Morgan

42 AC

Winterfell

Third Person Pov

A year and a half had passed since the fateful wedding of Theon Stark and Diana Stark, nee Mormont. In that time, Jonnos Stark had also taken a bride, Lena Manderly. Now, Theon Stark waited outside the birth chambers, pacing back and forth with a barely contained energy. His father, Lord Stark, stood against the cold stone wall, his expression a mixture of stoicism and paternal concern. From within the chamber came the sounds of Diana's labor - screams of pain interspersed with curses directed at her husband, Theon. "...and if you so much as touch me again, Theon Stark," Diana's voice roared, "there'll be a sword waiting for you!"

Theon, hearing his wife's words, stopped pacing abruptly. He turned and stared at the closed chamber door, then glanced at his father, and then at Jonnos, who was nearby and had burst into laughter.

"In three moons," Theon said, his voice tight, "your child will come. Then you can laugh."

Jonnos, hearing the tone of his brother's voice, stopped laughing abruptly, a flicker of fear crossing his face.

Brandon Stark, their father, simply shook his head at his sons' antics. Lyra, standing nearby, placed a hand on Theon's arm. "Don't worry, brother," she said softly. "Everything will be alright."

After what felt like an eternity, the sounds from within the chamber shifted. The screams subsided, replaced by the unmistakable sound of a baby's cry. A moment later, the heavy wooden door opened, and the maester emerged, a tired but triumphant smile on his face. "Congratulations, my lord," he announced, his voice carrying through the tense silence. "Your daughter is born."

Theon, followed by his father, Jonnos, and Lyra, rushed into the chamber. The room was filled with the warm, earthy scent of childbirth. Diana lay exhausted but radiant in the large bed, her dark hair damp and tangled. A midwife stood beside her, carefully swaddled in a bundle of soft blankets. As they entered, the midwife turned and gently placed the baby in Theon Stark's arms.

Theon cradled the tiny bundle, his initial apprehension melting away as he gazed down at his daughter. She had a delicate, pale complexion, framed by a surprisingly thick head of dark brown hair. Her eyes, when they fluttered open, were a striking shade of grey, so like his own. "She's...she's beautiful," he murmured, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and wonder. He then looked at Diana, his expression softening. "Thank you, Diana," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "How are you feeling?"

Diana, though clearly exhausted, managed a small smile. "I'm fine, Theon," she said, her voice a little weak.

Meanwhile, Brandon, Jonnos, Lyra, and Gilliane, who was Brandon's wife, began to murmur amongst themselves, their attention focused on the baby.

"She has Theon's eyes," Jonnos observed, peering into the cradle. "A true Stark."

Lyra smiled. "And Diana's hair. A lovely mix."

Brandon stepped closer, his gaze softening as he looked at his granddaughter. "A strong one, she looks. She'll need to be."

Gilliane added softly, "She's so tiny... and perfect."

Brandon then turned to Theon, his expression thoughtful. "Have you decided on a name for her, Theon?" he asked.

Theon looked up, his face filled with a quiet pride. "Morgan," he said. "Morgan Stark."

Brandon looked at the baby, repeating the name softly to himself. "Morgan... Morgan Stark," he murmured, a small smile touching his lips. "It's a good name. A strong name."

Lyra, standing nearby, clasped her hands together, her eyes shining. "I can't believe it," she exclaimed, a delighted laugh escaping her lips. "I'm an aunt!"

Jonnos grinned, stepping closer to the cradle. "And I'm an uncle," he added, his voice filled with a mixture of pride and amusement.

The family continued to chat for a while, their voices hushed with a mixture of awe and joy, admiring the new arrival and offering their congratulations to the proud parents. Eventually, Brandon, sensing the exhaustion in Diana's face, spoke up. "We should let the mother and child rest," he said gently. The others agreed, and with final, lingering glances at baby Morgan, they quietly filed out of the chamber, leaving Theon and Diana alone with their daughter.

Brandon, Theon, and Jonnos made their way to Lord Torrhen Stark's chambers, the weight of the recent events settling upon them.

They knocked on the heavy wooden door. A moment later, a voice from within called out, "Come in."

The three men entered. Torrhen Stark, ancient and frail but with eyes that still held a spark of the old wolf, looked up at them from his high-backed chair. "So?" he said, his voice raspy but firm.

Theon stepped forward, a wide smile spreading across his face. "A daughter, Grandfather," he announced proudly. "Morgan Stark."

A rare smile touched Torrhen Stark's lips. "A daughter," he repeated softly, his gaze distant for a moment, perhaps recalling his own children. "Congratulations, Theon. To you and Diana." He gestured with a gnarled hand. "Sit. All of you."

Once they were settled, Jonnos retrieved a bottle of Northern whiskey from a nearby table. He uncorked it with a flourish and began to pour generous measures into cups for each of them.

When the cups were filled, Torrhen raised his high. "To Morgan Stark," he declared, his voice surprisingly strong.

"Morgan Stark!" Brandon, Theon, and Jonnos echoed, raising their own cups and taking a hearty drink.

A comfortable silence settled over them for a moment, the only sound the clinking of glasses on the table. Then, the conversation turned back to the newborn.

"She has a strong set of lungs," Jonnos chuckled, recalling the sounds from the birth chamber.

"She does," Theon agreed, a soft smile gracing his lips. "Just like her mother."

Brandon nodded in approval. "She'll need that strength. The North is a hard land, and these are hard times."

Torrhen, his gaze distant, added, "She is a Stark, and the North remembers. May she bring honor to the name."

The conversation about the baby's features – her dark hair, her grey eyes, her tiny hands – continued for a while, a welcome respite from the worries that usually plagued them. But as the whiskey flowed, the talk inevitably turned to the happenings in the North.

Torrhen Stark leaned forward, his ancient eyes sharp. "The canal is almost complete," he announced, his voice surprisingly strong. "It is the giants that have quickened the building process."

"Aye," Brandon confirmed, nodding in agreement. "And the moat will be finished within three years, at this rate."

"Which means," Torrhen added, turning to Jonnos, "that you will be named Lord of the Moat, once it's complete." He paused, then his gaze shifted to Jonnos. "Which brings me to another matter. As you will be the first of your line, you'll need a house name and words for your new seat."

Jonnos shifted in his seat, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I've been giving it some thought," he said. "I was thinking... House Sköll. It's an old tongue word for 'wolf'."

Brandon smiled, a hint of pride in his eyes. "Sköll," he repeated, testing the sound of it. "A good name."

Theon, who had been listening quietly, spoke up. "And for his House words," he suggested, a thoughtful look on his face, "how about 'And Now My Watch Begins'?" He explained, "Since he'll be the first to guard the North from any attacks from the south."

Jonnos chuckled, shaking his head in amusement and appreciation. "Aye," he said, grinning. "That'll be it."

Torrhen, listening to the exchange, simply smiled, a rare and approving expression on his ancient face. "Aye," he said softly.

They talked about the progress of the Moat Cailin's construction for a while longer, discussing the logistics and the challenges of the project. Eventually, Torrhen shifted the conversation to the happenings in King's Landing.

"There are protests," Torrhen said, his voice grave, "the Faith is stirring. They decry the 'abomination of incest' sitting on the Iron Throne."

Brandon frowned. "And the King is allowing this?"

Torrhen sighed. "Aenys is... a kind king," he said, choosing his words carefully, "and easy-going with the lords. Some would say too easy-going. The lords take advantage. He's trying to placate the Faith, to handle this diplomatically. But there's talk... whispers of the Faith Militant rising again."

Jonnos furrowed his brows. "Faith Militant rising again..." he muttered. "That's as good as saying they don't acknowledge this king's right to sit the Iron Throne. And it means we should be ready for war... war with the Faith."

Theon nodded slowly. "The South is jealous of our prosperity," he said, his voice hardening. "If the southern lords see an opportunity in this... if they take advantage of the situation and try to turn the Faith's attention towards us... then we need to be prepared."

Brandon's expression turned grim, but a hint of steely resolve flickered in his eyes. "They can try," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "They can try to enter the North. But they won't get past the Moat. The Andals will be buried in the Neck. Only. Just like their ancestors."

Torrhen nodded slowly. "Prince Maegor and Queen Dowager Visenya are wrought with the Faith," he added, his voice a low rumble. "They urge Aenys to summon the High Septon, to demand an accounting of what the Faith is doing. They warn that if the Faith isn't brought under control, there will be... serious consequences."

Torrhen paused, a weariness settling over his ancient features. "But Aenys... he still seeks peace with them. We shall see what comes of it."

A brief silence fell over the room, heavy with unspoken concerns. Then, Brandon turned to Torrhen. "What of Skagos, Father?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of concern. "What news have we received?"

Torrhen's face hardened, his gaze becoming distant. "Nothing," he said, his voice flat. "Skagos has remained isolated, even after we brought them under our rule."

Theon spoke up, a hard edge to his voice. "I think," he said, "we should remind them who they serve."

Jonnos grinned, a flash of something wild in his eyes. "Aye," he agreed. "Or we could go and give them a reminder... personally."

Brandon, nodding from his side, added, "Aye. That will do it."

Torrhen considered their words, his gaze sweeping over his grandsons. "It has been too long," he admitted, a hint of steel entering his voice. "Too long since the Lord of Winterfell has set foot on Skagos. A show of force... a reminder... might be necessary." Like that, they talk about Skagos for a while.

 Then, after a while, Torrhen Stark says his gaze softened slightly. "And I've been thinking about the restoration of the First Keep. The treasury is finally full enough to consider beginning the work."

Brandon nodded. "The First Keep. Good. It's been in ruins for a long time."

Theon leaned forward, a thoughtful expression on his face. "It would be a powerful symbol, Grandfather," he said. "A testament to the strength and endurance of House Stark."

Jonnos, however, was more practical. "How long do you think it will take?" he asked. "And what about the cost? Even with the treasury full, it will be a monumental undertaking."

Torrhen nodded slowly, acknowledging the concerns. "It will be a long process, undoubtedly. Years, perhaps even a decade. And the cost... significant, yes. But it is an investment in the future of Winterfell, in the future of the North. We cannot allow the legacy of our ancestors to crumble into dust."

Brandon added, "And with the Moat Cailin nearing completion, we will soon have more resources and manpower available." He looked at his brothers. "Perhaps we could even use some of the giants' labor, if they are willing."

The conversation continued for a while longer, covering various topics related to the North's present and future. As the evening drew to a close, and the last of the whiskey was drained, they all rose to depart.