New Arrivals on Skane and the Faith Militant

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Tenth Moon of 286 AC, Frostgate, Skane:

POV: Torrhen Skywalker

The sky above Frostgate was pale with drifting snow, the wind sharp but not harsh. Torrhen stood at the edge of the small balcony of his chambers, overlooking the harbor where the foreign ship had just docked — pale sails bearing the tower-and-flame of House Hightower.

"Finally," he murmured.

Behind him, Val adjusted her cloak. "You said they'd come eventually."

"I had hoped Marwyn the Mage would come. But Malora Hightower herself? That's a surprise."

"A good one?"

He didn't answer.

Moments later, the doors opened.

Scrooge McDuck bowed low. "They've arrived, my lord. Lady Malora Hightower and Archmaester Marwyn the Mage."

Torrhen gave a nod. "Bring them to the observation chamber. And prepare quarters for guests."

**Scene Break**

POV: Malora Hightower

The upper levels (those not open to the public) of the central tower of Frostgate was unlike anything she had ever stood in.

Smooth stone with no visible mortar. Glowing lamps hanging from the ceiling that cast a bright light without fire. A floating table of polished glass and strange runes, warm to the touch. And windows that opened and closed with mechanical sighs.

Malora Hightower was not easily impressed.

But this place? This place whispered in her bones.

Beside her, Archmaester Marwyn — still broad, still sharp-eyed beneath the hood of his heavy cloak — studied the room in silence.

"You built this in two years?" Malora asked, eyes narrow.

"Less," Torrhen said evenly. "The foundations were laid in a few days. Most of the construction happened in the following weeks."

"Impossible," Marwyn grunted.

"Then perhaps the word itself is what needs redefining," Torrhen replied.

Malora turned toward him fully. "We've heard rumors. About the castle called Enderbane Hall. About Skagos. About blazing stones that never go out. You're reshaping the North, boy. And I suspect you're doing it with powers you barely understand."

Torrhen tilted his head. "You came all this way to accuse me?"

"No," said Marwyn, finally speaking. "We came to know. These things you wield — they feel like the deeper arts. I have seen fragments of similar energies in Asshai, in the buried temples of Valyria, even in the Shadow Market of Leng. But never so… contained. So practical. So controlled."

Malora stepped closer. "Tell us the truth. Is this magic from Essos?"

Torrhen's voice did not rise, but something in it became firmer — more rooted. "No. It's not from Essos. What we have here is not born of the blood of Valyria, nor bought from shadowbinders. It is a gift. A blessing of the Old Gods… and of another. A god called Herobrine."

Marwyn blinked. "I have never heard that name."

"You wouldn't have," Torrhen said. "He is not of this world. And neither are we — not entirely."

Malora's expression shifted. Curiosity overtook caution. "What do you mean, 'not of this world'?"

Torrhen didn't answer directly. Instead, he stepped to the side and gestured toward the wide window overlooking the port where dozens of Unsullied drilled in perfect formation and cranes hoisted stone blocks by redstone winches.

"I offer you both guest rights, and the freedom to study all that we've made here. You're welcome at Frostgate. You may walk its halls. Question its guards. Record what you wish but if I see any indication that you will take House Skywalker's and House Craftson's secrets out of these halls and spread them then you will die."

Marwyn chuckled. "That's bold."

"It's honest," Torrhen said.

Malora looked out the window, her breath fogging the glass.

Then she turned to him. "We accept."

**Scene Break**

POV: Malora Hightower

The guest chamber was warmer than any keep she'd stayed in and she still couldn't believe that lava of all things was within every wall. A glowing cube of stone emitting light hung in the air above her desk, illuminating the page.

Malora dipped her quill and began to write.

To my beloved father,

I write to inform you that I will be delaying my return to Oldtown indefinitely.

The so-called Frostgate holds secrets beyond even the higher mysteries of Valyria. Their magics are not blood-based, not fire-wrought, and not taught in any of our halls. They are deeper, older, and more… deliberate.

What I have seen in just two days defies the general understanding of construction, energy and healing. I do not say this lightly: We must reassess our foundations.

This island has become a nexus of knowledge. I will remain here to study further.

Enlightenment, it seems, has found new roots in the snow.

I worry about the Citadel, father, for they might seek to snuff these improvements to general life out in their paranoia. I hope you can talk sense to them should they try.

—Your loving daughter, Malora Hightower

She sealed the parchment, pressed her sigil into the wax, and handed it to a servant with firm instructions:

"By raven. Directly to the Hightower in Oldtown. And uncopied."

**Scene Break**

Twelth Moon of 286 AC, Frostgate, Skane:

POV: Petyr Baelish

The wind howled across the basalt cliffs as the disguised merchant ship "Sweet Venture" docked at Skyport under a banner of a Lysene trade, one of his favourite disguises. Petyr Baelish disembarked dressed not in silk but in worn velvet, with a merchant's ledger tucked under his arm and a false braid dyed a reddish brown beneath a sea-captain's cap. He had spent months preparing this alias. Smuggler turned spice-broker. A face unremarkable. A name forgettable. Everything about him was careful.

He had no illusions about the stories.

The Maester from the Citadel — the one who'd arrived some time ago — had vanished before he could return to Oldtown.

And that wasn't the only tale. The guards here trained. The walls watched. And the Lord of this strange new fortress had reportedly survived blades, poison, shadow, and time itself.

And he sees the future, whispered the fearful. Petyr tried not to believe in sorcery.

But he believed in power. And power... was unmistakably here.

A steward greeted him at the gates of Frostgate with practiced politeness and veiled scrutiny.

"You've been expected," the man said in a clipped tone.

Expected? Baelish smiled thinly, hiding his growing dread. "Of course I have."

**Scene Break**

Pov: Torrhen Skywalker

Torrhen Skywalker sat at the desk, dressed in austere black with a diamond clasp at his throat.

"Captain Allyn of Lys," he said without looking up. "Or shall I say... Petyr Baelish also called the Littlefinger?"

Petyr froze mid-step.

Torrhen finally looked up. His eyes were calm. Too calm.

"I must admit," the young lord said, "I had expected you after Lysa was pregnant. But I suppose curiosity is quicker than cunning."

Petyr's tongue turned to ash. "…I don't know what you mean."

"No?" Torrhen stood. "Six moons ago, you received a letter from Lysa Arryn. A desperate one. Filled with guilt, confusion, longing. You keep it folded behind the false panel in your desk drawer. The one lined in Dornish velvet."

Baelish said nothing.

"After reading it," Torrhen continued, "you began speaking to the customs master in Gulltown about a possible post. You moved coin discreetly. You paid two ship captains to scout the coasts of Skagos. One of them is now missing. The other—"

"Enough," Petyr whispered.

Torrhen stepped forward, close enough that Baelish could feel the weight of the strange, burning air around him.

"I see the strings, Littlefinger. And I know which way you plan to pull them. You forget: I was reborn the year after your schemes began. And I know how they end."

Baelish tried to collect himself. "If you knew all that... why receive me at all?"

A pause.

Then Torrhen smiled.

"That's the part I'm still deciding."

**Scene Break**

POV: Torrhen Skywalker

He watched the master manipulator pace the stone cell like a rat in a box.

Petyr Baelish's disguise had been stripped, his fine cloak confiscated. His beard was slightly smeared where the dye had run. The glamour of Lord Baelish was gone — replaced by the truth: a young man of ten and eight middling height, sharp eyes, and a mind too clever for its own good.

I had hoped to stall this visit.

Had hoped Lysa would already be with child, the pieces already moving on their own. But no — Petyr had arrived ahead of schedule, driven by greed, trying to get ahead of the future before it swallowed him.

"Unfortunate," Torrhen muttered.

Still — not unworkable.

He stepped into the cell.

"You will write her a letter."

Baelish turned. "What kind of letter?"

"One in which you inform Lady Lysa Arryn that you have accepted a post as vice steward of Frostgate. A minor but trusted function. You will tell her the air agrees with your health. That you are content. That she should rest easy knowing you've found stability and a good way to make money"

Baelish blinked. "You want me to lie? I'm not sure Lady Arryn would believe these words."

Torrhen raised an eyebrow. "I want you to act. Something you're very good at."

"…And if I refuse?"

"You won't," Torrhen said simply. "Because unlike every other trap you've ever set, you've just walked into one where I hold every string."

Baelish said nothing.

"Write the letter," Torrhen said. "And be grateful I don't make you write your confession instead."

Though to be the truth, the man had not done all that much just yet, or atleast nothing he could prove.

**Scene Break**

The small raven carried the letter in a neatly folded envelope sealed with the mark of Frostgate.

It was addressed simply:

To the Lady Lysa of House Arryn,

King's Landing, The Crownlands

Olfrid attached it to the raven's leg and whispered a name.

"Fly swift."

**Scene Break**

First Moon of 287 AC, The Citadel, Oldtown:

POV: Archmaester Vaelar

The flame did not flicker.

Vaelar hunched over the stone brazier, thin fingers twitching as he poked at the glowing brick of Netherrack with iron tongs. It had burned for thirty-one days so far, by his count. With little ash, with plenty of smoke, with a little soot but not with any kind of reduction of material.

"Impossible," he muttered.

Beside him, Maester Tobel scribbled notes furiously. "The samples were confirmed as volcanic in nature. Yet their heat output is consistent even without a heat source. This violates—"

"Violates everything," Vaelar snapped. "There is no volcanic region in the North that could produce something like this. Nor in Essos, for that matter. This… Netherrack, they call it, yes? There is no record of it in any alchemical ledger or geomantic text."

He stood, turning toward the dozen maesters gathered in the chamber. "I request that the Conclave issue a formal recommendation for all lords: no more trade with Frostgate. At least not until we determine whether this is sorcery, or worse."

Maester Ryam, a graybeard with links of gold and black iron, spoke slowly. "Would you also have us freeze in our towers while the Lords of the North and Riverlands sit by warm hearths that never burn out?"

A few others chuckled.

Vaelar's jaw tightened. "You are fools if you think this is mere fire. This is power. If they control the heat of every hall, the light of every corridor, they will soon control the hearts of every House."

There was a silence. Then Tobel asked, softly: "Shall we begin collecting samples... discreetly?"

Vaelar nodded. "Discreetly. And send a letter to Maester Aemon at the Wall. I want to know if any of this cursed stone has made it to Castle Black. He holds no love for us but surely he will see reason and help us in this."

**Scene Break**

Location: Gulltown Black Market, Vale of Arryn

POV: Jaylen the Knucklebone

The crate was half-cracked, its iron seals broken by chisels in the dark.

Jaylen leaned in, waving off his torchbearer. The red brick inside glowed faintly — warm enough to make the air feel like summer, even this deep in the underground vaults beneath Gulltown's fish market.

"Four pieces," said the smuggler beside him. "Pulled off a Braavosi freighter three days after it left Skagos. Don't ask how."

"I wasn't going to," Jaylen replied dryly. "What's the price?"

"Twenty gold dragons. Each."

Jaylen's brow rose. "You could buy a Valyrian whore for that price."

The smuggler smirked. "And yet a coal merchant from Duskendale just paid that much for a single piece. Wants to show it off to Lord Rykker I'm told."

Jaylen crouched, dragging a gloved finger across the side of the brick. "It's real."

"Oh it's real. And there's more. The Free Cities are already sniffing around. I hear one of those Sellsail Princes from Lys offered a war galley in exchange for a crate."

Jaylen chuckled darkly. "And how long until someone figures out you can melt steel with enough of this stuff? Or that you can bake a keep alive from inside the walls?"

A pause.

Then the smuggler grinned. "You're in the game or you're burning out of it."

**Scene Break**

Third Moon of 287 AC, The Red Keep, King's Landing:

POV: Cersei Lannister

The High Septon sat like a mountain of milk and gold beneath the colored glass of the Great Sept's dome. His rings glittered as he raised a hand, calling the hall to stillness. The Faith's delegates stood in silence — eleven septons, seven septas, and two whisper-thin scribes. Cersei watched them all with narrowed eyes.

It was not her idea to meet with them.

That had been Robert's latest stroke of "kingship" — letting the High Septon and his ilk march into the Red Keep and demand an audience in the name of the Seven.

As if they had done anything to stop the rot beneath this city, Cersei thought bitterly. As if they were more than leeches in silk.

The High Septon cleared his throat.

"Your Graces," he said, nodding to Robert and then to Cersei. "It grieves the Faith to speak so frankly, but we fear the soul of the realm is slipping into shadow."

Robert let out a sigh. "If this is about the wine I drank last week, I'm not in the mood."

"It is not," the High Septon said. "This is about House Skywalker."

At that, Robert sat up. "House Skywalker again?"

"Their castle, Frostgate, was not built by natural means" said another Septon. "And Skyport. And Enderbane Hall. And gods know what else. That island has become a beacon — not of the Seven, but of strange magics, foreign powers and the old gods. Even worse however it has become hope."

Robert blinked. "...Hope?"

"Hope of the wrong kind but for the people," the High Septon said, voice hardening. "The poor. The lost. The godless. They are abandoning King's Landing in droves. They call it a pilgrimage. A new dawn. They follow banners that do not bear the Seven-Pointed Star. The crown is losing a rising number of subjects each month to the North."

Cersei's lips thinned. She had heard the reports herself. Whole families leaving for the North. Wagons bound for Gulltown. Ships from Crackclaw Point being diverted. The name Skywalker was now spoken in the markets with a kind of reverent fear.

"The Crown has allowed this too long," the High Septon continued. "Therefore, in the name of the Faith of the Seven, we request the restoration of the Faith Militant."

That made Robert laugh aloud.

"Absolutely not," he said. "Last time we had your bloody knights running around, the streets ran red with more blood than your altars. I'd sooner arm the rats."

The silence that followed was heavy.

Then the High Septon leaned forward.

"Then allow us another offering, Your Grace. A compromise."

Robert raised an eyebrow. "What kind?"

"The Faith will contribute to the royal coffers. A tenth of our annual tithes. Enough to offset at least a third of the Small Council's current expenses."

Even Cersei stilled at that.

Robert's eyes darted toward his steward. "Is that… a lot?"

"Yes," muttered Gyles Rosby, frowning. "It would keep the Crown solvent for the rest of the year."

Cersei clenched her jaw.

They were buying their army with gold before they drew a single sword.

Robert rubbed his jaw, torn — and then, with a grunt, nodded.

"Fine," he said. "Have your bloody Faith Militant… I'll take your coin."

"And when the time comes," said the High Septon softly, "perhaps you'll consider taking actions against the heathens on Skane."

**Scene Break**

POV: Wyman Manderly

Wyman Manderly lingered behind after the court emptied, flipping through a copy of the latest royal expenses.

He didn't like it.

The Faith never offered something for nothing. And the way they spoke of Skagos… there was more fear than fire in their tone. More envy than righteousness.

He looked out the window, toward the sea.

What in the gods' names are the Starks building out there?

But while it wasn't part of the job description his loyalty to the North and his liege lords was a lot stronger than his loyalty to the crown meaning he could not stay silent about this. Ned Stark would need to be warned and perhaps take a closer look at his siblings in the East.

**Scene Break**