The North was a land of silence, but silence did not last forever. By the turning of the first year, whispers had spread from village to village: of a fortress that had risen from the cliffs of Sea Dragon Point, of a man who forged steel stronger than dragonbone, who baked bread where no fields should grow, who sheltered the lost and hungry.
They called him the Builder.
And more came.
It began with fishermen, men who brought nets heavy with cod and herring in exchange for bread and sharper knives than they had ever known. Then came hunters, lean men who offered pelts and venison for bows and arrowheads that flew straighter, cut deeper. Soon, families drifted northward: widows with children clinging to their skirts, men with little more than an axe and a pack mule, orphans taken in by cousins who had nothing left. They came hesitantly, fearful of the cliffs and of the tales that spread around them. But hunger pressed harder than fear.
Aether did not turn them away. He carved chambers deeper into the stone, lit halls with torches that never dimmed, raised ovens that burned without ceasing. His fortress became a refuge, its walls echoing not only with the clang of his tools, but with laughter, weeping, and the shuffle of bare feet on stone. He had begun alone. Now he was no longer alone.
Yet people needed order. And Aether, though no lord, saw the truth as clear as the redstone that pulsed in his halls: without structure, his fortress would fall to chaos. One evening, beneath the glow of enchanted lanterns, he stood before his gathered folk in the great hall. They filled the chamber, rough men and weary women, children clutching crusts of bread.
"You are no longer wanderers," Aether told them, his voice steady. "This place will feed you. It will guard you. But to stand, it must have hands—many hands, working as one."
He began to divide them. The fishermen became the Fishers, led by Harl, a wiry man with salt in his beard, who kept the nets full and the stores rich with smoked herring and cod. The hunters became the Hunters, bowmen armed with iron-tipped arrows, ranging the forests to bring back venison and skins. The masons and miners became the Masons, who with enchanted pickaxes and glowing torches carved vast new halls into the stone, raising galleries and chambers where none had been. And for defense, he chose the strongest among them, naming them the Watch. He showed them armor—gleaming, weightless, impossible steel that never rusted. They touched it with reverence, calling it "dragon-forged." He did not correct them.
At first, the people murmured uneasily. But when the first winter storm came and the stores were full, when wolves tested the walls and were driven back, when fires burned bright while the forest froze, gratitude replaced doubt. Soon they took pride in their roles. Farmers began planting in strange underground fields where wheat sprouted under glowing stone. Children carried buckets to fill channels where water flowed endlessly from hidden pumps. Women baked loaves by the dozens, trading them for fish and venison. What had been a refuge became a community. And Aether, though he had never asked for it, became their lord.
The fortress above grew as well. From the cliffs rose towers of dark stone, their battlements sharp against the horizon. A great gate was raised, bound in steel and ironwood, its hinges hidden with redstone so it opened at the press of a hand. Walls crept outward, climbing the cliffs, forming courtyards and terraces. To passing ships, the sight was grim and strange: a castle blooming where there had been only wilderness. Sailors muttered prayers when they saw it, whispering of sorcery and cursed stone. But within, the people felt safe. They called it the Hearth in Stone, though some whispered another name—the Hidden Keep.
Not all looked kindly on this rising power. One autumn morning, as the trees blazed red and gold, riders appeared on the horizon. They came in a small band, a dozen men with spears and mail, their banner bearing the horse's head of House Ryswell. They halted at the gate, their captain raising his voice.
"By right of House Ryswell, sworn to Winterfell, these lands belong to our lord. You dwell here unlawfully. You will pay tithe and bend the knee—or be cast out."
From the battlements, Aether stood cloaked against the sea-wind, his guards at his side.
"This land was empty," he called down. "No plough touched it, no sword guarded it. I raised these walls. My people till these fields. We owe you nothing."
The captain's face darkened. "No man raises towers alone. What trickery is this? Sorcery? Theft of craft? Mark my words, builder—our lord will send a hundred men to tear this place stone from stone!"
The Watch bristled, hands on swords. But Aether raised a hand, and they stilled. He said only: "Tell your lord that we will answer steel with steel. If he seeks to take what we have built, he must pay in blood."
The Ryswell men left with curses, their threats echoing in the air long after their hoofbeats faded. That night, the hall was restless with fear. But Aether looked upon his people and knew fear alone could not rule them. "We will build higher," he told the masons. "We will sharpen steel," he told the smiths. "We will be ready." And they believed him.
The true test came not from the Ryswells, but from the sea. It was deep into winter when the Ironborn came. Three longships, black sails bearing the kraken of House Greyjoy, glided from the mist like shadows. They struck a fishing hamlet north of the keep, dragging men and women screaming to their ships, setting huts alight.
A fisher's boy stumbled breathless into the gate, his face white with terror. "Raiders!" he gasped. "Ironborn!"
The Watch armed at once. But Aether strode before them, his cloak snapping in the wind. In his hands he carried a blade of strange steel, its edge gleaming with an unnatural sheen. They marched to the hamlet, the glow of burning huts lighting the night sky.
The Ironborn laughed when they saw them. "A hidden keep?" their captain jeered, hefting a bloody axe. "We'll take it as we take all things—by fire and salt!"
But when they charged, they met something they had never known. Arrows streaked from the darkness—iron shafts that burned with a faint glow, striking true, piercing mail as if it were cloth. Walls of stone rose suddenly where none had stood, blocking their path. Strange machines hummed and spat fire, hurling bolts of flame that turned the night red. And at the front strode Aether himself, his blade cleaving through axe and shield alike, his armor untouched by spear or steel. To the Ironborn, it was as though they fought a demon of steel and fire.
By dawn, the raiders lay broken. Their ships burned, their corpses cast into the sea. Of the villagers taken, many were freed, though not all. The survivors knelt before Aether, calling him their savior, their lord. But among the dying, one Ironborn captain spat a curse with his last breath: "The kraken will hear of this. The Drowned God will see your walls torn down."
When spring came again, rumors traveled faster than the thawing rivers. Of a hidden castle that burned raiders with fire that was not fire. Of a smith-lord who wielded a blade sharper than Valyrian steel. Of a people who bent the knee not to Winterfell, but to a sorcerer in the cliffs. And far to the south, in Winterfell's halls, such whispers began to reach the ears of Lord Eddard Stark.