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Seventh Moon of 286 AC, King's Landing:
POV: Jon Arryn
The morning sun had barely crested the eastern horizon, casting long golden shafts through the arched windows of the Small Council chamber. Jon Arryn sat at the head of the table, a silver scroll tube resting near his clasped hands. The seats around him slowly filled — Grand Maester Pycelle huffing slightly as he lowered himself down, Selwyn Tarth upright and attentive, Gyles Rosby coughing into a scented cloth, and Stannis Baratheon scowling even before he sat. The last to arrive, of course, was Robert.
The King burst in with the smell of wine clinging to him like sweat.
The others glanced at one another uneasily. Gyles Rosby cleared his throat after a while,
"I am noticing that the Master of Whisperers is absent. He is not usually late."
"Pah, the eunuch can rot in his office," Robert grumbled, rubbing his temple. "Jon, tell me what's so important that I'm dragged out of bed at this hour."
Jon Arryn's face remained composed, but there was a deep shadow behind his eyes.
"You will understand soon enough."
He steepled his fingers and looked around the room.
"As you all know, Elia Martell and her two children by Rhaegar Targaryen were to arrive shortly, to swear fealty to His Grace and to Prince Joffrey."
A murmur swept the room. Selwyn Tarth leaned forward, brow furrowed.
"I take it something has happened to them?"
Jon gave a single nod, measured but grim.
"Indeed, Lord Selwyn. Their ship was attacked by slavers. Elia and Prince Aegon are dead. Princess Rhaenys is missing."
Robert grunted. "So the snake woman and her dragonspawn are dead, so what?" He took a long drink from the silver goblet beside him. "It means the Targaryen loyalists have only that silver-haired brat Viserys left. And he's still hiding in Essos."
He raised his cup in a mocking toast.
"Actually, you know what? Whoever's behind that attack has my thanks."
The silence that followed was heavy. Jon fought not to wince. He glanced briefly at Stannis, who looked even more displeased than usual, and Gyles, who turned his eyes downward. Still, Jon said nothing. The truth could not be spoken here, not yet. He owed Lord Skywalker that much.
"There is more," Jon said at last, his voice cutting through the room like a drawn blade. "Our Master of Whisperers was found dead this morning. In his office."
A ripple of surprise — even from Robert. The king arched a brow, but said nothing.
Jon nodded toward Pycelle, who cleared his throat with nervous gravitas.
"He was found just an hour ago," the old man began. "A stab wound to the chest… but it was not the fatal cause. Poison. Colorless, odorless, fast-acting — likely applied shortly before or after the stabbing. Judging by the stiffness, I estimate he died near the hour of the wolf."
"That would've given the killer time to flee atleast the red keep by now if not the whole city," Stannis muttered, arms crossed tightly. "Do we have suspects?"
Jon leaned back, tone carefully neutral. "There are many who had reason to hate Varys. But none with cause to act now. Or so it seems."
He didn't miss the flicker of suspicion in Selwyn's gaze, nor the way Stannis's eyes narrowed. Good. Better they confront me in private than speak rashly here. he thought grimly.
"Well then, let's not dwell on it." Robert broke in. "Any ideas on how to replace the eunuch? I may not have liked the man, but he wasn't half bad at his job."
"I have given the matter thought," Jon said. "One possibility is the Queen of Thorns herself. Olenna Tyrell."
Stannis bolted upright, face dark with fury.
"A Tyrell?" he thundered. "They starved me and Renly for a year during the war, and would've kept doing so if Lord Stark hadn't come south — or if Davos hadn't smuggled in onions!"
Robert waved a hand dismissively.
"Bah. I don't care what they did in the rebellion. But you're right, Stannis — giving the grasping roses the post would hand them too much influence. No. Choose someone else."
Jon nodded, unsurprised.
"My next thought was Doran Martell. His mind is sharp, his judgment careful."
Stannis let out a dry snort. "But to name Doran means his brother Oberyn would rule Sunspear in his stead — and we all know that man is fit for nothing but duels and brothels."
Jon inclined his head. "Just so."
"Then who?" asked Gyles Rosby, tilting his head like a curious raven. "Who do you suggest, Lord Hand?"
Jon exhaled slowly, then spoke with quiet certainty.
"Despite their key role in the war, the North has no representation on this council. I would see that changed. I propose either Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor, or Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort."
"The Flayer of the North?" Robert grunted. "I don't care for him. Creepy bastard."
He paused, then broke into a grin.
"But Wyman? Now there's a man who knows how to drink. He was fun to be around after the Trident. You have my backing if you name the fat man as Master of Whisperers." He raised his cup again in a second, far more enthusiastic toast. "To Lord Wyman — may his arse never rise from the council chair!"
Jon managed not to sigh, though the urge was strong.
So be it, he thought. Wyman it is.
The matter settled, the council began to disperse. Robert stomped off in search of stronger wine. Stannis lingered just long enough to shoot a narrow-eyed glance at Jon before turning away. Selwyn said nothing, but the look he gave Jon was thoughtful.
He would still send an offer to Doran Martell, the man likely already knew what happened to his sister... but since the man was all but guaranteed not to take the position Jon would also alreaady prepare the letter for White Harbour.
The chamber emptied, leaving Jon Arryn alone with the morning sun and a kingdom that seemed more fragile with each passing hour.
**Scene Break**
POV: Jon Arryn
The light from the stained-glass window cast patterns across the bedchamber floor as Jon Arryn stepped inside, clutching a velvet-wrapped bundle in one hand. Lysa sat by the fire, wrapped in a shawl despite the warmth of the day. She had barely looked up when he entered, her lips pursed, her expression distant.
He cleared his throat gently. "Lysa."
She turned slowly, startled by the softness in his voice. "My lord husband."
He held up the bundle. "I brought you something. Two things, in truth."
She blinked. "What is it?"
Jon unwrapped the cloth on a small side table, revealing the golden apple, its surface gleaming unnaturally in the light, alongside a delicate glass vial filled with crimson liquid that shimmered faintly.
Lysa stared. "I… I fail to see what this is supposed to be."
"A gift," Jon said simply. "One that may… heal what's broken. A potion of regeneration. And the apple—well, that is said to restore vigor, health, and fertility alike. There is a price to such gifts, always, but no visible one that I can tell."
Lysa swallowed, inching closer. "And where did you get these?"
He met her gaze firmly. "That is not for others to know. You must never speak of it, Lysa. Not to your septa. Not to the maids. Not to anyone."
She nodded slowly, lips parted in wonder as her fingers brushed the golden skin of the apple. "They're beautiful atleast, are you sure they will work?"
"They are powerful," Jon said. "I will ask you to take them… soon. And should they work, as I believe they might… then I expect you to do your duty. Give me children, healthy ones."
Lysa's smile faltered for just a moment—but only a moment.
"And then?" she asked, her voice tight and laced with sorrow.
Jon allowed himself the faintest smile. "Then… should your duties be fulfilled, I would not begrudge you a lover of your choosing. Quietly. Discreetly. I am not a cruel man, Lysa, I know that you have only married me because your father forced you to and neither would I have chosen to marry you had it not been for the stability of the realm and for the fact that I desperately need heirs."
Her eyes glistened with tears. She whispered, "Thank you."
But Jon was already turning away. "Remember your vow. No one must know."
**Scene Break**
Eighth Moon of 286 AC — Gulltown:
POV: Petyr Baelish
Petyr Baelish read the letter once, then again.
His fingers tightened around the parchment, a slow grin spreading across his face.
Lysa's looping hand had always betrayed her nerves. But this time, he noted something else beneath the ink: greed. Hope. Desire.
"My sweet Petyr, you must promise not to share this, but I believe I've found something… remarkable. Jon brought me a golden apple and a vial—no bigger than my thumb. He says they can heal the body and restore fertility. He even hinted at letting me have certain freedoms once I give him what he wants. I need not say what that means. But listen—he said not to tell anyone, so of course I tell you. You have always had an eye for opportunity. And this… this feels like one. Perhaps there is a way to make you very rich very soon."
Petyr folded the letter slowly, lips pursed in thought. Outside his office, the sea air whistled through the high windows of Gulltown's customs tower, where he had lately secured a modest but useful post.
Golden apples. Red vials. Remedies that promise healing and more…
He'd dismissed such tales as alchemical nonsense in the past. But now? Now there were whispers. Rumors of strange miracles in the North. Of a new fortress rising on Skane though these rumours he had confirmed a few months ago. Names like Skywalker and Craftson that were spreading even in gulls' caws and sailors' songs.
"Very interesting," he murmured.
Petyr Baelish leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, thoughts racing.
If even half of what Lysa wrote was true… then he had to know more. And if there was gold to be made from it—power, influence, leverage—then Petyr Baelish would not be left behind.
He dipped his quill, beginning a letter to a merchant contact in White Harbor.
**Scene Break**
Eighth Moon of 286 AC, Winterfell:
POV: Catelyn Stark
The cries of the babe pierced the still air like bells in a snowstorm.
Catelyn lay back against the pillows, sweat cooling on her brow as the midwife swaddled the child and placed her gently into her arms. Ned stood beside her, quiet and watchful, his face lined with the same quiet awe he had worn when Robb was born.
"She's perfect," Catelyn whispered, tears threatening as she looked into the infant's face—pink, tiny, and wailing indignantly at the world.
The child had her hair—fine and auburn, unmistakably Tully. Her eyes were a stormy blue, still unfocused but already too familiar. The resemblance was striking.
Too striking.
Catelyn hesitated.
"She has my look," she said softly. "The same as Robb. There will be talk."
Ned's hand covered hers, grounding her. "Let them talk. Those who matter will know the truth. And those who don't… aren't worth listening to."
Catelyn exhaled shakily and leaned into him. "I just don't want them whispering that my children aren't yours."
Ned kissed her brow, gently. "No one with a heart or honor would think it. And the rest, we'll ignore."
They sat like that for a while, warm in the firelight, as the snow began to fall outside. The babe in her arms began to quiet, her tiny fingers curling instinctively around her mother's thumb.
"Sansa," Catelyn whispered. "Her name will be Sansa."
Ned nodded. "It suits her."
Robb and Jon soon came over to meet their new sister (or actually cousin in Jon's case) after the midwife was sent away. Here in private Catelyn could openly tolerate her nephew without eyebrows being raised.
I will never admit it to Ned but I am glad that the king seems to be doing everything to die an early death. She thought without any kind of shame, having heard the gossip from Dacey who had gotten it from her mother who had gotten it from Lord Jorah who had gotten it from merchants from Lannisport. She was already tired of the charade she had to help keep up during the past 2 years and would like nothing more than to openly show little Jon the affection he deserved.
She had distrusted Ned's bastard siblings at first but by now they had long proven their loyalty to the north with their cheap food shipments to White Harbour, Winterfell and Eastwatch by the Sea and to Ned with that their miracle water that had saved Serena's life.
Though she had suspicions that all those damn potatoes and carrots that were being sent from Frostgate and Skagos could not all have been grown via natural means. Already inquiries had been sent and answered with evasive letters which only increased the rumours in the north about the Skywalker twins being blessed by the old gods.
Catelyn didn't care too much however, while it made her a bit uneasy especially since the faith wouldn't tolerate the Skywalkers' strange quick rise for too long but surely noone could declare magic that made it easier to grow food and feed the people as evil, right?
Her thoughts became sad ones when they inevitably turned to the contents of the letter that had recently arrived.
Considering how much she had come to respect her husband's bastard siblings it made it even worse then when her goodbrother had saved Lady Elia in the Red Keep only to lose her and little Aegon who had looked up to him to slavers. Alas, twas a cruel world, she only hoped he wouldn't lose that kind soul of his in the process of recovering from the shock of the loss of his best friend.
She sent a quick prayer to the seven, asking them to protect her family, a family that she now would never seclude Torrhen and Lyarra Skywalker from.
A faint moan could be heard in that moment and Catelyn sighed, she really needed to teach the newlywed couple of Dacey and Benjen that they needed to be a bit more quiet. They had only been married for half a month and yet their lust for eachother had spread beyond Winterfell's walls already.
Her daughter began fussing around and so she rocked the newborn girl in her arms thinking that she would like a break from becoming pregnant again... though with the way she and her husband went at it multiple times a week it was only a matter of time before she gave him another child.
Maybe Arya for another daughter and Brandon if it's a son she mused with a smile as Sansa began snoring lightly in her arms.
**Scene Break**
Eighth Moon of 286 AC, Enderbane Hall:
POV: Steve Craftson
The cries of newborns echoed through the high-arched stone of Frostgate.
Steve stood frozen in awe, two swaddled bundles pressed into Alex's chest, her face flushed with exertion and joy. Her hair clung to her brow, and her eyes shimmered with unshed tears—but she was smiling, radiant in the pale morning light.
"They're perfect," she murmured, brushing a thumb along the cheek of the child in her right arm. The other was already fussing. "Both of them."
Steve leaned closer, gently taking the second child into his own arms. "What do we name them?" he whispered.
Alex looked up at him with a sleepy grin. "I was thinking… Skye for this one—she's already stubborn like the wind—and Mina for the other, because she has my nose and your scowl."
Steve chuckled, kissed her forehead, and nodded. "Skye and Mina. It's perfect."
Outside, the bells of the central tower tolled softly. Another frost-covered morning in the North, and yet within these walls, warmth reigned.
**Scene Break**
Eighth Moon of 286 AC, Skyport:
POV: Lyarra Skywalker
Lyarra stood atop the battlements overlooking the circular rings of Skyport, now pulsing with life, with Scrooge McDuck. The outer ring was alive with farmers, carts, oxen, and crates of dried food, dried fish, winter wheat, cabbages, carrots, and winterberries—all freshly harvested and stored in crates sealed with the Skywalker sigil. Natural food production had tripled since last winter and added to the food farms in the overworld, Skane's food output was approaching what could be naturally harvested if you converted the whole unused space of Skagos into farms.
Greenhouses—crafted from salvaged glass and pale reinforced stone—glimmered like jewels along the southern slope. Dozens of them now dotted the landscape around Frostgate and Skyport alike, heated by geothermal pipes and enchanted lanterns devised by Hermione and the Faithful engineers.
Lyarra oversaw the loading of the next great supply shipment herself, personally checking ships bound for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and White Harbour. She watched the frost-hardened workers move in practiced rhythm, lifting crates and sealing barrels, and allowed herself a rare smile.
Many of the smallfolk who had come here from Skagos and the eastern shore of the mainland north or even from beyond the wall had not become farmers, no atleast half of them had chosen jobs in Skyport in administration, distilleries, paper mills, new inns or at the harbour though that was mainly those from the mainland north.
More than half of those migrating from Skagos and from the lands beyond the wall had a more martial mindset and had at first become members of Frostgate's household guard
Eastwatch's docks had transformed in a year, or so she had heard. Allegedly, thanks to Skyport's new merchant ships that regularly docked there, its harbor was now deepened and expanded. Three stone piers stood strong against the tides. From there, food moved to Castle Black and the Shadow Tower, while smaller caravans supplied Karhold and Last Hearth.
"Twenty more wagons to Eastwatch. Another fifty to White Harbour," she said to Frostgate's steward besides her.
"Yes, my lady, I will give the orders." the short man said with a respectful nod and walked towards the harbour.
Behind her, Torrhen approached with his traveling coat already fastened. "That should hold them until the tenth moon," he said. "Assuming the snows don't come early."
"They won't," Lyarra replied. "And if they do, we'll find another way though from what you said the next winter wasn't supposed to come for another three years, no?"
Torrhen nodded, looking over the harbor. "Indeed.. I'll be away for an uncertain amount of weeks," he said. "I'm taking Rhaenys with me."
Lyarra raised an eyebrow. "Mhm you're finally making the trip to Braavos?"
"She deserves to meet her kin. Oberyn and Doran will want to see her so afterwards we will make a stop at Sunspear." He paused, glancing over the ships. "While I'm away, I want you to begin building our fleet. A real one. Dozens of Braavosi warships, if they'll sell them. And expand our merchant navy too. I want Skane's name to be known in every Free City from Tyrosh to Lorath."
Lyarra smirked. "You planning a war I haven't heard of?"
"No," Torrhen said simply, "but one's coming. And coin still rules half the world. Let's rule it better than the rest."
She nodded. "Done. But be careful though, Mopatis has probably sent the faceless men after you by now."
"I am aware" said Torrhen with a nod, "And I will have plenty of guards, potions, golden apples with me and you know I never go anywhere without my netherite gear in my inventory"
She nodded in acceptance, Frostgate's diamond guard (who were the only ones tasked with Torrhen's and Lyarra's personal safety and which had reached 50 members by now) had been given a lot of Earthern pop culture references which they would casually use in conversation with eachother when noone else was nearby.
It was nigh impossible for a faceless man to be able to infiltrate their ranks without knowing these references and that... now that was actually impossible.
They hugged eachother for a long time and Lyarra lamented the fact that they were once again seperated by their duty to the realm.. but they needed to be prepared for the long night and so Lyarra would expand their influence while Torrhen was away to follow another of his many schemes.
**Scene Break**