Comments and Reviews would be welcome as always. :)
Eighth Moon of 286 AC, King's Landing:
POV: Jon Arryn
The Tower of the Hand was quiet at this hour, save for the gentle creak of the rafters and the distant murmur of waves slapping against the Blackwater's docks. Jon Arryn stood alone at the narrow window, gazing out at the red-tiled sprawl of King's Landing. The wind carried the familiar scents of the city—salt, smoke, and rot beneath perfume and finally... shit, all that shit.
He was tired.
A month ago, Varys had vanished from the Red Keep without a word. No blood, no warning, only the soft susurrus of whispers in the walls and a lingering sense that they had been outmaneuvered again as his body was found in his chambers. Publicly of course. In private Jon Arryn wondered just how dangerous Lord Skywalker had already become.
Gods... the lad isn't even properly grown and yet... and yet...
Since then, Jon had reached out to half a dozen men, seeking a new Master of Whisperers.
Only two had merited serious thought.
The first, Prince Doran of Dorne, had been deliberate in his refusal. A raven arrived six days after the offer was sent, its reply written in neat, flowing script:
"I am flattered by the trust you show me, Lord Hand, but I must decline. My children are not yet of age, and my brother… is not suited to rule Sunspear. I fear the realm must look elsewhere for eyes and ears."
Jon had not been surprised. Doran Martell was a careful man, ruled more by patience than ambition. But his refusal stung nonetheless.
The second had taken longer.
Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor had sent no immediate answer—only a polite missive stating that he required time to think.
Jon had found the letter strange, but not entirely unwelcome.
Whatever it meant, it was enough.
Wyman Manderly had eventually sent a raven where accepted. And now he had come.
The sound of footsteps drew Jon from his thoughts. He turned as the doors opened and a steward stepped inside.
"Lord Hand. Lord Manderly has arrived."
Jon nodded once. "Send him in."
Moments later, the chamber filled with the scent of lemoncakes and sea-salt. Lord Wyman Manderly entered like a man used to owning every room he walked into—tall, round, with a greying beard flowing past his collarbone and rings on every finger. His cloak was sea-green and white and he walked with a cane carved into the shape of a snarling merman.
He was not alone. Behind him came a retinue of nearly twenty—servants, guards, a scribe, two young singers, and a woman in blue silks who Jon suspected was more than she appeared. Wyman had brought half a court with him, and Jon understood why: he did not trust the Red Keep.
"Lord Hand," Wyman said, voice like a warm bell. "I thank you for your patience. The journey from White Harbor is not a short one."
Jon stepped forward. "Nor is the one you now begin."
Wyman smiled faintly. "No. But I am too old to refuse interesting work. And the Whisperer's chair has long needed someone… fatter."
Jon allowed himself a small chuckle. "You'll find the task thankless."
"I serve the realm," Wyman said, then leaned closer. "And I serve my House. And the North.. I assume you have no illusions about that."
"None at all," Jon said quietly.
Wyman nodded and turned, gesturing to one of the pages behind him. A small boy stepped forward, no older than ten, with wide green eyes and a crooked tooth. Jon blinked in surprise—he'd seen this boy before, scrubbing floors in the kitchens.
"I've spent two weeks in the city before entering the Red Keep," Wyman said. "And I have found... fragments of Varys's web. Half-scared, half-lost, but eager for new masters who will keep them fed and safe. I will need time to rebuild—but the work has already begun."
Jon was silent for a moment, then gestured to the chair across from him.
"Sit. We have much to discuss."
**Scene Break**
Ninth Moon of 286 AC, Frostgate:
POV: Faceless Man #1
The wind howled over the jagged cliffs of Skane like a beast in mourning. Three cloaked figures stood aboard the Braavosi sloop Grey Whisper, gazing toward the distant spires of Frostgate. The castle's square towers loomed like the bones of some otherworldly creature against the snow-bright sky. Smoke curled from its high chimneys. The port below bustled with order—guards, cranes, pulleys, watchtowers manned in shifts. Nothing about this place was loose.
They had been warned just before departure.
"He survived," the messenger had whispered aboard the docks at Braavos, breath steaming in the chill. "A dagger to the gut and yet they say he survived and is now back on his feet as if he hadn't been mortally wounded"
The three had said nothing. But even among the Faceless, unease had spread like frostbite.
Now, as they disembarked, no one narrowed his eyes. The sea air was thick and biting. The local guards were alert, stiff-backed, and well-fed. Not sellswords or conscript peasants. Soldiers. Trained. Or so they had been told but everything they saw seemed to confirm the intelligence reports.
At the gate, they were stopped immediately.
A Northman in snow-covered leather raised a hand. "Names and Purpose?"
The lead Faceless Man smiled — under his borrowed identity, he was "Master Nello of Pentos," a gem merchant seeking trade contracts.
"We bring luxury stones from Essos. Rubies, a matched pair of Myrish fire opals. We seek audience with the Lady Lyarra Skywalker, who is said to favor fine cutwork and wish to buy some of these diamonds of whom the rumours speak with so much wonder."
The guard didn't move. Behind him, a second one scribbled in a logbook while three others kept crossbows trained — subtly, but unmistakably.
"Your crates will be inspected. All blades surrendered."
They complied, of course, for the blades they needed were well hidden.
Frostgate let them in.
**Scene Break**
The castle was... wrong.
Not in the way of poisoned towers or haunted crypts, though that might as well be the case here given how unnatural everything was, — but wrong in structure. The architecture followed no known Essosi or Westerosi pattern. It all seemed just so... as if it had been made by people that really liked cubic shapes.
What impressed the visitors from the east was that regular soldiers patrolled in neat rotations, accompanied at times by the so called diamond guard.
Worst of all: access to Torrhen Skywalker was nearly impossible.
Only members of the diamond guard were allowed to enter the higher levels of the central tower which stood like a beacon at the heart of Frostgate. None of the three assassins were permitted past the base unless personally summoned.
So no one waited.
He murdered a sentry on the fourth night — a Northern watchman named Garrow, and dumped his body in a cistern. Clean. Silent.
But there was no opening.
Torrhen Skywalker dined in secure quarters. Drilled at dawn surrounded by his guards. Held council in closed rooms guarded by his most trusted and monitored by that sharp-eyed girl — Lyarra.
Finally, on the sixth night, no one made his move.
A lone Diamond Guard — one with the queer name Droidbait, often quiet, posted to night watch near the southern stair — was found and killed with quick, surgical efficiency. His armor was stripped. His voice studied. His mannerisms mimicked. no one took his face with care and assumed his place in the patrol.
He made it as far as the antechamber of the family quarters before it fell apart.
Captain Inigo Montoya stopped him at the first checkpoint.
The dashing, sharp-bearded knight gave him a cheerful nod. "Evenin', Droidbait. Password?"
no one blinked. "...Skyshield?"
Montoya tilted his head. "Nope. Try again."
no one narrowed his eyes. "The North Remembers?"
Montoya chuckled. "No, no, no. You know what it is. Who was it that killed Jeffrey Epstein? C'mon, don't pretend you don't know what it is. Let's go."
no one hesitated.
Montoya's smile vanished.
"Guards!" he barked, sword already half-drawn. "Either Droidbait is messing with me or this ain't Droidbait anymore at all."
Six Diamond Guards surged from shadowed alcoves before no one could move. His hand darted for a hidden blade—only for a construct of stone and black glass to pin his wrist in an instant. His vision spun. Darkness took him.
**Scene Break**
POV: Inigo Montoya
The prisoner had been chained in the undercellar of Frostgate, inside a room of cold iron and redstone wards. Lady Lyarra had insisted on every possible precaution — including a security array based on coded questioning and emotional mirroring. Inigo didn't understand half of it, but he trusted her genius.
The assassin sat with calm, controlled posture.
Inigo leaned forward with a grin. "Right. First question. Who shot first?"
The assassin blinked. "...Who?"
"Han or Greedo."
No answer.
"Name the three starter Pokémon."
Silence.
"How does Technoblade die?"
The assassin stared blankly.
"What is needed to craft a nether portal?" Inigo prompted.
Still nothing.
"... You know, I really hope that isn't Droidbait just messing with us" said one of the guards behind him.
Inigo leaned back with a sigh. "No I am pretty sure we have an actual imposter here, for all his jokes Droidbait knew when to cut it. You'd think if they could steal a man's face, they could at least steal his brain."
A moment later, Lyarra entered — flanked by two guards and filing her nails with a god damn valyrian stell knife.
She studied the assassin coldly.
"You're not the first they've sent," she said softly. "You won't be the last."
The assassin's mouth twisted into a faint smirk. "He cannot hide behind glass and fables forever."
"No," Lyarra said, stepping closer. "But you'll be rotting in this tower long enough to realize that 'forever' is a flexible concept in our world."
She turned to Inigo. "Strip him of the face. I want it catalogued. Then keep him under full guard. We'll use him."
"For what?"
She smiled thinly. "We'll wait and see what Qyburn needs this one for once he comes."
**Scene Break**
POV: Faceless Man #2
She was small now.
Not a shadow on rooftops or a whisper on the docks — but a plain-faced, pale-haired serving girl named Mari. The real Mari had cried a little before the knife went in. Her corpse now floated face-down in one of Frostgate's sewage tunnels.
The transformation had taken care, precision, and time. But it was done.
Now the second assassin moved through the halls of Frostgate as one of its own.
The target was not yet within reach. Torrhen Skywalker was shielded at every moment by blue glinting armored guards and an odd password system she didn't understand — but quickly assumed to have been created entirely from scratch and not just within the past two months. No, the Skywalkers must have believed that dangerous assassins would be contracted to go after them earlier or later.
How prudent of them... and it makes my job rather tedious. Oh well, nothing I haven't faced before.
So far she had not found a way to the target but the steward... the steward might be a path.
Scrooge McDuck — the eccentric and allegedly "insane" old steward — had been spoken of by other maids and guards with equal parts reverence and irritation. Overworked, frugal to the point of madness, and never too far from a stack of parchment or a lockbox.
The assassin's chance came quickly.
A captain of the household guard directed her and another maid to "clean out the steward's main office — he's too damn busy to organize his own scrolls."
She nodded demurely and followed the second maid into the winding northern tower.
Inside the cluttered chamber, stacks of paper, wax-sealed letters, ledgers, and crates of coins made a veritable labyrinth of bookkeeping. The other maid groaned aloud. "Oh look at this Mari.. This is going to take all day—I swear that man.."
She died before she finished the sentence. The assassin snapped her neck with practiced silence and concealed the body under a fallen tapestry near the filing shelves.
She had just begun sorting scrolls and repositioning ink bottles to look natural when the door opened.
Scrooge McDuck entered in his usual flurry, gold-framed glasses perched on his nose, a bundle of keys jangling at his belt.
"All right, all right, I'm sorry for this mess alright? Though I hope you've made progress, I need those seal stamps by moonrise or—"
She struck without hesitation.
The dagger flashed out from her apron — and plunged forward into his side.
Only, it struck metal.
There was a clang, not a squish.
Scrooge blinked. Then he stared down at the blade that had bounced off his ribs.
"Ha!" he shouted. "Thin plate. Never leave my bedroom without it."
She pulled back for a second strike, but the steward had already twisted sideways and yanked the heavy ledger from his belt — smashing it squarely into her face with a thud.
The next instant, he pushed a button on the wall.
Guards stormed in seconds later.
She fought — of course she fought. Kicked, slashed, took a spear to the thigh and bit one man's wrist hard enough to draw blood.
But she was outnumbered. Overwhelmed. Captured.
The last thing she saw before the sack went over her head was Scrooge McDuck wiping his monocle and muttering, "Stupid assassins. You think I don't budget for treachery?"
**Scene Break**
POV: Faceless Man #3
The kitchens of Frostgate were unlike any she had seen.
Steel counters, strange brass knobs and red crumbs, netherrack they called it, that burned like forever. Cold-chests lined with frosted stone that never melted. And dozens of servants working in perfect rotation, timed like cogs in a machine.
She blended in.
She stirred broth, cut meats, sliced roots.
And she poisoned.
Only a trace — a droplet of the stranger, mixed with a paste of poppy. Enough to kill a bull, masked by the stew's rich scent.
It went into the bowl labeled for Lord Torrhen Skywalker — Evening Meal.
She timed it precisely. Once the bowl was sealed, she waited. Then slipped into the hallway, found a maid who had just finished her rounds, slit her throat in the corner of the servants' stairwell, and took her face.
Now, she walked the final hundred paces toward the central tower.
The Diamond Guard stopped her halfway up.
"Halt," said one. "Is this the Lord's dinner?"
"It is"
"Where is Helga?"
"I am new. Took over her shift. She has fever," she said sweetly, offering the tray.
"Since when do maids deliver directly to the lord's quarters?" asked another, skeptical.
"Short on hands. The kitchen's overworked. Please, it's hot."
The guard squinted. He motioned to her, "Test it."
"Please you know I'm rather sensetive to the heat"
A passing guard frowned but simply rolled his eyes muttering "Might as well test what they have cooked today myself" pulling out a spoon and sipping a mouthful.
He made it ten steps.
Then he clutched his throat, gagged violently, and collapsed into a pile of twitching limbs.
The guard's sword was out before she could run.
The second grabbed her arm.
"Poison!" someone roared. "Seal the level!"
The tray clattered to the floor. She fought, but they were faster. Stronger. One of the diamond captains appeared out of nowhere and slammed her into the wall.
No one's mask of indifference slipped and she became frantic.
By the time Lady Lyarra arrived, the guards had already restrained her.
The girl only looked down at her once.
"Three sent," Lyarra murmured, voice calm and cold. "Three caught. Let them tell the others that Frostgate does not fear shadows. Or are there more perhaps? Hmmmm Mopatis must really have paid a lot, I wonder how much coin he has left."
She turned and left.
The assassin was dragged to the dungeons, bruised, furious.
But deep inside, a dark seed of fear had already taken root.
These people were not normal, they had been way too organised.
**Scene Break**
As soon as their agents didn't return on time the house of black and white knew that the three sent to Frostgate had been lost to the Skywalkers but the assassin guild didn't send another.
For the first time in what seemed forever, they needed to admit that they had failed and didn't believe they could finish the contract. Half of the price was paid back to Mopatis without issue, they had coin to spare after all.
In the coming months the news spread first through Essos and then through Westeros like wildfire with many wondering just how tight Frostgate's security was that even the faceless men proved to be not enough to beat it.
**Scene Break**
Tenth Moon of 286 AC, Frostgate
POV: Lyarra Skywalker
The sea beyond Skane's southern coast had turned black with sails.
More than a hundred ships crept toward the island fortress — sleek Braavosi carracks, Pentoshi galleys, and a half-dozen longboats trailing long banners of red and blak. Even from the observation deck of Frostgate, Lyarra could see the glint of armor as the first ranks of Unsullied lined up at attention on the decks.
"Two thousand," said Commander Bronn beside her, his voice low with respect. "All armed. All trained. All bought."
Lyarra didn't reply immediately. Her eyes flicked to the escort ships trailing behind the main fleet — heavy with chests of gold. Illyrio Mopatis, for all his treachery, had held to the deal.
For now.
"Bring them ashore," she said finally. "And quarter them in the barracks prepared for them in Skyport. Keep a full Diamond Guard contingent nearby — I want no accidents, no misunderstandings."
Inigo nodded and left. Lyarra turned back to the ravens.
**Scene Break**
The Winterfell men had gathered under the shadow of the central tower — a full hundred of them, all northern veterans who had followed the Snow twins south and east in the early moons of 285 AC.
Now, with Unsullied drilling in the fields behind them, many wore strange, uncertain expressions.
Lyarra stood before them in her thick northern cloak, her voice clear:
"You've served well — far beyond any call of duty Winterfell ever placed upon you. Today, I release you. You may return home to your wives and kin with honor."
She paused, scanning the crowd. "But if any of you wish to stay, to help us finish what we've begun here… Skane is yours too. You have but to speak the word."
A silence passed — then one by one, a few men stepped forward. A dozen, then two dozen. In the end, thirty chose to stay.
Lyarra gave them each a simple clasp for their loyatly and gave the rest her blessings and quite a bit of coin to spent in the growing Wintertown.
**Scene Break**
Dispatch Orders – Signed by Lord Torrhen Skywalker
100 Unsullied to Moat Cailin
100 to Winterfell
100 to Enderbane Hall
200 to Hardhome
500 remain on Skane under direct Skywalker command.
1000 to Skagos, divided among the strongholds and new locations for garrisoning and training purposes.
**Scene Break**
"Two dozen of the Faithful will accompany him," Lyarra said, finishing the letter. "All loyal, all tested."
Torrhen raised an eyebrow. "Thoros of Myr leading them?"
"He's proven himself," Lyarra said simply. "He's no longer a drunkard priest. He's become something else since he bent the knee to the Old Gods. I think they listen when he speaks."
Torrhen nodded. "He'll do."
**Scene Break**
Eleventh Moon of 286 AC, King's Landing:
POV: Thoros of Myr
The stench hit him first.
Flea Bottom had not changed. Filth still ran in the gutters, rats still ruled the alleys, and the stink of piss, shit, wine, and death clung to every stone.
But Thoros had changed.
Gone were the silk red robes and the drunken staggering. He wore boiled leathers now, layered with rough-spun grey and a black wolf brooch pinned to his shoulder — the mark of Skagos. A strange mark, perhaps, to bring into the pit of the capital — but one he bore without shame.
Two dozen men and women of the faithful followed him. They scattered into the warrens of the slums without a word, eyes sharp, hands light, pockets heavier than they looked.
Their task was simple: find the hopeless. The hungry. The fatherless and motherless. The ones who had no banners, no coin, and no future. And offer them something rare: a chance.
Within a week, they had filled the old tavern on Rat Alley with over a hundred men, boys, and families — some ragged, some starving, but all eager.
Thoros stood before them as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the filthy walls.
"My name is Thoros of Myr," he said, voice rising above the murmurs. "And I once believed in fire. Now I believe in the old gods — the gods of the wood and the snow, of wind and wolves."
He looked across them, meeting one boy's eye. "You've been forgotten. But not by us."
He raised a hand, and the nearest Faithful opened a crate.
Inside lay carefully folded uniforms — simple leather jerkins, and beneath them, coin purses.
"Lord Skywalker's offer is the following: You will come with us to Skagos. There you will learn. You will train. You will eat every day, and your families will sleep under roofs, not stars."
A long silence.
Then, slowly, a young man stepped forward and took one of the jerkins.
Then another. And another.
And Thoros smiled, quietly — not with pride, but with hope.
Because this was how you built an army that would be able to deal with the others once they came.
I just hope that an army of greenboys can be trained to a proper one within 15 years... eh what am I saying? Torrhen said there would be a war in a few years anyway where we can test the new standing army of Frostgate.
Thoros wondered however how long it would take for the faith to actively start sabotaging Frostgate's operations. They had already been slighted after all.
**Scene Break**