Comments and Reviews would be welcome as always. :3
Oi lads and lasses, we need proper partners for a few characters, any ideas?
For Jorah Mormont
For Viserys Targaryen
For Ashara Dayne
Fourth Moon of 285 AC, Across Westeros
Omniscient pov
The raven wings carried the news faster than any army ever could.
From the port of White Harbor to the spires of the Eyrie, from the Wolf's Den to the Water Gardens of Sunspear, the tale of Torrhen and Lyarra Skywalker—formerly Snow, now Skywalker of Frostgate—spread like wildfire across the Seven Kingdoms.
First they had returned from death and now after disappearing for a year they had come back and they had not returned empty-handed.
At Barrowton, Lord willem Dustin read the letter aloud twice, his brow furrowed beneath a thick mane of auburn hair. "They've been legitimised," he said finally, "and they rule Skagos outright now. By royal decree."
His maester, younger than most, barely concealed a smirk. "And allowed to mint their own coin. That's practically declaring them a sovereign house."
At the longtable, Lady Barbrey snorted. "Rickard's bastards did what his trueborn never dared. No wonder Ned allowed it."
"Honestly, good for them" said Willem with a small smile, "Torrhen is a good lad".
In Deepwood Motte, Lady Sybelle Glover simply stared into the hearth. "A banner of black and white glass. The children of the old gods have come home," she murmured. Her steward said a small prayer to the gods. "The trees whisper louder lately. I thought it just the wind."
In Last Hearth, Greatjon Umber downed an entire horn of ale and let out a thunderous, joyful bellow. "Ha! The Snow twins live! That lad—Torrhen—he's got more spine than most southern lords!"
"You know what I think is the best part?" added his son the Smalljon. "They're building a port and allowed to mint coin, they wouldn't want that permission if they weren't sitting on a fat load of gold."
In the godswoods of the North and other areas where the old gods were revered, the smallfolk gathered. Men and women lit candles and left small carvings on wooden items beneath the heart tree. A farmer knelt and whispered a prayer for his daughter's health, clutching a silver stag. He hoped that with the rumours that the Skywalkers were allowed to mint coin now, that he could someday exchange his silver stags to silver wolfs perhaps.
"They're the gods' chosen," someone muttered. "They will lead us in any coming conflicts, I am sure of that."
Small fires flickered across the North that night. Silent celebrations. Offerings to the weirwoods. The return of the Old Gods' chosen, they said. The blood that remembered.
In King's Landing, Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, stood at the top of the Tower of the Hand, the raven's message clutched tight in one fist.
"They have titles now. Coin. A growing fleet. Even Robert's seal on their legitimacy," he said grimly. Across the chamber, Stannis Baratheon scowled. "And they are mad enough to want to rule cannibals on a forgotten island."
"But they have stability now," Jon said. "That makes them far more dangerous than madmen."
Stannis's lips thinned. "No coin should be struck without the king's mint. It's rebellion in all but name."
"The king gave them the right," Jon said. "Or what is most likely rather the case, he was persuaded to."
He didn't say it aloud, but he was thinking of Torrhen's eyes, the confidence in that strange boy's bearing during their brief encounter in the capital. There had been something unsettling about him—wise beyond his years, or perhaps simply old behind the eyes. But maybe the boy could prove to be beneficial to the Baratheon rule. Keeping the Targaryens on Skane was certainly not a bad thing. Away from any center of power... yes, Jon Arryn rather liked that.
In Sunspear, Doran held the letter from his sister with a small smile. It did not say how Torrhen Snow no Skywalker had healed Elia but Doran's sister's confidence that she was now healthier than she had ever been improved the lad's standing in Doran's eyes further.
"What a shame that the two of you are never going to marry. I am sure he would have made you happy Elia... or atleast been a better husband than Rhaegar could have ever hoped to have been" he whispered with a smile that which genuine in the beginning turned to a mocking one at the end.
Other lords and ladies reacted more muted to the rise of a new Lord in the North. The rumours of a gateway to another world was dismissed entirely, far more important were the speculations on how large the gold veins on Skagos or Skane must have been for the twins to seek minting rights.
The Faith of the Seven stirred uneasily. Whispered talk of returned heathens in the North did not sit well in septs and Starry Sept alike. Quietly, they dispatched a septon—not to bless Frostgate, but to watch.
**Scene Break**
Fifth Moon of 285 AC, King's Landing
pov Varys
He moved through the hidden passages of the Red Keep like a wraith. The soft flick of candlelight played upon the stone walls as he entered his private chamber, where silence ruled and secrets whispered. On the table before him lay several small slips of parchment, each sealed with no crest, written in his own neat hand.
One slip bore only a name: Gerold Hightower.
Varys picked it up and stared at the ink, still drying. His lips thinned.
Too long had the loyalists remained rooted like weeds too deep for easy removal. Too many swords still follow the name Targaryen—or worse, Skywalker. And with the old Kingsguard possibly being able to see through his nephew's false identity once the time came they would need to be dealt with.
It was time to pluck one.
Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, had grown old, but not weak. Each year he journeyed to Oldtown to pay homage to family and duty. Each year he returned unharmed. This year, he would not.
He tucked the parchment into a small iron coffer and
"Send word to the brothers on the Rose Road. Tumbleton. Tell them: not death in the open, but swiftly and silently. Let it be a bandit's blade—not a king's justice."
**Scene Break**
Fifth Moon of 285 AC, the Rose Road near Tumbleton
Pov Ser Gerold Hightower
The spring heat clung to the land like sweat beneath plate. Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, rode at the head of a modest escort—six and ten knights with their squires and twenty retainers flying the white of the Kingsguard and the flame of Oldtown.
This time his journey would not end in Harrenhal or even in Winterfell however but in the mysterious Frostgate. His fellow former kingsguard Arthur had not spared with the praise of the new keep of the Skywalkers and Gerold was curious to see just what sort of castle the young miracle lad had built for himself.
He had left his siblings well, the Hightower family in fine health and spirits. Little Lynesse was growing up to be a shattering beauty, rivaling Cersei Lannister or Catelyn Tully. For once, he had dared hope things were calming.
That illusion shattered with the twang of a crossbow bolt.
A squire riding beside him screamed and toppled from his horse. Then chaos.
Figures emerged from the treeline—bandits, dozens of them, reeking of cheap ale and desperation. They bore no banners, wore no sigils, but struck with the precision of trained men.
Gerold's men formed a wedge, shouting to protect him. He drew his sword—the blade heavy but familiar, even in his advancing age—and cut down two who rushed him with clubs.
But the ambush had been perfectly timed. The escort was outnumbered three to one.
"Ride!" he bellowed to his remaining men. "Harrenhal!"
A spear slashed across his side as he kicked his horse hard. The world blurred with pain. A few knights rallied to his side, carving a bloody path through the chaos. Behind him, he heard screams—cries of mercy met with laughter.
He did not look back.
**Scene Break**
Two days later the corridors of Harrenhal echoed with silence. Lord Oswell Whent sat beside the bed of a man who had once seemed invincible. His wife, Barbara Whent formerly Bracken stood behind him for a while before leaving the two men alone. She could see that the former kingsguard was approaching his final moments.
Gerold Hightower was pale, sweat soaking his linen tunic. The wound on his side festered, red and angry. The maester had done what he could, but fever was a crueler killer than any sword.
Oswell grasped his friend's hand. "You should have stayed in Oldtown," he said gently.
Gerold's eyes fluttered open, glazed but aware. "Would've missed your ugly face."
Oswell laughed, choked on it. "You never knew when to let go. Not in war. Not in council. Not even now."
Gerold smiled faintly. "You… you remember the Tower of Joy?"
Oswell nodded. "How could I forget?"
"I followed orders," Gerold whispered. "But in my heart… I knew the war was wrong. I just didn't know how to stop it."
"You served honor. Like we all did."
Gerold turned his head slightly. "Don't let it happen again, Oswell. Don't… let them poison the realm... from the shadows. The Targaryens will rule again, they will just have to prove themselves to be better this time."
Oswell leaned forward. "I swear it. On my name. On my House."
Gerold's hand went still. His chest did not rise again.
**Scene Break**
One Week Later, the Road Near Tumbleton
POV: Ser Lyle Whent
Smoke still hung low in the trees, the scent of burned canvas and spoiled wine thick in the air. The bandit camp was a mess of discarded gear and drunken revelry—until the Whent outriders arrived.
The men from Harrenhal—fifty seasoned armsmen—had not come for negotiation.
They struck like a storm.
The bandits didn't even have time to mount horses. Most were still celebrating the bounty stolen from the White Bull's retinue—Hightower rings, fine saddlebags, white cloaks cut to rags and worn as trophies.
There was no mercy. Those who fought were cut down.
Those who surrendered were shown none.
By the end, only crows remained, circling.
Lyle Whent who had recently been legitimised after his trueborn cousin had requested it rode through the blood-soaked camp, his face grim. He stopped when he saw it—Gerold's white cloak, stained red, nailed to a tree like some grotesque banner.
He dismounted, pulled it down, and folded it carefully.
"King's Landing will hear of this" he muttered. "One way or another. Ser Gerold may have served the previous dynasty but attacks on noblemen like this they cannot ignore."
**Scene Break**
omniscient pov
Oh how wrong Ser Lyle would prove to be. Robert Baratheon had of course no interest in personally dealing with the death of the old kingsguard so he instructed Jon Arryn to deal with it. Jon Arryn, overcome with duties and also with no personal interest in the matter, pushed the matter to Varys who was only too eager to send his little birds to find a culprit.
**Scene Break**
Fifth Moon of 285 AC, Frostgate:
POV: Lyarra Skywalker
The letters came in bundles now.
Dozens of scrolls stacked neatly by her writing desk, their seals ranging from minor landed knights to male members of great Houses. Every raven brought another wave—offers of alliance, trade, and more often than not… marriage.
To her.
Or to her brother.
Lyarra sighed as she skimmed another waxy parchment, reading the flowery nonsense aloud: "To the Lady of Frostgate, jewel of the North's newest star, may I humbly propose—"
She crumpled the letter mid-sentence and tossed it into the brazier.
Behind her, the steward kept reading off names from the daily correspondence.
"Ser Ronnet Connington, Ser Terrence of House Harlaw, Lord Morros Sarsfield, a cousin of Lord Alester Florent, a cousin from Gulltown who offers a dowry of—"
"Enough," Lyarra said, waving him off. "Draft the same reply to all of them. The Lord of Frostgate is absent, and only he holds the right to consider marriage proposals."
The scribe hesitated. "Even the one addressed to you?"
"Especially that one." She turned back to her letters with a smirk. "Let them wait."
Truthfully, she didn't know what Torrhen would say to any of these proposals. He might scoff. He might negotiate. Or he might do what they often did when faced with expectations they had no desire to meet—ignore them until they became someone else's problem.
And for now, it was someone else's problem. She had far more important things to do.
Later, in the frost-lit gardens of the inner bailey, Lyarra knelt beside little Rhaenys and Alysanne as they decorated snowmen with buttons, ribbons, and wild northern moss. Aegon toddled unsteadily nearby under the watchful eyes of one of the maids.
"Mine has a crown," Rhaenys declared proudly, placing a ring of twigs on her snowman's head.
"A real princess snow queen," Lyarra said with a grin.
Alysanne frowned. "Mine is the king. But he keeps falling over."
"Like your uncle Robert, then," Rhaenys giggled, earning a loud gasp from Alysanne and a scolding look from the maid.
"The usurper is not my uncle" said Alysanne with a small frown.
"Do not call his grace that" hissed the maid before sending a concerned glance towards Lyarra who only waved it off. If Robert Baratheon wasn't such an abysmal king then she might have taken more offense.
Lyarra snorted at the thought of her ever holding the king in the same regards as her brother Ned did and ruffled Alysanne's hair. She didn't mind the cold, not when the laughter of children warmed the air. She glanced up and saw Elia watching from the stone gallery above, arms folded, eyes soft. Beside her stood Ashara, and a few steps behind, Arthur Dayne.
They were smiling.
The next day, the ravens brought darker tidings.
Gerold Hightower was dead from a fever after he had been assaulted by bandits during his travel towards Harrenhal.
The news struck Arthur like a sword to the gut. He didn't speak at first—just read the letter again, and again, his jaw tight, his knuckles white.
Elia and Ashara joined him in the solar that evening. The fire cracked quietly as the three of them sat in solemn silence, a decanter of wine untouched on the table between them.
"He was in Oldtown last just like last year," Arthur said at last, voice gravelly. "And now... No war. No fighting. Just… gone."
"Do they say how?" Ashara asked softly.
"Bandits on the Rose Road but these were not only quite numerous but also well organised... too well organised to be ordinary bandits."
Ashara's brow furrowed. "That's not natural. That's not right."
"I think," Arthur said slowly, "the usurper might want to be rid of the former Kingsguard."
Elia frowned. "He allowed you to remain with me. Let Oswell rule Harrenhal. Gerold traveled freely. If Robert wanted you dead, there were simpler ways."
Ashara nodded. "He could have sent you to the Wall. Stripped you of your white cloak. Executed you. But he didn't. That tells me this isn't his doing."
"Then whose?" Arthur asked, frustration creeping in. "Who would benefit from removing us one by one?"
They sat in heavy silence.
The Lannisters? They had no reason, they had gained the most after the Baratheons after all. Jon Arryn? Too focused on stability. The Tyrell's while historically rivals of the Hightowers were now
"No one comes to mind," Elia said quietly. "But whoever it was, they knew Gerold moved often and preferred travel with a small retinue. They struck when he was vulnerable."
"Which means they'll strike again," Ashara murmured.
Arthur stared into the fire. "Let them try."
Later that night, Lyarra stood outside the solar, listening to the last murmurs fade. She hadn't meant to overhear. But now she knew.
And she didn't like what it implied.
The world was stirring again—and not just beyond the Wall. The south was shifting too. Old debts. Old grudges. New blood being spilled.
She exhaled into the cold air and whispered, "Torrhen, you better get back soon."
Because House Skywalker was starting to gain power and influence. And powerful people drew enemies.
**Scene Break**
Fifth Moon of 285 AC, Frostgate, Skane
POV: Lyarra Skywalker
The ringing of hammers echoed through the lower levels of a specifically built tower in the inner ring, the new sound of Skane's ambitions taking form.
Lyarra descended the stone steps, the walls around her still faintly warm from the blast furnaces recently installed. As she entered the hall, the change in temperature was immediate. The air below was thick with metal, ink, oil, and the sharp, coppery scent of molten coin.
The Frostgate Mint had begun production.
Rows of blackstone furnaces lined the back wall. Gleaming machinery, part-anvil, part-arcane construct, clattered with rhythmic precision as metal was stamped, weighed, cooled, and sorted. Men and women moved with purpose, all garbed in heavy gloves and thick leather aprons.
At the heart of it all stood Scrooge McDuck, a man relatively small in stature but larger than life in presence, wearing a wide apron over his formal blue coat and a monocle that glinted from the firelight.
Next to him was Dagobert, his brother and partner, slightly rounder in frame, with a coal-smeared ledger clutched in one hand and a quill behind his ear.
"Pressure on the third die is off by two grains!" Scrooge barked as he darted between stations. "Dagobert, if these coins are even slightly underweight, we'll be a joke from the Stepstones to Fort Craster!"
"We corrected it in the last batch!" Dagobert called back. "Besides, I've already logged the variance, Scrooge!"
"You logged it?" Scrooge paused mid-step, eyes narrowing. "Did you melt the defective batch?"
Dagobert grumbled. "Aye, aye, you obsessive goblin."
Lyarra cleared her throat.
Scrooge turned, immediately straightening his coat. "Ah! Lady Skywalker!" He swept into a deep—if slightly oily—bow. "Permit me to present to you: the first officially minted Skane sovereign!"
He produced a coin with theatrical flourish. It gleamed faintly—round, gold, cleanly pressed. One side bore the sigil of House Skywalker.The reverse side showed the head and name of the current king.
Lyarra took the coin, turning it over in her gloved fingers. "It's... actually beautiful."
"Of course it is," Scrooge said, puffing out his chest. "Minted from Overworld gold, no impurities and standardized to a weight of exactly one twentieth of a Northern stag."
Dagobert added, "We'd like to request a bunch of silver to be purchased... House Manderly should be the ideal candidate for that."
"That should be no problem. How many coins are in circulation so far?" Lyarra asked.
"Four hundred gold dragons... uhhh phoenixes?? Ahhh it doesn't matter, does it?" Scrooge answered with a grin. "Enough to begin full-scale economic transition in Frostgate and its satellite villages."
Dagobert coughed. "Though we'll need a proper treasury vault to store what we don't put into circulation. The overworld farms keep producing more gold than we can mint right now."
Scrooge leaned in, eyes gleaming. "We'll need more mintworkers. More presses. And—most importantly—more ledgers. Dagobert can only write so fast."
"Oi," Dagobert muttered.
Lyarra fought a laugh. "You'll have them. But remember—this is still a northern holdfast. The coin must serve the people, not hoarders."
Scrooge placed a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "Lady Skywalker, I may be obsessed with gold, but I assure you—I am not a Lannister." even the villagers from the overworld had by now heard of the infamous saying that the Lannisters were shitting gold.
That got a chuckle.
As Lyarra stepped back into the hallway above, the sounds of minting continued—iron, gold, hammers, fire. The Frostgate Mint was alive, its heartbeat a promise. Skane would have its own economy. Its own coin. Its own future.
And it had started here—with a pair of eccentric brothers, a dream, and a forge.
**Scene Break**