as any blade.
Kael, the mute boy with perfect recall, recorded and coded messages, often acting as Alyssa's shadow in council.
To the outside world, they were children. But to Moat Cailin, they were the foundation of the future.
At Winterfell, Jon Snow sat alone on a snowy bench in the godswood, Ghost curled at his feet.
Robb had read another letter from Alyssa aloud over dinner — a bright, excited thing about new waterwheels and trade routes. Along with the letter had come a series of gifts: chests of fine silks and warm wool, glassworks of astonishing clarity, and books — some penned in her own hand — bound in soft leather. There were crates of food as well: smoked meats, dried fruits, and hearty grains meant to ease the winter hunger. Each item had been labeled for her family, including one especially marked for Jon. In her letter, Alyssa had written that she would visit soon, promising stories and laughter to warm even the coldest Northern night.
The great hall filled with warmth and pride as each gift was unwrapped. Sansa ran her hands over the silks with wide-eyed wonder, already dreaming of dresses. Arya, ever practical, flipped through one of the books with uncharacteristic fascination. Bran and little Rickon admired the glass figurines — a direwolf, a bear, a tower — their delicate edges catching the firelight. Even Catelyn, whose heart still bore unease about her daughter's rise to power so young, could not help but smile. "She thinks of all of us," she murmured.
Eddard Stark looked at the packages and the smiles around him and nodded. "She honors us with every step she takes," he said, though a shadow crossed his eyes — not of worry, but of the weight Alyssa now carried on such small shoulders.
Jon hadn't joined the laughter. Instead, he came here, to the trees.
He fingered the worn parchment tucked under his tunic. Alyssa had written to him too. A short letter, warm and kind. She told him she missed him.
He hadn't written back.
"She's a star and I'm still… just me." He glanced around the godswood, the snow-laden branches silent in the twilight. "We're still boys chasing wooden swords, and she's already changing the world."
But Jon felt the answer in his chest — heavy and sharp.
He loved her. He'd always loved her. And even though he knew the world would never see them as equals, he couldn't help but hope — one day, maybe, she'd look at him the way she used to.
Not as a sister. But something more.
In Pentos, Daenerys Targaryen poured over a scroll. The room was dimly lit by firelight and incense. Melisandre stood across from her, her red robes flowing like flame.
"She is far, isn't she?" the Red Woman asked.
Dany nodded. "But I see her clearer each night."
"And what do you see?"
"She's building something. A kingdom without a throne. She's smart. Braver than me."
Melisandre's lips curled faintly. "And does she know who she is to you?"
"I don't even know what she is to me," Dany whispered.
"Love," Melisandre said simply. "And destiny."
Daenerys looked into the fire. "Then I need to be worthy of it. I need to know more than history and prophecy. I need politics. Languages. Maps. Secrets."
"You ask much."
"Because I'll need more than a dream to find her."
Melisandre studied the flames. "Then we begin again tomorrow. And this time, you'll write the letters."
Dany blinked. "To whom?"
"To the girl who builds a city in the Neck. Let's see if dreams can carry words."
And back in the North, as snow fell gently over the Neck, Alyssa Stark raised her gaze to the sky, where stars winked like secrets.
Somewhere out there, a girl was waiting.
And Alyssa would build the world strong enough to reach her.
[End of Chapter 4]
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