Taking control of Skagos

Second Moon of 285 AC, Frostgate:

pov Torrhen Snow

Torrhen leaned back in his chair, booted feet on the table. Lyarra lounged on the bearskin rug nearby, twiddling a quill between her fingers while looking at a list of candidates they wanted to approach in the future for one reason or another, among them Tyrion Lannister, Bronn of the Blackwater, Qyburn, Marwyn the Mage, Viserys Targaryen, Stannis Baratheon and Kinvara.

"Alright," Torrhen began, glancing out the window where the last sliver of sun dipped beneath the sea, "we really should decide on our house name."

Lyarra gave a long-suffering sigh. "We've avoided it long enough."

"Can't be Stark, not unless we get adopted outright, and that's… unlikely."

"House Snow is not happening either," she muttered, flicking the quill like a knife.

"House Skane?" he suggested.

"Ugh. It sounds like a strip of old leather and I'd rather not be like the Tarths. Imagine if the Targaryens were called Dragonstones."

"True.. House of the Eastwatch?"

"Too long and just a really bad name in general."

"Hmmm.. House Hardhome?"

"We are not naming ourselves after a ruined city full of cannibals."

"Alright, fine. What about... House Deepwinter?"

"Now that sounds like a metal band. Not bad but a bit depressing in my opinion."

Torrhen snorted. "Fair. House Wolfenstone?"

"Trying too hard."

"House Lightstone?"

"Generic."

A silence passed before Torrhen suddenly leaned forward, his grin slowly spreading.

"…Skywalker."

Lyarra stared at him. "No."

"Oh, come on. You know you love it. House Skywalker. It's dramatic, it's noble-sounding, and I get to say I'm Torrhen of House Skywalker, Wielder of Netherite, Breaker of Ice—"

"Ugh," she cut in, rubbing her face. "Fine. Call it what you want. I'm going to have another surname when I eventually marry anyway."

Torrhen gave her a mock-bow. "Thank you, Lady Skywalker."

"Don't push it."

Another pause followed as they settled into companionable quiet, before Lyarra tilted her head thoughtfully.

"You know while we're at it, it would probably be a good thing if we talked about our marriage prospects aswell, you know with us being proper nobles in the not so far future and all that."

"Fair enough so gimme some names Torr"

"Huh?"

"You know more characters than I do anyway. Tell me—someone that isn't too much like the king, but also not a coward like you said Joffrey would be?"

Torrhen arched a brow. "For you?"

She nodded.

"Well… In our age range? You could eventually approach Edmure Tully, but Lord Hoster would probably only marry him off to a great house. Even if we get stupidly rich and field a few thousand soldiers, I doubt he'd offer you his heir."

"Mmm."

"There's Jaime Lannister… but good luck getting him to bed anyone other than his sister."

Lyarra grimaced. "Hard pass."

"You could try Renly Baratheon, though the boy will likely prefer other men once he gets older."

"Tragic."

"Viserys Targaryen's an option," Torrhen offered, more thoughtfully. "If we keep him off the streets and avoid a decade of being spat on and ignored, maybe he won't turn into a raging psycho. Could grow up halfway decent, actually."

Lyarra made a face. "I'm not sure I want to marry a Targaryen. As pretty as Valyrians are supposed to be, there's something deeply off about that bloodline."

Torrhen grunted. "Fair. Hmm… down in Dorne there's Quentyn Martell. He'd be a very good match. Son of a Prince, going to be Lord of Sunspear one day. Not impossible, especially once our House gains power. Five years, maybe, assuming Doran and Oberyn stay grateful for their living sister and niece."

Lyarra was quiet a moment, then slowly shook her head. "No. I wouldn't mind being the lady of a great house, but I don't want to be too far from you. I may not like you like a Lannister twin," she teased softly, "but I still love you. Alright?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder, and Torrhen, without hesitation, wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in close.

They sat that way for a minute, warmth and blood and silence.

"Well," he said at last, voice low, "you're right about that. I'd rather have you somewhere nearby if you can't stay on Skane with me, Steve, and Alex. Otherwise, I might have suggested Willas or Garlan Tyrell."

Lyarra snorted. "Ugh. Unless one of them proves to be perfect husband material, I'd really rather not marry into the House of Grasping Roses. Too ambitious. Too slippery. From what you've told me, canon was basically them playing both sides until someone burned them."

"Accurate."

"So that just leaves Northern lads."

Torrhen nodded. "And at least there we've got a few options. Domeric Bolton, Harrion Karstark, Smalljon Umber."

"Ugh, never a Bolton," she said instantly. "Even if I didn't know what Roose planned, I wouldn't risk it. The whole family gives me hives."

"Same," Torrhen agreed. "What about the other two?"

"Harrion? Maybe. I'll have to see. Smalljon though? If he's anything like the Greatjon—boisterous, loud, muscles-for-brains—then rather not. I want a husband, not a warhammer with legs."

Torrhen laughed. "Noted. Anyway, it's not like we have to decide now."

"True." Lyarra tilted her chin and smirked. "What about you? Any woman other than Alex caught your interest?"

Torrhen made a face like he'd swallowed a lemon. "Ugh. My options are even more limited than yours if I want someone close to my age. I'm not marrying someone the age of Elia, and Rhaenys is still a literal child."

He ticked off fingers. "There's Arianne Martell, but... she'll grow up to be hot and ambitious and treat sex like a game. Not worth the headache. As much as she'll be called desirable, I'd rather not get her sloppy sevenths."

"Wise."

"Lynesse Hightower is another possibility. She married Jorah in canon, so maybe her father wouldn't turn me away. But she's said to be vain and shallow. So again—no thanks."

He sighed. "Honestly? I might get along with one of the Mormont girls. Who knows?"

Lyarra raised an eyebrow. "The bear maidens?"

"Well, they are tough, loyal, and practical. That's more than I can say for half the southron noblewomen."

She chuckled, nudging his ribs. "If you bring one back to Skane, just make sure she doesn't try to wrestle Alex for dominance."

Torrhen grinned. "No promises."

And the fire crackled on, two siblings wrapped in fur, future lords and lady of House Skywalker — whatever that would come to mean.

**Scene Break**

pov Torrhen Snow

Torrhen had thought himself alone. Frostgate was quiet, the halls dim with the redstone lamps turned off and only a few lanterns left burning. Lyarra had gone to bed hours ago—he was sure of it—and most of the guards were either on their positions inside the castle or asleep. Not that they had that many right now to begin with.

He wasn't proud of what he was doing, but being ten and five and full of conflicting thoughts and restless energy made even his willpower feel like paper. Especially now, with Alex's smile haunting his thoughts. She truly was a beautiful woman but he would never dare to make an attempt. His friendship with her and with Steve for that matter was too dear to him... and his and Lyarra's plans.

The creak of the door was the only warning.

"Torrhen?" Lyarra's voice, low and surprised. A pause. "Are you okay—?"

He scrambled like a startled hare, yanking his cloak around himself and nearly knocking over a crate of supplies.

"G-Gods, Lyarra! Don't you knock?!"

"I thought I heard you moaning—" She stopped short, eyes wide. "Oh. Oh."

Silence fell like snow.

Neither of them could look directly at the other. Lyarra's cheeks went crimson, and Torrhen could feel the heat rising up his neck, mortified beyond speech. She mumbled something under her breath, backed out of the room, and slammed the door shut behind her.

He sat there for a full minute, mortified, trying to will himself into a different plane of existence. Maybe the Nether.

The next moaning (hehe), over an awkward breakfast of roasted beef, baked potatoes and bread, neither of them spoke of it. But when their hands accidentally brushed while reaching for the same knife, they both flinched like they'd been burned.

Lyarra cleared her throat.

"So... we never speak of this."

Torrhen nodded solemnly. "Agreed. Ever."

She hesitated, then added, with a smirk she tried to hide, "You could at least be silent when you do it"

He buried his face in his hands and groaned.

**Scene Break**

The forges of Frostgate burned bright for days, the ring of hammers from the three smiths echoing through the stone halls like a war drum. Torrhen and Lyarra spent long hours with Steve and Alex at the iron farm and then crafting what they could from their stores of iron and leather. Dozens of helmets, breastplates, and greaves were put into bundles for them to take to Skagos. For every set of armor, they forged blades—axes wide and biting, swords balanced for the hand, spears tipped in fresh steel.

"We'll need every edge we can get," Torrhen said one night, sweat dripping from his brow as he twisted a glowing blade in the forge. "Crowl's men won't fight like smallfolk. They're raiders, killers, survivors."

Steve, sharpening the edge of a longsword, nodded. "Then let's make sure our men look like they came from a realm of fire and steel."

When the time came, the twins, the Craftons, and their chosen honor guard mounted their horses and set sail southeast across the strait, sailing from Skane to Skagos with the few boats they had been given by Lord Stane. Landing on the Skagosi coast, Torrhen rode at the head, clad in full plate, the banner of their yet-unnamed house flying behind him—temporarily bearing the reverse colours of House Stark until their own sigil was designed.

They eventually arrived Driftwood Hall and made their way to Lord Ralf Stane's solar. He welcomed them with a tired smile and led them inside. Upon being instructed to send a raven to Winterfell, the old lord frowned.

"I am afraid no bird of mine has ever flown to Winterfell," he said apologetically. "But Eastwatch-by-the-Sea is only a few days away by boat. Their maester keeps a full ravenry. I can have a messenger sent within the hour."

"Do it," Torrhen said. "Let our brother know we're coming."

A day later, they met beneath the shadow of Skagos' central ridge, where the forests of the Crowl lands gave way to the stone-cracked highlands of the Magnars. Lord Gellard Crowl arrived with a host of sons and kin, most bearing long spears and battered iron shields. He sneered the moment he laid eyes on Lord Ralf.

"Kneeling to mainlanders now, are you, Stane? Are you so afraid of your own sons you need a pup from the mainland to wet-nurse your legacy?"

Torrhen stepped forward before Ralf could reply, face calm and eyes sharp.

"You'll have your chance to test me," he said flatly.

Lord Erling Magnar, taller than Torrhen by a hand and built like a northern bear, stepped between them. His furs were rich and his beard braided with rings of old bronze.

"I'll not waste my men until I see the worth of yours," he said, voice low. "A duel, boy. Between you and me. But not in your fancy steel. Equal ground—no plate."

Torrhen glanced at Steve, who gave a small shrug. Lyarra, beside him, gave a small shake of her head, but said nothing.

"Fine," Torrhen said, pulling at the clasps of his armor. "Equal arms. No magicks, no tricks."

The duel was hard-fought. Torrhen was quick, Erling relentless. Blow after blow rang across the clearing, sweat flying from skin, dirt kicked up by boot and blade. For a time they were equals—until Torrhen began to press.

His stamina outlasted the older man's brute strength and experience. Each swing became harder for Erling to recover from, and eventually, Torrhen knocked the war axe from his opponent's hand with a deft parry and turn.

Erling staggered, fell to one knee, and spat blood into the dirt.

"Aye," he growled, then looked up. "You've earned your kneel."

He bowed his head. Behind him, the Magnars murmured.

Lord Crowl scowled and turned, spitting into the ground. "You bloody spineless cowards," he barked. "I'll gladly take off all your heads on the battlefield!" He stormed off, his sons following.

**Scene Break**

"I worry, my Lord," Ralf Stane muttered later, standing beside Torrhen as they watched the Crowls retreat. "Gellard's sons are fighters. Bastards or not, they'll bleed for him."

Torrhen nodded, arms crossed. "Doesn't matter. We've enough armor to fully equip at least fifty of your best men. Chain and plate. The rest will have iron weapons."

"If that is true…" Ralf mused, eyes narrowing, "it may just be enough. Crowl can field two-hundred-fifty. I have two-hundred, give or take. Perhaps Lord Magnar will lend some men?"

Erling folded his arms. "Don't look at me. If you cannot win this on your own, you don't deserve to lead Skagos."

Torrhen exhaled slowly, then nodded. "Then we will."

Back at Driftwood Hall, messengers were sent to every surviving village and hamlet sworn to the Stanes. They bore the sigil of Stane and called upon all men of fighting age to rally. Over the next two days, they came—grizzled shepherds, fishers with scars, hardened hillmen with axes and furs.

In the great courtyard of the holdfast, Torrhen, Lyarra, Steve and Alex worked tirelessly. One by one, they distributed the finest armor to the best of them—fifty-eight warriors clad in gleaming mail and plated iron, helms polished and etched with symbols of their house. The rest received iron-forged axes, swords, and spears.

They drilled for a day in the field, Steve and Alex barking commands, teaching them shield formations and simple flanking maneuvers. Torrhen watched them work, pride swelling in his chest. These were not knights, but they were his men now.

On the second evening, a scout rode in, breathless and dust-covered.

"Lord Crowl's host is moving. Three days out—marching east."

Torrhen looked to the rising moon. His hand curled into a fist.

"Then let's give them a battle they'll never forget."

**Scene Break**

The dawn broke red over the hills.

Mist clung to the valleys below, veiling the Crowl host as they came. Drums pounded—a deep, guttural rhythm that echoed through the stone and pine. From atop the ridge, Torrhen stood helmetless, watching them march without rank and order. No coordination.

Crude iron and stone weapons flashed like teeth in the morning light.

"They're coming fast," Alex said beside him, adjusting the grip on her iron spear. Her armor gleamed faintly under her cloak, a fresh cut across her cheek from sparring the day before.

"Let them," Torrhen muttered. He glanced at Steve and Lyarra. "Remember your training. Stick to formation. No heroics."

Lyarra nodded, though her knuckles were white on the haft of her axe. Steve merely swallowed hard, his usual stoic calm eroded by the thunder of distant feet.

Behind them, the Stane force stood in rows—fifty-eight in full armor, a hundred and fifty more in boiled leather, all clutching iron weapons. Men from hill villages, from driftwood coasts, from pine-thick valleys. Unblooded, but willing.

Torrhen turned to them, raising his sword.

"This is your land they are invading. They want it back? Make them earn every rock and root!"

A cheer rose, sharp and short. The sound of desperation wearing the mask of courage. Nobody had been told it wasn't the Crowls who had made the first moves.

Then said Crowls surged out of the mist like wolves from a storm.

The first clash was thunder—shields slammed, blades rang, and men screamed.

Torrhen fought at the center, a whirlwind of steel. His sword split through a bearded raider's neck, then turned to parry a spear that came for his gut. He ducked, drove his shoulder into the attacker's chest, and brought the pommel down on the man's face with a sickening crunch.

To his right, Steve fought beside three hillmen, fending off two Crowl warriors. His strokes were clean, efficient—but every time his blade found flesh, he hesitated.

A younger Crowl lunged at him with a dagger. Steve parried—and then froze, staring into the boy's pale, panicked eyes.

The boy died screaming under someone else's axe.

Steve staggered back, breath shallow.

"This isn't right," he muttered, blood on his hands. "This isn't what we—what I thought battle would be."

On the left flank, Lyarra ducked under a thrown axe and buried her blade in a woman's thigh. She yanked it free, then stumbled back as the woman shrieked and clawed at her. Another Stane man finished her off.

Lyarra turned and grimaced.

Torrhen reached her, cleaving down a charging foe as he neared. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, wiping her mouth. "Just… overwhelmed."

"You're not alone."

Across the field, Alex fought like she had been born to it. Her movements were precise, honed. She didn't enjoy the killing—but she didn't shrink from it either. After toppling a Crowl spearman with a sweep of her blade, she turned to Torrhen and nodded grimly.

"I get it now," she called. "Doesn't mean I like it. But I get it."

The battle stretched into the morning, every hill and trench soaked in mud and blood. The Crowls fought with fury, but they were disorganized, desperate. Stane's warriors, though less experienced, held their formation. Under Torrhen's command, with Alex rallying the left, Steve anchoring the right, and Lyarra moving like an assassin through the center ranks, they began to push forward.

By midday, the Crowl line broke.

Some fled. Others fought to the death. Gellard Crowl himself was wounded, dragged away by two of his sons as the Stanes pushed toward the ridge.

Torrhen stood atop a mound of stone and looked across the field—littered with bodies, weapons, crows already gathering.

His voice was hoarse.

"Hold the field," he said. "Tend the wounded. Burn the dead."

Lyarra limped up to him, splattered in gore. Her braid was loose, her axe nicked, her face pale.

"I hated that," she whispered. "Every moment of it."

Torrhen looked at her, then to Steve, who was sitting on a boulder, scrubbing at his sword with shaking hands.

Alex stood beside them both, her brow furrowed. "You hate it. He regrets it. But it had to be done."

She looked down the hill. "And next time, we'll be even better at it."

Torrhen gave a slow nod. "There will be a next time."

His eyes went to the black banner that now flew over the Stane camp—dark gray with a single white wolf's head over crossed blades.

"Because now, they'll come for us in earnest."

Fortunately, some of Lord Gellard's illegitimate sons saw reason and in a bloody coup took control of House Crowl and sent a messenger to the camp of House Stane. 3 days later and House Crowl ceased to exist with Castle Deepdown going to Ulf Stane who married the eldest daughter of the late Lord Gellard.

The few surviving males of House Crowl were escorted to the wall while the female members were escorted as maids to Frostgate. A messenger, a healer and roughly a dozen Stane men at arms came with them to bolster the numbers of Frostgate. Hearing of the fledgling fishing village near Frostgate a few of the warriors and their families chose to join those heading towards Skane.

For the twins and the Craftsons however it was time to head west.

**Scene Break**