Comments and Reviews would be welcome as always. :)
bruuuuuh I forgot two add the first two scenes of last chapter to the webnovel document... well have them this time then, sorry lads.
Eleventh Moon of 286 AC, Frostgate, Skane:
POV: Torrhen Skywalker
The Forges of Frostgate pulsed with heat, even in the dead of winter. Netherrack burned at the heart of each furnace—glowing red, never dimming, never dying. It gave off a dry, eternal warmth unlike any coal or hardwood known to Westeros. Where a traditional forge would need refueling every few hours, these had run non-stop for weeks.
Torrhen stood with arms crossed, watching as the blacksmiths hammered out tools and weapons faster than ever before. Not just swords, but shears, hinges, screws, piping, stoveplates — all shaped faster, cooled cleaner, and forged stronger than before.
Beside him, Hephaestus the Armorer scratched his beard. "You're telling me this flame never dies?"
"Not unless you drown it in water or suffocate it with stone," Torrhen replied. "We've run tests. A single chunk of Netherrack can heat a room for years if properly housed. This," he gestured to the pile of glowing bricks, "is what we'll use to remake the North. No longer will coal be almost as valuable as gold for northern households once winter arrives."
Allard gave a low whistle. "Every keep from Last Hearth to Deepwood Motte is going to want this."
"They already do," Torrhen said. "We've sent our first shipments to Winterfell, White Harbor, the Dreadfort, and Barrowton. I heard New Castle's forge-masters called it 'the breath of the dragon gods.'"
"And the South?"
"A few samples are headed to Gulltown and Oldtown next week. Slowly. Let the demand build first."
He turned, motioning to the steward at his side — a young Faithful girl named Brenna who handled most of Frostgate's trade correspondence at the moment, though that changed every now and then.
"Tell the quartermaster: fifteen crates for Harrenhal. A gift to House Whent, from House Skywalker."
Brenna blinked. "For free, my lord?"
"Absolutely," Torrhen said with a faint smile. "Oswell Whent's loyalty to House Targaryen cannot be disputed and since they are currently attached to our house he is a friend to the North, and Harrenhal is the largest keep in the Seven Kingdoms. Imagine the reach of our fire when her courtyards glow with red brick. People will talk."
"They already do," Allard muttered. "The maesters are writing letters about the 'unnatural heat' in the North. Some even say it's sorcery."
Torrhen shrugged. "Let them. Sorcery warms the bones better than prayer."
**Scene Break**
Twelth Moon of 286 AC, Harrenhal, the Riverlands:
POV: Lady Shella Whent
The servants had never seen anything like it.
Each crate had arrived sealed with thick wax and a stamped Skywalker sigil. Inside: red bricks that seemed to radiate warmth even in the icy stone of Harrenhal's vast kitchens and corridors.
Lady Shella Whent sat besides her cousin Oswell and Harrenhal's steward, watching as her cooks gathered around the strange fuel now feeding the great ovens.
"It burns without smoke?" she asked.
"Yes, m'lady," said the steward, sweat beading on his brow despite the winter cold. "And it does not die down. We've been using a single piece in the bread ovens for three days now."
Oswell nodded thoughtfully while she glanced toward the banners of House Skywalker, now neatly folded beside the crates.
"Send a raven to Frostgate," Oswell said at last. "Thank them. Profusely. And order more — twenty crates this time. Paid in full."
The steward blinked. "Even after this gift?"
"I've lived in this ruin long enough to know what cold can do, my cousin's decision is prudent." Shella said. "If the Skywalkers have tamed fire, why not make sure Harrenhal is the first to burn bright?"
**Scene Break**
Fourth Moon of 287 AC, Winterfell:
POV: Eddard Stark
The hall was quiet but for the crackle of fire and the soft rasp of parchment against skin. Eddard Stark read the letter once, then again — slower this time. Then he lowered it, let out a looong breath and rubbed his eyes.
The raven had come just before dawn, carrying Wyman Manderly's seal and a terse warning at the end: They mean to act, Ned, I am sure of that. Perhaps not today, perhaps not openly, but the Faith is stirring — and they now have the king's blessing.
He did not curse. He did not shout.
He simply leaned back in his chair and dragged a hand across his face.
"Seven bloody hells," he muttered. "They've done it."
Maester Luwin looked up from a nearby table. "Bad news, my lord?"
Ned wordlessly passed him the parchment.
Luwin adjusted his chain, his eyes flicking over the writing. "Lord Wyman reports the Faith Militant has been restored… by royal decree?"
"Bought with coin, no less," Ned said grimly. "The High Septon offered Robert a tithe from the Faith's coffers. And Robert — gods help him — took it."
Luwin looked unsettled. "There hasn't been a standing Faith Militant since Maegor the Cruel put them to the sword, well dragon."
"Aye," Ned said, standing now, pacing across the cold floor. "And Maegor had dragons. Robert apparently only has emptying coffers and wine-stained hands and worse a realm that has just come out of a rebellion and where atleast the Reach, the Crownlands and Dorne are not really loyal to him though thankfully the Crownlands and Dorne should not really be happy about this development either."
Ned stepped to the window, looking down over the bailey. It was half-buried in snow, the morning sun glinting weakly off the towers. Men moved below, carting timber and hauling stone for the repairs of the Broke Tower, and yet it all felt so… fragile.
"Double the coin going to the builders," he said. "And have Luwin draft letters requesting more skilled hands from Houses Dustin, Hornfoot, Cerwyn, Reed and… yes, Manderly too. The Manderlys will come if asked."
"Even after—?"
"They're Northerners still. Whatever gods they kneel to, they know what this means."
Maester Luwin nodded and began scribbling.
"And send a raven to every noble house in the North," Ned continued. "Tell them the truth. That the king has allowed the Faith of the Seven to arm itself once more — with gold and blades and cause. Let them decide how they feel about a southern crown that blesses zealotry."
The words came out colder than he intended.
He turned back toward Luwin. "Tell them I said this: We have seen what happens when the southerners allow the zealots to arm themselves. It ends in fire."
**Scene Break**
Omniscient Pov
The realm responded like a storm striking dry brush.
In Oldtown, the Hightower buzzed with murmurs. Some called it a return to the old ways. Others remembered Maegor and whispered of blood.
In the Vale, the Faithful of the Seven rejoiced — quietly — while Lord Yohn Royce frowned behind his beard while Brynden Tully said "Armored gods are dangerous gods. I am going to try find out just what bit the king's ass when he made that decision."
In Storm's End, some lords cheered; others grumbled that if the Faith raised swords, they would demand tithes instead of asking for them next.
In Dorne, Prince Doran said nothing though he scratched his beard, his face showing his disapproval. But in Sunspear's shadowed halls, old histories of the Uprising of the Poor Fellows were dusted off and read again.
In Raventree Hall, Lord Blackwood ordered his sept stripped of its ceremonial weapons and sent a raven that read: "The Old Gods do not share dominion. Let the South pray with swords if it must."
In Gulltown, Ser Horton Redfort toasted with silent approval, while the sellsword captains of the Vale took fresh contracts — just in case.
In the North, the reaction was colder than any wind off the Shivering Sea.
House Karstark sent word: "We kneel to no bloody zealot."
House Umber: "Let the Seven march. We'll match their blades if they step too far."
House Reed: "Trust us to guard the North's southern flank as you always have. The faith militant shall not cross the neck as long as the crannogmen live"
Even House Manderly, devout though they were, sent back: "We have no understanding of what madness gripped the king. May the gods — old or new — help him."
It would take some time for this decision to truly show the first consequences, however.
**Scene Break**
Fourth Moon of 287 AC, The Hightower, Oldtown:
POV: Lord Leyton Hightower
The chamber smelled of parchment and melted wax. Lord Leyton Hightower sat beneath the stained-glass window of the Hightower, a ledger open before him, quill poised but unmoving.
Across from him stood his steward, Maester Orwel, clutching the most recent trade report from Frostgate.
"The mint in Skane has begun pressing its own coin, my lord." the maester said quietly. "Silver stags and golden dragons. Excellent weight. Honest measures. And most troubling of all… beautifully standardized."
"As far as I know that is not recent news, Orwel" Leyton said with a raised eyebrow.
"No my lord but now their reputation has risen further and well Lord Jorah Mormont seems to have made a decision."
Leyton's eyes narrowed. "The Mormont gold?"
"No longer coming south. Jorah Mormont's ships have not docked in Oldtown since the sixth moon. Our own surveyors believe his most recent gold exports were sent directly to Frostgate. They are minting the spoils themselves now."
"And undercutting the Hightower in the process," Leyton murmured.
Orwel nodded. "It would seem so. The gold from beyond the Wall now moves through Skane's ledgers before we ever see a clipped coin."
Lord Leyton tapped the edge of the ledger, eyes thoughtful.
"Then we must remind Ser Jorah where the true wealth of the South lies. And perhaps offer him something he desires more than coin. Tell Lynesse I want to see her immediately."
Beautiful maidens always made good men weak and his daughter was nothing if not beautiful.
**Scene Break**
Fifth Moon of 287 AC, Frostgate:
POV: Benjen Stark
The wind howled across the Wall like a mourning song, but inside the healer's chamber in the central tower of Frostgate, all was heat and pressure, sweat and breath.
Benjen Stark paced in front of the door with his fists clenched behind his back. Dacey's labours of course had come right as they were visiting his siblings... though in hindsight they could have waited a little longer for that visit.
Behind him, Torrhen muttered prayers to the Old Gods and some god named Herobrine — not for the realm, not for House Skywalker or Stark, but for one woman behind that wooden door. And for the child she was bringing into the world.
Maester Marwyn had sent word two hours past: the birth had begun. Then another raven arrived from Bear Island, bearing a token of carved weirwood in the shape of a bear — Dacey's mother's blessing. He hadn't let go of it since.
"You're going to wear a hole into the stone, you keep that up," came a voice.
Benjen turned to see Torrhen, face brooding as always, but his eyes held something more — pride, maybe, or hope.
"You sent word to our brother yet?" Torrhen asked.
Benjen shook his head. "Not yet. I want the name inked before I send the raven."
Torrhen grunted. "Fair."
The door creaked open.
Benjen turned instantly.
A tired but smiling Maester Marwyn stood in the frame, his hands bloodied but steady.
"She's asking for you, Lord Stark. Both of them are well."
Benjen didn't hesitate. Lyarra's grinning face inside felt more welcome than ever before.
Next to Lyarra his wife layed propped up on a bed of dark furs, her hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from the strain of hours. And nestled in the crook of her arm, wrapped in a soft bear-hide blanket, was a child — pink, healthy, and loud.
Benjen's knees nearly gave out at the sight.
"Is that…?"
"A boy," Dacey said hoarsely. Her eyes met his. Fierce. Glowing. "Our boy."
Benjen stepped forward, slowly, as if afraid the vision might break apart if he moved too quickly. He crouched at the bedside, brushing a curl of hair from her brow, then looked down into the child's face.
Blue-gray eyes. A tight little fist already tugging at the fur. His cry had subsided into a quiet gurgle, as if the presence of his father settled him.
Benjen reached out, laid a hand on the boy's head.
"Stark in the blood," he whispered. "But I see Mormont in the fire."
Dacey laughed softly — a short, tired sound. "We agreed on the name?"
Benjen nodded. "Cregan."
She grinned, fierce and proud. "Cregan Stark. May he live as bold as the Old Wolf."
"And as long too, perhaps," Benjen murmured.
"You'll raise him right," she said. "And I'll teach him to swing a blade."
Benjen bent forward and pressed his lips to her brow, then to the tiny crown of the babe's head.
"A Stark born on Skane," he said. "The first in maybe... probably ever."
"A Stark and a Mormont," Dacey corrected, her voice heavy with sleep. "That means he'll never yield. Here we stand."
The fire in the brazier burned low later that night in the chambers assigned to him by Steward Scrooge McDuck. Benjen sat at his desk, parchment before him, quill in hand. He dipped the nib and began to write.
To my brother Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and to the Lady Catelyn,
The gods have seen fit to bless us. Dacey has given birth to a strong and healthy son. We have named him Cregan, after the Old Wolf, and I hope he'll have that same steel in his spine and ice in his blood.
You will meet him soon, I hope. But until then, know that House Stark grows stronger still — not just in name, but in blood and honor.
Give Serena and Sansa a kiss for me. And tell Jon and Robb I'll teach their new cousin to fight left-handed if I must.
With love,
Benjen
He sealed the letter with Stark wax, pressing the direwolf sigil deep into the red.
Outside, the wind picked up again, but Benjen didn't hear it.
Not anymore.
He was a father now.
**Scene Break**
Fifth Moon of 287 AC, Oldtown Tourney Grounds:
POV: Lynesse Hightower
The banners flapped bright against the sea wind — Hightower silver, Fossoway green and red, and above them all the gold-and-black of Oldtown's pride. The autumn sun poured over the tourney fields as lords and ladies watched from silk-draped pavilions, laughter and song wafting up to the tiered gallery.
Lynesse Hightower, youngest daughter of Lord Leyton, leaned forward in her seat, her pale hands clasped over her knee. She was ten and five, clever for her age (though even she had to admit that she was more than a little spoiled), and already watched by half a dozen highborn suitors — none of whom had drawn her eye. Until today.
The Bear Knight.
Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island was not young, nor courtly, nor particularly graceful. But he was strong. Steel-strong. And atop his tall northern destrier, clad in blackened mail from helm to boot, he cut through the tilts like a storm through hay.
He had unseated three knights in the span of four passes. All of them older, larger, more richly armed.
"Who is he?" Lynesse whispered, barely able to hide her smile.
"A northern heathen who rules Bear Island," her brother Baelor Hightower said beside her with a disdainful expression, "But rich, apparently, enough that him ceasing to trade with us in favor of the bastard twins of Winterfell is alarming for our Lord Father. They say he's brought a dozen crates of gold with him. Some of it still crusted in frost."
She flushed.
By the time Jorah unseated Ser Tybolt Florent in the final tilt, the crowd was roaring, and her father — composed as always — leaned toward her with an approving glance.
"I think the bear has caught your eye," he said dryly.
She didn't answer. But she smiled.
**Scene Break**
POV: Jorah Mormont
The roast that evening was perfect. The wine flowed. Jorah Mormont, lord of a hard land and son of a colder one, had never tasted such refinement — nor felt so out of place among velvet-draped walls and candlelight.
But then she looked at him — Lynesse Hightower — and the hall melted away.
She was bright-eyed, lovely, and laughed with her hand just barely covering her mouth. Her voice was soft, but when she spoke, the table listened.
"You ride like a southerner," she said playfully.
Jorah raised an eyebrow. "A compliment or a threat?"
"A compliment," she replied. "The Reach is known for its knights."
"And the North is known for its wolves."
She leaned forward, curious. "And bears?"
Jorah laughed — a real, rumbling laugh. "Only the stubborn ones."
Later, in Leyton Hightower's solar, wine turned to negotiation.
"You've become a wealthy man, Ser Jorah," Leyton said. "And yet wealth without friends is easily taken."
Jorah inclined his head. "You offer friendship?"
Leyton smiled. "And a daughter."
Terms were struck before the candle burned halfway down. In return for Lynesse's hand, a decent dowry and lowered tariffs for Mormont ships, all Mormont gold aquired in the lands beyond the wall would from now on be shipped to Oldtown and sold at a small discount.
**Scene Break**
Sixth Moon of 287 AC, Clawtown:
POV: Lynesse Mormont (née Hightower)
The sea was wild, and the wind harsher than anything she'd known. But Bear Island was not dead. It thrived with noise and motion, and the scent of pine and iron hung in the air.
Clawtown — a small but rapidly growing port of wooden piers, new longhouses, and smithies — bustled with wildlings-turned-workers and tough-looking Mormont men-at-arms. Jorah guided her proudly through the growing streets.
"Everything you see here?" he said, gesturing to a new timber hall. "We built it. My men and I. With coin earned, not begged. The monsters beyond the Wall left us their treasures… and we've made good use of them."
Lynesse's eyes widened as they passed the blackstone forge, flames licking from its chimneys. Even the keep itself had been scaffolded for restoration.
"And Lord Stark?" she asked. "He allows this?"
Jorah grinned. "He does. Even waived our taxes for a while. Said he wouldn't penalize success born of risk."
"And the… the creatures you fight," she asked, her voice a bit smaller. "Are they as terrible as the stories?"
"Hah!" Jorah scoffed. "Not if you're smart. Not if you're quick. Most are just cold, dead things. Easy to kill if you don't let them surround you. The real threat are the Ice River clans. Cannibals. Madmen. But even they bleed."
He looked at her, proud and sure. "I've never lost a man to a monster that didn't deserve it."
Lynesse nodded slowly, but her eyes lingered on the northern hills. Dark, windswept, and unknowable. Their eyes met before his trailed downwards and Lynesse grinned internally. Apparently her new husband liked her new dress.
She took his arm a bit tighter.
**Scene Break**